cream.”
Fortunately, early on in their adventures, the trio had made a pact that majority ruled, so Gilbert didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. But there were no wagons in sight.
As the Three continued their trek, the clouds suddenly began to churn above them. Aldwyn looked to the west, where the disturbance was coming from. He could make out Bridgetower’s tallest spires and just beyond them, a column of grey ash that funnelled into the sky.
“What is that?” he asked.
“It’s the essence of magic soaring to the Heavens,” said Skylar. “The first glyphstone has been destroyed.”
Aldwyn felt something in the pit of his stomach – a sense of growing dread.
The familiars soon caught up with a dirt road twisting into the distance, and although there was little traffic on it, they spotted a caravan of mule-drawn wagons, covered in fabric that was beautifully decorated with driftfolk ornaments. It was no surprise driftfolk were on the move in spite of Paksahara’s Dead Army. They knew the roads better than anybody else and could easily find escape routes if they were attacked by the zombies roaming the land.
“All right, Gilbert, let’s hitch us a ride,” said Aldwyn, getting a running start down the hill towards the caravan. “Remember, it’s all in the knees.”
“A frog getting jumping advice from a cat,” said Gilbert. “That’s just embarrassing.”
The two chased after the wagons as Skylar flapped her wings above them. Aldwyn made it look easy, bounding through the air and landing on the back of the rear wagon. Gilbert wasn’t nearly as graceful leaping aboard, tumbling past Aldwyn into a crate of planters.
“Wow, that knee thing really worked,” said Gilbert as he was peeling his face up off the floorboards.
A butter newt looked over at the familiars from a nearby bed of fungus.
“Whoa-oh-oh!” exclaimed the butter newt. “A cat, a bird, and a frog?! Am I in the company of the Prophesised Three?”
Skylar held her head high.
“Yes, you are,” she said proudly.
“Let me shake your paw and webbed hand and wing,” said the newt, gushing. “I’ve heard so much about you. I mean, the Three are famous!”
He flung his hand out towards Gilbert, who was about to give it a shake when he realised his webbed fingers were covered in dirt from the planters. The butter newt gripped them anyway, shaking vigorously.
“I didn’t even know if you were real,” continued the butter newt. “But here you are. In the flesh.” The newt hardly took a breath. “You’re going to save Vastia, aren’t you?”
“So it has been foretold by the stars,” said Skylar.
Just because it is written in the stars does not make it so. Aldwyn almost said it out loud. Yet here this butter newt stood, like so many other Vastians, believing that these familiars – the chosen ones – would rid the land of evil, counting on them because of a prophecy that might not even be true.
“Our caravan was in Bridgetower when the wall crumbled,” said the butter newt. “But I fear it’s just the first of many cities the zombie hordes will overtake. Even before the glyphstone there fell, many had split off, diving into the Ebs and walking across its bottom until they emerged on the other side.”
“They must be heading towards the second glyphstone,” said Skylar. “The one among the ruins of the lost city of Jabal Tur.”
“Well, I just feel better knowing that the three of you are out here protecting us,” said the butter newt. “Do you think I could ask you a favour? I hope it’s not too much of an imposition, but would you mind giving me your autographs?” He spun around and whipped his tail directly before the trio. “You can sign right there on my tail. Make it out to Nigel.”
“Scribius,” called Skylar. “A little help here.”
Scribius popped out from Skylar’s satchel and glided over to inscribe the three familiars’ names on Nigel’s tail.
“So, where are you headed?” asked Nigel. “Or is it top secret?”
“Split River,” replied Gilbert, who seemed eager to impress his first fan.
“We’re going to visit a wizard,” added Skylar. “His name is Galleon. Perhaps you’ve heard of him. He graduated with high wizard ranking and has gone on to be something of a town hero. He vanquished a river dragon with a single strangle spell and dispatched a pack of werewasps with a ring of silver arrows.”
“Never heard of him,” said Nigel.
“He’s staying as a distinguished guest at the Inn of the Golden Chalice,” continued Skylar.
“Sounds fancy,” said the butter newt.
“Yes, well, for someone of Galleon’s esteem, no luxury is too great.”
“In that case, the three of you should be staying there, too,” said Nigel. “Crowned with jewels and bathed in dewdrops.”
Aldwyn just didn’t feel right giving this innocent drifter false hope. He politely excused himself and curled up in a comfortable spot on a stack of rugs. The last thing Aldwyn heard before he fell asleep was Nigel saying to Skylar and Gilbert, “Vastia is in good hands. The stars are never wrong about these things.”
Aldwyn’s eyes opened to find Gilbert’s webbed fingers poking him.
“We’re here,” said the tree frog.
The caravan had pulled to a stop and Aldwyn glanced around to get his bearings. Up ahead a swinging sign read Split River Harbour with an arrow pointing towards a small bridge. Beyond the bridge stood a town blanketed in thick fog.
“Farewell, destined ones,” said Nigel, who remained perched on the bed of fungus.
Aldwyn and Gilbert said their goodbyes and hopped off the wagon. Skylar was already flying over the small footbridge leading to the stone-and-mortar walkways of the riverside town.
The familiars headed in the direction of the harbour, taking in their new surroundings. Through the fog, it appeared to Aldwyn that all of Split River was as grimy and dirty as the rat’s alley in Bridgetower.
“Clearly the Inn of the Golden Chalice is nowhere around here.” Skylar made no effort to hide her disgust at the unappealing streets. “The inn must be in the wealthy part of town.”
As they got further into the heart of the town, it became evident that Split River didn’t get any better. In fact, it looked like the whole harbour had been destroyed. A large sailing vessel was half submerged, its bow buried in the water and its aft sticking up into the sky. The gold paint of the ship’s name was flaking off from rot.
“For a ship called The Happiness, it doesn’t look very happy,” observed Gilbert.
“Looks like Paksahara’s Dead Army has already been here,” said Aldwyn.
A
