Book Two — Chapter Ten
Thousand Needles, years before the events of Book One
Vegetaone had seen cliffs before.
Thousand Needles seemed excessive.
Everywhere he looked, towers of stone climbed from the canyon floor as if the earth had tried to stab the sky and stopped halfway. Some were narrow enough that he could not understand why they remained standing.
Others were broad enough to hold camps, houses, windmills, and people who apparently believed living several hundred feet above the ground was reasonable.
Vegetaone looked at Borak.
“Who decided this was a good place to live?”
“Tauren.”
“That explains who. Not why.”
Borak looked around.
“It is beautiful.”
A rope bridge groaned in the wind ahead of them.
Vegetaone stared at it.
“Your people and I use that word differently.”
They reached Freewind Post before midday.
The settlement clung to the top of one of the great mesas. From there, the canyon spread in every direction, red stone and dry earth cut by trails that looked impossibly small from above.
Vegetaone made the mistake of looking down once.
Only once.
After that, he concentrated on walls.
And tents.
And anything that was not the ground several hundred feet below him. A Tauren named Motega listened while Borak delivered Jorn’s message from Camp Taurajo. Word of Aderic’s maps had already traveled south. Guards were checking trails, caravan schedules, water stores, and the lifts connecting the mesas.
No one had seen the gray-haired human.
Vegetaone was relieved.
That surprised him.
For weeks, every new place had become another part of the hunt.
Now Aderic was gone.
The world felt larger again.
The first day passed without anyone trying to kill him.
Vegetaone found this suspicious.
He spent the afternoon repairing his equipment.
His bag first.
Then one of Borak’s straps.
Then a hunter noticed.
“You sew?”
Vegetaone looked up.
“A little.”
The hunter handed him a torn pack.
Vegetaone stared at it.
“I didn’t say I was taking work.”
“You are now.”
A second Tauren arrived with a ripped blanket.
Then another with a cloth belt.
Then someone brought leather.
Vegetaone held it up.
“This is not cloth.”
“You have a needle.”
“That is not how professions work.”
The Tauren waited.
Vegetaone sighed.
He fixed it anyway.
Badly.
By sunset, Vegetaone had earned more coin sewing than he had from fighting during his first several days in Durotar.
That bothered him.
Not enough to return the money.
The caravan failed to arrive the next morning.
Three wagons had left the southern trail carrying water, grain, tools, and trade goods toward the Shimmering Flats.
Only one returned.
Its driver reached Freewind with an arrow buried in his shoulder.
“Centaur,” he said while the healer cut away the shaft.
Motega looked toward the southern trail.
Borak lifted his mace.
Vegetaone reached for his axe.
Motega pointed at both of them.
“No.”
Vegetaone frowned.
“Why does everyone keep saying that?”
“You are travelers.”
“So?”
“So travel.”
Vegetaone looked at the wounded driver.
“Where are the other wagons?”
Motega closed his eyes.
It was the expression people had begun making when they realized Vegetaone was going whether they agreed or not.
“Dry wash south of the western ridge.”
Vegetaone nodded.
Motega opened his eyes.
“That was not permission.”
“I know.”
“That makes it worse.”
They found the first wagon before noon.
Broken axle.
Dead kodo.
Supplies scattered across the earth.
No bodies.
Borak crouched beside the tracks.
“Centaur.”
“I can see the hooves.”
“Yesterday you called hoofprints boots.”
“I’ve improved.”
“You improved after I corrected you.”
“Still counts.”
The tracks led into a narrow canyon.
They followed more carefully than Vegetaone would have months earlier.
No charging.
No shouting.
No announcing themselves to everyone within bow range.
He noticed that.
So did Borak.
“You are learning.”
“Don’t sound surprised.”
“I am not surprised.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I am trying to be encouraging.”
“You should practice.”
They climbed a low ridge.
Below, six centaur guarded the missing caravan workers.
Two Tauren.
One troll.
And a goblin merchant who was arguing with his captors.
“My goods are insured!”
A centaur slammed a spear into the dirt beside him.
The goblin lowered his voice.
“Partially insured.”
Vegetaone studied the camp.
Six enemies.
Two prisoners who might be able to fight.
A loaded wagon on the slope above them.
