“Gibs!” Zarni barely whispered, utterly out of breath. His heart hammered in his chest so hard, his ears tingled. “You just about scared me out of my skin. Where in Finlestia have you been all night? I thought the sorcerer captured you. And where is Tobin?”

  The little horned marten turned his face toward the sorcerer’s strange cabin.

  “That’s what I was worried about. Is he in th—”

  Zarni’s words choked off as fear gripped him once more. Standing only ten paces away, the mad sorcerer held his staff high. His golden eye locked on Zarni and Gibs.

  If it was possible for horned martens to giggle, Zarni was positive Gibs was doing so as the little creature clawed and nibbled the dwarf’s hand. The mad sorcerer, whose name they had learned was Jorbinan, idly tickled the horned marten on the counter as he flipped yet more flapjacks on the skillet.

  The warm scent of cinnamon and vanilla filled the cottage. As tasty as the flapjacks were, Zarni had already eaten four, and wouldn’t be able to finish the one on his plate; let alone any more of the stack on the serving dish that rested in the center of the table. Tobin didn’t seem to have any problems, having eaten half a dozen and angling his fork to maneuver another one to his own plate.

  Zarni shook his head, still not sure how they’d ended up eating breakfast with the very “mad sorcerer” they were warned to avoid. When he’d turned around to find the dwarf staring at him outside the cabin, he had nearly wet himself. He’d had a flash of uninvited imagination, showing his trembling green legs bursting with fur and grotesquely contorting before his body convulsed and hunched and he turned into a mountain mule. Instead, Jorbinan had asked him who he was. And the only thing Zarni could think in the moment was to tell the dwarf the truth. At the mention of “the halfling,” a wild smile split the dwarf’s mangy red beard, and he roared an unnaturally long laugh.

  “Come in, come in! He sleeps within.”

  Though Zarni had hesitated and required a little more coaxing, the dwarf had eventually opened the front door and revealed Tobin standing just inside with his eyes closed. The dwarf snapped in front of the halfling’s nose, and Tobin had awoken as though he’d had the most restful sleep of his life. Now, they were eating flapjacks at the mad sorcerer’s table.

  “Jorbinan, tell me what happened to Tobin again.”

  “Snapplers,” the mad sorcerer said with a shiver. “Jorbinan clears snapplers with firepops. Firepops are strong magic. Play tricks on sleepy eyes. Makes short ones walk and talk in sleep.”

  “Right …” Zarni and Tobin shared a glance. The goblin had pieced together that whatever magic the dwarf had conducted affected halflings in a strange way. “And you don’t remember anything?”

  “I just remember waking up here in this lovely home and you were here, and these delicious flapjacks,” Tobin said as he stuffed another big bite into his mouth. “Doesn’t hurt my feelings. I’d like to get this recipe from you too, Jorbinan. If you don’t mind, that is.”

  “Jorbinan can do this.” He chuckled and bent his face down to blow raspberries on the horned marten’s furry belly. Gibs grappled happily with the dwarf’s beard. Zarni cringed, afraid the creature might claw Jorbinan’s face. But the dwarf didn’t seem to mind.

  “And you use … firepops?” Zarni used the sorcerer’s word for the magical fireworks he’d seen Jorbinan using all night. “To clear the snapplers?”

  “Snapplers,” the dwarf said with another shiver. “Yes. Jorbinan does this.”

  “What are snapplers?” Tobin asked between bites.

  “I don’t know,” Zarni admitted. “I didn’t see anything else out there with us.” He lowered his voice to whisper, “I’m not sure there was anything.”

  “Snapplers …” Jorbinan paused to shiver. “Monsters. Little monsters. Faery foes. Mock Jorbinan. Mock Zarni. Mock Tobin. Mock Milirore love. Mock—”

  “Snapplers mock people? Mock everyone?”

  “Snapplers”—another shiver—“do this.”

  Zarni and Tobin shared a look that suggested neither of them was sure of the validity of the sorcerer’s information. Jorbinan’s mind seemed to be as chaotic as the inside of his home. Scattered objects littered the floors and every piece of furniture with a flat surface. The only surface not covered was the table, and Zarni assumed that was because the dwarf used the table every day. Decades of neglect left thick layers of dust on many of the random objects, as if the dwarf had shelved them and forgotten they existed.

  On a side table nearby, Zarni noted a glass orb balanced on a stack of thick, leather tomes. Beside those, some metal contraption, the purpose of which the goblin couldn’t even venture a guess, sat on an artfully scrolled wooden box, inside which, who knew? All of that together pinned down a leather strap that drooped over the edge of the side table holding a dangling, oiled leather bag. And that was just one of the myriad piles. The house, which shot off in multiple directions from the dining area, was full of such mounds of trinkets and mysterious miscellany.

