Ben was growing tired of the abyss. One could plummet for so long before their mind wandered to other, more pressing distractions. Whatever had happened to him on the Hengeway, he didn’t think it was an ordinary commuter experience. If only I had kept to the road, he thought wretchedly. But then again, he wouldn’t have been able to eavesdrop on the hooded ones or the witches, and falling as he was, the fact remained that he was still in one piece and with fresh information to boot.
Still being the key word. How long was this going to continue? When he was spirited away to Dunport-Salem, or the Blackwoods, for that matter, he hadn’t experienced being trapped in the darkness for so long. He shuddered as concern crept up on him. Or at least he believed he did. It was hard to tell where his body ended and the gloom started.
And just like that, Ben was out. A confusing smattering of azures and earthy palettes replaced nothingness. His nosedive, however, was far from over—a salty breeze buffeted him as he tumbled down, a jumble of flailing appendages. Midair, he stabilized himself, panic widening his eyes as he took in the clear sky above, the sandy coast beside him, and the glassy surface of the sea below, threatening to break his fall.
Or my bones, most likely. Ben descended rapidly, hurtling towards the swiftly approaching ocean waves. There was no time to think it through. He stretched out his arms with hands open wide, took a deep breath, and switched straight into do-or-die mode.
“Repel, Void Push!” Ben intoned. He felt the familiar ripple of magic tug at him; an invisible force emanated from the center of his palms and hit the water before he did, causing the sea to swell into a foamy semi-circle as it cushioned his plunge. Airborne stability lost, he sank without so much as a plop.
The seawater was colder than a witch’s tit. A fitting observation, taking into account his recent travails. Growing up in a port town had made an apt swimmer out of Ben, though; a couple of practiced strokes brought him to the surface, and he was quick to thrust his head out of the water. He took a big gasp of air as he maintained himself afloat, dazed and shivering.
Ben remembered the coast he had spotted a few moments ago and kicked at the water to spin around. Sure enough, he saw it about a mile away from where he buoyed. Half-recovered as he was, he floundered his way to land. Right and left, right and left. He focused solely on the motion of swimming, on making it safely to the shore.
He accomplished the task after a good half an hour. His arms and legs burned with the unexpected effort, his chest heaved uncontrollably up and down, his wet clothes hung heavily upon his frame, and he could not stop his teeth from chattering. Ben lowered himself onto the sand, lying motionless as he scanned the morning sky, his gaze drifting lazily from one listless cloud to another.
“Not the best time of year to go for a paddle, mushi!” A rustling voice spoke behind Ben. He rose to a sitting position and turned around, startled by the sudden company. His mouth gaped as he tried to make sense of what he saw.
On a grassy road beside the beach lay a giant, slimy mass with two feelers on its top, brownish pink in color. A giant snail, from the looks of it. No two ways about it. Where its shell should be, there was a coach wagon snugly fit upon its mantle. Ben rubbed his eyes in disbelief. It was what sat in the driver’s seat that had left him open-mouthed to begin with, though; for the unusual chauffeur resembled a six-foot fungus, a reddish toadstool crowning his head like a hat.
It was the humanoid mushroom that had addressed him, and it did so again, this time accompanied by a courteous bow. “This humble sagecap apologizes if it offended you. Of course, your sorcerourness is free to swim whenever he desires, mushi.”
Ben struggled to his feet and scratched his head. “N-No offense taken. What did you just call yourself?”
The humanoid mushroom’s face brightened. “Ah, this sagecap understands the confusion. First time seeing one of our kind, must be. It’s a bit strange, considering how many of our brethren visit Dool all year round. The best merchants in all spiritdom we are, oh yes. That’s where I’m currently headed to, as a matter of fact, mushi!” The giant snail rocked its head back and forth, as if agreeing with its rider.
Dool. Ben wasn’t hallucinating. That’s what the sagecap had said, alright. Had he finally reached his destination? “Dool,” he repeated, dumbstruck. “Where is it?”
The sagecap regarded Ben as if he were slow in the head, but still obliged. He pointed a stalky finger beyond him and said, “Why, it’s that immense set of buildings over yonder, mushi.”
Ben turned around in a fierce blur. If his eccentric interlocutor and its beast of burden had impressed him, he was now rendered catatonic with astonishment. The coast wound its way up to a sea-cliff far off on the horizon; carved into the rock face itself, there spanned a convoluted agglomeration of buildings of every shape and size. He observed ships entering the deep recesses of the cliff, with massive, upside-down towers gripping the edges. Machen suddenly seemed small in Ben’s memories—structurally mundane, even.
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“Are you looking to hitch a ride? It seems to this sagecap like you could use one, and there’s plenty of room in the snail-coach, mushi.”
Ben simply nodded, speechless. Not how he had imagined his grand entrance to the City of Wonders, but he had finally made it.
⦶⦶⦶
The snail-coach turned out to be a much smoother ride than Ben had anticipated. It felt as if they were gliding through the air rather than crawling over the ground. He sat in the driver’s seat next to the sagecap, as the mushroom droned on with amiable conversation. The lacquered wagon rattled with sacks, bags, boxes, and chests—the goods this entrepreneurial spirit was to sell in the bustling open markets.
