“It’s real,” Mazgar gra Yagash breathed, staring, fighting the urge to draw her sword.
It wasn’t often you saw a mountain fly.
She doffed her helmet for a better look. As it passed beyond the tallest birches, she saw how it hung in the sky—an inverted mountain, with the peak stabbing toward the land below.
Next, her gaze picked out the strange spires and glistening structures atop the thing, structures that could only have been made by some sort of hands. A forest clung to the upper rim as well, its boughs and branches dropping out and away from it.
“Why would you doubt it?” Brennus asked, his hands working fast with pen and paper, sketching the thing. “It’s what we came to see.”
“Because it’s ridiculous,” she said.
“I’ve never heard an orc use that word,” he murmured. “I guess I thought you people believed in everything.”
“I don’t believe your nose would stand up to my fist,” she replied.
“Fair enough,” he said. “I don’t believe that either. But since I outrank you, I also don’t think you’ll hit me.” He pushed rusty bangs
from his face and looked off at the thing. “Anyway—ridiculous or not, there it is. Aren’t you supposed to be doing something?”
“Guarding you,” she replied.
“I feel so safe.”
She rolled her eyes. He was technically her superior, which galled, because he wasn’t a soldier—or even a battlemage. Like most of the wizards in the expedition, his expertise was in learning things from a distance. His rank had been awarded by the Emperor, days before they’d left the Imperial City.
But he was probably right—as hard as it was not to stare at the thing, it was their immediate surroundings she ought to be taking in.
They were on a high, bare ridge, about thirty feet from the tree line in any direction. The air was clear and visibility good. Up ahead of her, four of Brennus’s fellow sorcerers were doing their mysterious business: chanting, aiming odd devices at the upsidedown flying mountain, conjuring invisible winged things she noticed only because they passed through smoke and were briefly outlined.
Two others were surrounding their position with little candles that burnt with purple-black flames. They set those up every time they stopped; the candles were somehow supposed to keep all of this conjuring from being noticed by anyone—or anything.
Mazgar put her hand on the ivory grip of Sister—her sword— squinted, and licked her tusks. “I make it about six miles away. What do you reckon?”
“A little more than eight, according to Yaur’s ranging charm,” Brennus said.
“Bigger than I thought.”