  Jorbinan brought the flapjacks to the table, Gibs clinging to his arm with glee. The dwarf flopped the last of the flapjacks on the serving plate before dishing some onto a plate for himself and an extra plate, which he set at the last remaining empty seat.

  “Are we expecting more company?” Zarni asked.

  “Oh, yay! Are we?” Tobin asked through a mouthful.

  “Milirore love visits orcs. But Jorbinan does this. Milirore love might be hungry,” the dwarf said as though it were the most reasonable thing in the world.

  Zarni shot Tobin a tentative glance before asking, “Is Milirore love here now?”

  The mad sorcerer ripped a laugh so loud and hardy it startled the fork right out of Tobin’s hand, the bite halfway to his mouth. His fork clattered to the table, and he moaned as though he’d just lost a long-time friend.

  “Milirore love visits orcs,” Jorbinan said again. He wiped jovial tears from his eyes. The dwarf tickled Gibs on the table and jutted a thumb toward Zarni, shaking his head.

  The goblin wasn’t sure what to think, but he knew they couldn’t linger there forever.

  “Is Milirore love your wife?” Tobin asked, retrieving his fork. He examined the bite of flapjack speared on its end, deemed it was still edible, and popped it into his mouth.

  “Milirore love does this!” Jorbinan said, widening his eyes at the halfling before shoveling a bite into his own mouth.

  “Oh …” Zarni hummed. He was starting to get the picture. “And Milirore went to visit the orcs?”

  Jorbinan pointed at the goblin with his fork and nodded enthusiastically. “Milirore love does this!”

  Realization dawned on him, and Zarnikorek wondered what really happened to the dwarf’s wife. The thought must have hit Tobin too, for the halfling met his gaze with an equally concerned look.

  “Jorbinan,” Tobin started softly. “How long has Milirore been gone?”

  “Forever!” the dwarf said with a great huff. “Milirore love visits orcs forever! Jorbinan misses Milirore love. Jorbinan thinks Milirore love come back hungry.”

  Zarnikorek’s stomach sank. Had the dwarf’s wife gone north? He hated to think his own people might have killed the sorcerer’s wife. But their peoples had been enemies for so long …

  The goblin wondered just how long Jorbinan had been alone out here. He could never replace the loss of the dwarf’s wife, but maybe by establishing the wagon route through the area, they could bring some company for him on occasion. At least Zarni and Tobin could stop by and visit from time to time. Guilt sat in his stomach like a stone block.

  “Hey Jorbinan,” Zarni spoke with gentleness. “We’re establishing a wagon route between Tobin’s people and my own people.”

  “Wagons and orcs? Wagons and halflings?”

  “That’s right,” Zarni said. “We’re going to drive wagons between two cities for trade. Maybe we can come visit you sometime. And maybe others can visit you along their journey?”

  “Others can do this!” Jorbinan said cheerily. As bad as Zarni felt for the dwarf, the sorcerer seemed to maintain an upbeat attitude. That fact warmed Zarni’s heart.

  “Good! Good!” Tobin said. “You know, you could open up a flapjack house here and feed wagoners along the trail. You’d have quite the business, I’d wager. Good eating like this on a long road. You’d be rolling in coin.”

  “Jorbinan cannot do this. Jorbinan clears snapplers. Keeps wagoners safe.”

  “Yeah …” Zarni said, trying to sound encouraging but sharing a sad look with Tobin. “Well … hey, listen. We need to get back on the road. Our boulder goat, Gregory, has been alone for far too long. But I’ll put your cabin on the map. Maybe we can bring the route closer to your house.”

  As Zarni pulled the map from his pocket and splayed it out on the table before him, Jorbinan jumped to his feet.

  “Jorbinan helps!”

  Admittedly, Zarni had not reacted with abundant enthusiasm when the mad sorcerer offered to help. He wondered what kind of curse the dwarf would heap upon them in his excitement. Or maybe Jorbinan would turn them into mountain mules to help Gregory pull the wagon. Or maybe, more disastrously, the dwarf would want to come along.

  Instead, Jorbinan piled random things onto the table, some of them tumbling down and smashing the pancakes on the serving plate, much to Tobin’s chagrin.

  “Ah, this! Ah, this!” Jorbinan kept repeating as if he were rediscovering old treasures as he gathered more contraptions and oddities.

  “What is all this?” Tobin whispered to Zarni.

  “I’m not sure. I think he wants us to take these things with us?”

  “Ah, this!” Jorbinan said. Suddenly he stood straight and threw a perplexing device that Zarni could only guess was of gnomish design. The part crashed against a wall and shattered, pieces skittering everywhere. The dwarf knelt reverently and lifted a scaly egg in both hands.