“And that’s why this sagecap has always leaned toward the Burgundy snail over the decollate ones; much better handling, and they are of a more agreeable disposition, mushi.”
Ben struggled to pay attention, so he simply nodded whenever he heard the sagecap say mushi. The ever-growing outline of Dool enraptured his mind as the city got closer. The capital of the World That Is Not surpassed even the wildest figments of his imagination. As they approached, the grassy road transformed into a well-manicured limestone path, and soon enough, other travelers joined the procession.
There were other sagecaps manning similarly supplied snail-coaches, although they differed in size and color. If Ben had paid any attention to his benefactor’s soliloquy, he might have been able to recognize the virtues and shortcomings of each. Some spirits he recognized from his stay in Machen: dwarves and fairies, centaurs, and gnomes. Others he was seeing for the first time, and couldn’t discern what they were.
But what caught his attention the most was the sheer number of sorcerers that plodded their way along with them. Ben knew to expect this, but seeing it firsthand was an imposing sight. He recalled the hooded ones, the Lupari, Lightfoot, and Sybil—all the sorcerers he had encountered, each with unique spells. If there were this many of them...
The snail-coach slowed its pace as it crossed a wide drawbridge, snapping Ben out of his musings. A thick, iron portcullis towered beyond, its gatehouse inbuilt into the rock face itself. About a dozen sorcerers wearing the same dark purple uniform manned it. This angle didn’t allow Ben to peer into the city’s interior, but he could still see the sporadic ship to their left in the sea.
A disorderly line of visitors formed ahead of them, with two of the purple-robed watchmen questioning the outsiders before letting them in—or not. The other ones leaned lazily from the edge of the fortifications above.
“Who are they?” Ben asked the sagecap with unease. The uniformed sorcerers he had met so far had all brought ample trouble along.
“Warlock Corps, mushi,” the sagecap said, as if that would answer his question. Ben arched an eyebrow, and his fungal companion sighed. It broadened its explanation at an inch-meal pace, as if Ben were dull of wit. “The Circle’s very own army. Its peacekeepers, if you can call them that after the debacle that was Macha’s Rebellion, mushi.”
Ben remembered the history lesson Briacco gave him at the coffeehouse. From the sound of it, there wasn’t much peace being kept by the Circle. He eyed the soldiers with renewed suspicion until their turn in line finally came.
“Halt there! State the purpose of your visit to Dool,” he asked, his tone refined by monotony. Ben could only imagine the number of times he had repeated that sentence, and he wondered if he even cared about the forthcoming answer.
The sagecap bowed with mercantile courtesy. “This sagecap brings exotic herbs and spices from the Great Swamp to delight the palates of the citizens, mushi.”
He grunted, and his attention shifted to Ben. “What about the kid? Brought him from the Great Swamp, too?” The soldier laughed at his own joke.
Ben opened his mouth to answer, but the mushroom beat him to it. “This sagecap was in need of assistance transporting the wares. Alas, age has seeped much strength from its stipe, mushi.”
“Hmph. Move along, then, and stay out of trouble. We have enough craziness going on as it is with those blasted cultists and unionized ghosts raising hell.” Came the soldier’s verdict. The sagecap thanked him and nudged at Ben with its elbow to do the same, and once it had guaranteed they were to behave, the snail-coach resumed its stride across the gate.
“Cultists and ghosts, eh?” Ben asked once they were out of earshot. A healthy dose of curiosity coursed through his body. He had a feeling he would like the place.
The mushroom nodded knowingly. “Oh yes, Dool is anything but uneventful. A great place for this sagecap to conduct business if it dares to say, mushi.”
Ben could already see that. The capital immediately spellbound him. Its towering spires reached up into the cavernous ceiling like fingers seeking to touch the heavens. Dool, the City of Wonders, lived up to its name in every sense. As the snail-coach trundled closer, Ben could make out the intricate carvings adorning the cliff face, depicting stately scenes he did not recognize. Arcane symbols glowed softly, woven into the very stone itself, pulsating with an otherworldly energy that seemed to infuse the air with a sense of enchantment.
Market stalls lined the streets, brimming with outlandish goods from gods-know-where: fluorescent vials, ancient-looking artifacts, and shiny trinkets that whispered of forgotten lore. And it wasn’t just the architecture or the commerce that made Dool so mesmerizing. It was the atmosphere, the palpable sense of magic, which permeated every corner of the city. Spirits danced in the air, sorcerers practiced their craft openly, and peculiar plants and flowers grew from every surface. Ben was bludgeoned into a contemplative silence by the scale of it all.
The snail-coach came to a halt as it neared the bustling city square. Ben turned to the sagecap, his eyes filled with gratitude. “Thank you for the ride and for having my back with the guard,” he said, offering a heartfelt smile.
It nodded in acknowledgement, its toadstool hat bobbing in response. With a last wave, Ben stepped off the driver’s seat and onto the cobblestone street, and the snail-coach was off. Now alone amidst the throngs of spirits and sorcerers, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of apprehension creeping in. How would he ever find Wilhelm and Sybil in such a vast city?
With a determined sigh, he squared his shoulders and set off into the labyrinthine alleys that surrounded him. “Better start walking,” he muttered to himself, and he ventured into the quixotic streets.