He looked at Borak.
“I have an idea.”
Borak shut his eyes.
“That sentence has become unpleasant.”
They did not attack directly.
That was the first sign Vegetaone truly had learned something.
The wagon had been left uphill with its brake rope tied around a wooden post.
Vegetaone crawled behind it.
Borak moved around the opposite ridge.
Vegetaone picked up a stone and threw it.
It landed beside the farthest centaur.
One looked.
Nothing.
Vegetaone threw another.
The goblin prisoner saw it.
Then saw Vegetaone.
Vegetaone raised one finger to his lips.
The goblin nodded.
Vegetaone reached for the brake rope.
The goblin shouted.
“HELP!”
Every centaur turned.
Vegetaone stared at him.
The goblin shrugged.
Subtlety was apparently a limited resource.
Vegetaone cut the rope.
Kicked away the wheel block.
The wagon began rolling.
Slowly.
Then faster.
Much faster.
One centaur turned.
Its eyes widened.
The wagon smashed directly through the camp.
A tent collapsed.
A cooking pot launched into the air.
One centaur dove aside.
Another disappeared beneath a pile of blankets.
Borak charged from the opposite ridge.
Vegetaone followed.
The fight lasted less than a minute.
By the time the last centaur fled, the prisoners were free.
The goblin stood in the wreckage.
“My merchandise!”
“You were kidnapped.”
“So was my merchandise!”
“You’re alive.”
“So are some of the crates!”
A crate rolled past.
Then struck a rock.
The lid burst open.
Cooking pots bounced down the canyon.
The goblin made a sound like someone had stabbed him.
Borak leaned close to Vegetaone.
“Do not laugh.”
“I’m trying.”
They failed together.
They returned to Freewind with the survivors.
Motega listened to the story.
He looked at the rescued travelers.
Then at Vegetaone.
Then at the damaged wagon they had somehow managed to recover.
“You rolled the wagon through the camp.”
“Yes.”
“That was your plan.”
“Yes.”
Motega looked at Borak.
Borak nodded.
Motega rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“I am beginning to understand Jorn.”
Vegetaone smiled.
That evening, the goblin merchant found him.
Vegetaone expected another complaint.
Instead the goblin tossed him a small pouch.
Coins.
Vegetaone caught it.
“What’s this?”
“My life was worth more than the pots.”
Vegetaone glanced toward the canyon.
“Barely?”
The goblin narrowed his eyes.
“Don’t push it.”
Then he walked away.
Vegetaone opened the pouch.
Enough money for better cloth.
Maybe better armor.
Maybe enchanting supplies.
He smiled.
Borak sat beside him.
“You helped because people were missing.”
“Yes.”
“And now you are thinking about shopping.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Vegetaone looked over.
“Good?”
Borak nodded.
“You can care about people and still enjoy being paid.”
Vegetaone considered this.
“That may be the wisest thing anyone has told me.”
“Do not tell Jorn.”
“I won’t.”
They left Freewind two days later.
The trail wound downward through the canyon.
Thousand Needles stretched around them.
For once, Vegetaone did not rush.
He stopped when Borak stopped.
Looked when Borak looked.
Listened when the wind changed. He even checked the road behind them without being reminded. At the final rise before the land opened toward the Shimmering Flats, Borak looked at him.
“You are different.”
Vegetaone frowned.
“Better?”
“I did not say that.”
“Then what?”
Borak thought.
“Less unfinished.”
Vegetaone looked at his bag.
One strap was newer than the other.
Three corners had been reinforced.
The fourth had a patch where an arrow once passed through it.
“That is an insult where I come from.”
“It was not meant to be.”
Vegetaone looked south.
The horizon ahead was turning white beneath the sun.
Flat.
Bright.
Nothing like the canyon behind them.
“What is that?”
“The Shimmering Flats.”
Vegetaone stared.
“It looks empty.”
Borak smiled.
“It is not.”
A distant engine screamed across the white plain.
Something small and impossibly fast shot from one side of the horizon to the other.
Vegetaone froze.
“What was that?”
Borak started walking.
“A goblin.”
“That does not answer anything.”
“It usually answers enough.”
Vegetaone followed.
End of Chapter Ten