The skiff drifted through fog. It parted around them, draping a watery chill around Stump's small frame. Morg hummed as he paddled, unbothered.
"I can't see much of anything," mumbled Stump, pulling his cloak tight about his shoulders. Even his goblin eyes couldn't penetrate the damp veil, but he supposed that wasn't so terrible. He'd never been in a boat before, and the idea of floating on a piece of wood in something wider and deeper than all the rivers and streams of the woods drove a distinct shiver to the marrow of his bones.
"That's the point," grunted Morg. He was masked again, despite not being around anyone who might recognize him. Maybe he just felt comfortable that way outside the Knight Inn.
They'd hurried through Brinetown and commandeered a skiff at the Tackled Hack, a two stall boathouse made of wood greened by brine and algae. It was illegal to traverse from the Downs to Seabrace without permission, so the thick breath of the sea was a blessing from Lumensa herself, Morg had told him. Even so, Stump whispered a quick thanks to Grumul.
"Let me know if ye see red lights up ahead," the dwarf said between oar strokes.
"Red lights?"
"From the Spits. Used to be there were a lighthouse occupied on one o' the isles. Now Wasptongue creates 'em herself by harnessing the magic o' Lumensa."
Stump's ears failed to twitch out of his tightly drawn scarf. "She sounds like a powerful Lumenurgist," he mused.
"Aye. Got a good grasp o' the system, too."
"What is the system?"
Confusion edged into the dwarf's reply. "The system's the system," he said. "Ye don't have it among yer kind?"
The boat crested uncomfortably over a large wave. Stump's breakfast threatened to escape his stomach, then settled again. "We have the Words From The Sky, if that's what you mean."
"Aye, it's a way to put it. Been that way as long as I can remember. Jaessun slew the gods near a hundred years ago, long 'fore I was born," Morg said and nodded back they way they came. "Look behind ye, gobby."
Over Stump's shoulder was a dim cluster of lights beyond the fog, hovering where the seaward wall of Aubany should be. "What happened?" he said.
"Jaessun's work. Lumensa was killed above the walls. Her leg shattered a good chunk o' the Old City. There she rests now, 'neath the waves."
Stump's eyes widened. "Your god is dead? Literally, physically in the bay?" Reema and Borag had mentioned something about dead gods, but he assumed it must have been a strange turn of phrase among the tall men.
Morg grumbled in the affirmative. "Ye can still see her toe from Breakpoint, and those Amber Bastion towers too, I 'magine. It's how Aubany's got them Lumenurgists all over. Used to be a Cleric or whoever had to commune with Lumensa for her powers. Now her magic guts spill out into the world around her, keepin' us locked in twilight."
Stump watched what little he could of the city in baffled silence. Was Grumul, the fiery bloodlord himself, dead somewhere too? Splayed out in the forests or hills outside the Shadowlands?
"All of it's a bit much if y'ask me," Morg went on. "The gods are dead all over, they say. It's how we've got such diverse folk in the Downs. Each of 'em comes from their own place beyond ours, and with the gods dead there's no one left to watch the gates 'tween worlds. And now ye got cults springin' up in Jaessun's name, worshippin' the Godslayer, tryin' to open portals to his world."
Stump shrank into the fabric. All the gods? he thought. If Lumensa's corpse brought twilight to the vicinity of her death, what perturbations in the land would Grumul's body cause? Probably an endless bloodlust for every living thing. Rabbits, foxes, butterflies, all frothing and raging under the lust.
"And Jaessun? How does someone kill a god in the first place?" he said.
Morg shrugged. "He's from another world, like I said. Shekago, they call it. Maybe it's got divine powers beyond our 'magining. Jaessun's our god now, the only one, and it's by his powers the system's what it is."
"Ascension," Stump muttered.
Borag had gone blind over the attempt and rued that he ever tried. If Jaessun succeeded he must have been very powerful, or this Shekago he came from held secrets beyond the reach of anyone else. It wasn't a place Stump had ever heard of, but he was raised knowing little beyond the cave and the rocks and trees around it. The Shadowlands were the closest his people had to a different world, and all that turned out to be was a forest caught in the vicinity of Lumensa's death bubble.If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
He kept stealing looks over his shoulder to spy the faint lights of the city, but each time they grew dimmer, until his final glance turned up nothing more than heavy sea mist.
After some time a narrow band of orange and red light appeared along the horizon. Stump leaned to peer beyond Morg. "I see the lights. I think."
Morg swivelled in his seat. "Aye, looks to be Seabrace."
As their tiny boat bobbed along, shapes emerged from the fog.
A gnarled tree bent from a spit of land, its bare branches reaching for the waves. Farther still tails of grey haze curled around a stone structure slick from ocean breath. It might've been a watchtower once, but now it was nothing more than a rocky bed for moss and algae.
