Promptly, she plucked it from his hood and set it on an empty table. “Run along, little one,” she said in the sweetest voice Ignatius had heard her use since he had met her.
The Troll smiled serenely, looking at Frieda as if she were his mother. Ignatius never saw someone handle Trolls better—then again, she was familiar with the Woodlands and the various creatures that probably lived around them.
As Ignatius looked at her now, her hips swaying beneath the dark skirts that stretched to the middle of her calf, he realized, with bitterness, that perhaps he had picked up one bad habit while living on Earth—stereotyping others, being quick to judge.
Maybe she is really a kind soul, he thought.
Of course, he was right when he stereotyped the Troll; as soon as Frieda had pointed out the Troll’s rightful place on the oaken bar, the Troll’s serene expression transformed into something out of the far reaches of Hell, and he had blown the wettest raspberries Ignatius had seen a Troll blow. A fine spray of spittle had dotted their clothes and they both said, “Yuck!”
Then the Troll jumped down from the table and skipped to the bar.
Ignatius thought Freida might one day laugh about it—
No, not now, Ignatius. You can’t be falling in love when you have such an important mission. Not to mention with a Woodland Witch; one who sees your true desires in her ‘flames.’ How many others know of your quest because of her, Ignatius? You must stay on course.
Freida stopped and turned around, her skirts swishing in the brightness. She looked like she was dressed for a funeral. “Over here, old man—keep up.”
Whether Ignatius was an old man compared to Freida was debatable. Woodland Witches were known to live almost as long as the magic-practitioners of Dominion; except, being so vain, they would not allow time to steal their good looks. Many a spell would be cast in the cosmetic department.
It wasn’t her looks Ignatius was attracted to—sure, they weren’t a downside—but it was her demeanor, the way she carried herself so confidently, the way she seemed to be about a goal rather than holding grudges against her enemies—which, in the strictest sense, Ignatius was, according to lore.
They stopped in the shade of the mountain. The rock was cool and the outlying forest was fragrant with the smells of leaves and sap and earth.
“Now listen carefully, wizard,” Frieda began.
Ignatius frowned. “You know my name. You don’t need to keep calling me ‘wizard,’ my lady.”
“And there is no need for you to call me your lady, for I am no one’s lady but my own.”
“Duly noted. Forgive me, Frieda.”
That sly smile spread on her face once more. It conflicted Ignatius—he felt both more attracted to and more distrusting of her.
When she saw Ignatius studying her as if she was a painting on display in some fine art museum, the smile faded, and her cheeks grew red. They both looked away—Ignatius toward the forest floor, which was littered with pine needles, and her upward, toward the top of the mountain, shielding her eyes.
Frieda cleared her throat and spoke. “I will tell you all I know,” she finally said. “It is necessary for where our journey will take us.”
Ignatius leaned forward, now honestly intrigued.
“You may not believe me, but know, wizard—er, Ignatius Mangood—that I speak the truth.”
“Go on,” Ignatius said, twirling his thumbs.
“I spoke of the Dragon Tongue. Do you know of them?”
“Of course.”
“I have seen them in my flames. They are popping up all over Oriceran.”
The image of a Dragon Tongue, a devout follower of the worst kind of dragons—Rogue Dragons—popped into Ignatius’s head. Their pallid flesh, eyes haunted and tinged with fire, and of course their forked tongues—a cosmetic ‘enhancement’ made with their own heated daggers. He shuddered and shook his head.
“What is happening?” he asked himself, but Frieda took it upon herself to answer.
“As the planets come closer and closer to lining up, not only does the magic increase, but the evil take their opportunities as well.”
It was true. Ignatius knew it. Evil was as opportunistic as anything in the land.
“When is the last time one of the Rogue have been seen in Oriceran?”
“Oh, it’s been many, many years,” Frieda answered.
Ignatius could only shake his head. He saw new battles on the horizon—the Widow and her followers, and now the Rogue Dragons of Old Legend, and if not them, at least the crazy followers of the Rogue’s Order.
“The man who contacted your friend Gelbus was a Dragon Tongue under the guise of a normal man. Gelbus sought out his friend Elargo, who, upon correspondence, had told Gelbus Cogspark to meet him there.” She pointed to Ves Ielan. “When Gelbus arrived, Elargo was nowhere to be found, but the Dragon Tongue was there, waiting with a letter.”
“From Elargo.”
“Precisely,” Freida answered.
“And you have seen this all in your flames?” Ignatius asked. His old heart was giving him quite a run for his money inside of his sternum, but he couldn’t tell if it was because the more Frieda spoke, the more he grew to like her, or because of what she spoke of. “Why does the well-being of one Gnome concern you?” He didn’t mean to sound rude, but couldn’t help that he did.
Frieda took no notice of his tone. “I can’t help what I see in my flames, Ignatius. I see what is important, that’s all, just as I’d seen you with that pretty music box, the one of legend, thought to be lost in your village’s battle with the Arachnids.”
“Right. Makes sense that you saw that.”
She nodded.
“Where was the Gnome abducted to?”
“Oh, he wasn’t abducted, at least not yet. He was only guided to the town of Ashbourne. They knew if they abducted him this early on in the journey, it would’ve been tough getting him there unnoticed.”
“They made