"Don't fall overboard," said Morg. "Ghosts wander about. Sea hags within the trees o' the isles 'n drowned shriekers 'neath the waves. Don't listen to their calls gobby, or I won't be pulling ye out o' yer watery grave."
Stump gulped. "That's reassuring."
A small pier edged through the fog along the shore of another island, but the wood had been reclaimed by lichen. Groups of trees grew crooked from their stony perches, their roots partially submerged and white branches curled to the sea like bony fingers eager to snatch those who rowed too close.
And farther still the red lights glowed. They flickered.
Stump squinted, and a flame lapped at the sky.
He drew in a breath. "Those aren't lights."
 

 
Seabrace was aflame when their skiff hit land.
Morg leapt onto the beach and dragged the boat behind him. "See if anyone's alive!" he ordered.
Stump clambered over the side and skirted as close as he dared to the conflagration. The underbrush bore the brunt of it. Trees crackled and split in two. Giants mushrooms popped and shrivelled. He peered beyond the flames, where roiling clouds of smoke billowed over dispersing fog. "I can't see anything," he said. He started forward, wedging between two burning trees.
A flaming branch fell at his feet.
"Ah!" he shrieked and leapt back, his shoe alight.
He hopped around, kicking and flailing until Morg's heavy hands tossed him to the beach. The fire blinked out in a hail of sand.
"We got to bury the flames if we want to stop it spreadin'," said Morg.
Stump brushed the beach off his leg and looked at his tiny goblin hands, and then to the orange and red wall of heat. "Do we have a bucket?"
Morg doubled back to the skiff and returned a moment later with what one might generously call a bucket—it was a pail, a mug, perhaps, cracked and riddled with holes.
Stump scooped it full of sand and flung it wildly at the nearest fires. Morg followed his lead and snatched handfuls to vault into the flames with mute determination.
The two firefighters slowly carved a smouldering path through the sparse woodland, but the blaze refused to bow. Smoke curled off fallen trees and embers buzzed around their heads like nightflies. Morg was breathing heavily, and Stump coughed. He turned to see the flames they'd doused spreading again, trapping them.
"Quickly, quickly, before the whole enterprise is aflame!" came a panicked voice from further inland. Skittering within the unfolding carnage were a few shadowy shapes, short, and with long, pointed ears.
"Goblins!" Stump wheezed. He fell to a knee.
The creatures ran about with buckets in their hands, dumping piles of sand over the flames they could reach.
"That's as fast as you can move? Haste! What am I paying you for?"
The one barking orders emerged from the smoke, and suspended between his outstretched hands was a churning ball of flame. The fires of the forest bent to him. They spiralled around the ball, joining it, whisking off trees and bushes and leaving scorched foliage behind.
Thermalurgy! Like Thrung the goblin before Stump commanded the power of fire. Between the furious sand flinging and the command of nature itself, the forest hissed as its last bastion of flame joined the hovering fireball.
"Well then," said the goblin. He held his hands above his head and the ball streaked directly up, piercing the foggy ceiling. A thunderous crack lit the grey mist orange, illuminating the caster.
His skin was more grey than green, and his bespectacled eyes lay beneath shrubby white brows. He was bald except for a few scattered strings of wiry hair. When he looked down from the explosion, he frowned.
"Who are you then?" he said, noticing Stump and Morg on their knees, coughing hysterically.
Stump wiped his mouth and straightened. "My name's Stump," he croaked, and gestured to the dwarf next to him. "And this is Morg. We're from the Outerward. We were on our way over when we saw the fire."
The goblin broke into a toothy smile. "Ahhh, Morgish. It's been a while," he said, sidestepping Stump entirely. "I'm afraid you've arrived at a terrible time, however. A terrible, terrible time." A blackened branch snapped and landed with a heavy thud. "We've no samples for you and cannot spare room to hire another to our staff."
"I'm not here for that," Stump piped up. The elder goblin gawked at him, as though he were appalled Stump was speaking without leave. "Morg ferried me here so I might meet with Wasptongue."
"Meet with Wasptongue?" the goblin hissed. He flailed wildly at the scorched backdrop. "An even worse time for that! My wife is already barbed in personality as is. Now? She's likely to be exceedingly foul, and with good reason! Some scoundrel has set her wonderful beehives aflame, and much of the rest of the island and brewery too, in case you hadn't noticed."
Stump edged forward, sensing opportunity. "Who did? I—I mean, we could help."
"He can help," corrected Morg.
"I have—I own a mercenary company."
The older goblin's face twisted at the suggestion. "A penniless band of scoundrels to hunt down a scoundrel, is that it?" He waved a hand dismissively. "We already had a company here on unrelated matters who have now gone missing. You want to meet with her? Fine. But I won't be bothered to dig the graves she'll leave you both in."