  “Is that …?” Zarni whispered.

  “A wyvern’s egg?” Tobin continued the thought. “I’ve only seen them in books. Have you ever seen one yourself?”

  “I have,” Zarni said. “They had a hatchery in Ruk for the wyvern riders there. There’s also a hatchery in Ghun-Ra, but I’ve never been in that one. But this … This is the smallest wyvern egg I’ve ever seen. They’re usually … maybe eight times that size.”

  Jorbinan handed the egg to Zarni gingerly. “Zarni takes this.”

  “I couldn’t,” Zarni said, though he took the egg, worried the dwarf would drop it. He gulped his emotions back. His green nose twitched as he tried to bite back the growing tingle behind his eyes.

  “It’s beautiful. Zarni—wait. Are you alright?” Tobin asked.

  “Yes,” Zarni choked out. “It’s just … This reminds me of something I read in one of the historical texts my pa has in his library. In the ancient days, when the nation of Drelek was yet to be united under one orc king, the tribes were led by gars. We still have gars in every major orc city, but back then, there was no king. Each tribe was isolated. Each tribe, its own. But when the orcs came together, the gar from each tribe brought a wyvern egg to Ruk. They handed the eggs over as a sign of friendship, honor, and loyalty. The act symbolized the giving of oneself to the cause of the leader. It’s from those original eggs that the first wyvern squadron of Ruk was formed. It’s how all the orcs were united, and of course, the goblins and trolls of Drelek as well.”

  “I never knew that story,” Tobin said quietly.

  Jorbinan merely stared with a soft smile.

  “This is a beautiful gift. Thank you, Jorbinan,” Zarni said as a tear rolled down his cheek.

  “Jorbinan does this. Zarni takes this. And ah, this!” the mad sorcerer dashed to a side table to grab a bottle filled with some sort of amber liquid. When he opened it, the potent scent of alcohol assaulted their noses. Jorbinan sniffed the bottle and waggled his red eyebrows. A strange glint shone in his yellow eye before he tipped the bottle back and took a long swig.

  Zarni and Tobin shared a glance and chuckled along as the dwarf came up for air with a belch that dissolved into manic laughter. Zarni couldn’t be sure how old the liquid in that bottle was, but judging by the smell, it had lost all good flavor long ago. Jorbinan shook the bottle in front of them, making sure they understood what was in it, before he splashed some all over the Traitor’s Map.

  Zarnikorek and Tobin leapt to their feet. “No!”

  As Tobin leapt to wipe the alcohol from the map, Zarni turned on the mad sorcerer. “Jorbinan, you can’t do that. We need that map. You can’t destroy other people’s maps.”

  “Jorbinan does not do this,” the dwarf said before releasing another roaring laugh.

  “Of course you did this! Who else …?”

  “Zarni looks. Zarni looks.”

  “What?” the goblin said, not understanding. “You can’t just do stuff like that to get reactions out of people.

  “Not this!” Jorbinan laughed hard. “Not this! Zarni looks!”

  “What?”

  “Zarni …” Tobin said, confusion lacing his tone. “What is this?”

  As Zarni turned to face the halfling, he realized something about the wet parchment held Tobin captive—new markings had appeared. “What in Finlestia?” he wondered aloud, clutching the egg in the crook of one arm as he drew nearer. “Those markings weren’t there before.”

  “Aye,” Tobin said softly. “You think the alcohol did this? How does alcohol ink a map?”

  “Milirore love does this,” Jorbinan chimed.

  “Wait,” Zarni said. “Your wife, Milirore has something to do with this?”

  “Milirore love does this!” the dwarf repeated with gusto. “Koris does this!”

  “Koris!” Tobin gasped. “Are you saying your wife and Koris knew each other?”

  The halfling glanced at the goblin. Each of their faces crinkled.

  “How is that possible?” Zarni mused.

  “Milirore love does this! Koris does this!” Jorbinan repeated, seemingly very excited that his guests finally understood. In truth, neither of them understood anything.

  Zarni inspected the map, which now had a square of text written in an old elvish that he recognized, but couldn’t read. He’d seen the script before in one of his pa’s history books. Not particularly helpful now. “Do you read elvish?”

  “No …” Tobin said, examining the map himself. “Not a lick. Lenor knows some ancient dwarvish. Her father made her and Lotmeag study it while they were growing up. She taught me some of that. She’s teaching Button. Though this doesn’t look anything like that. I suppose that doesn’t do us much good,” the halfling chuckled to himself, but then forced a serious crease to his brow as if he realized he had been over-speaking again. “Sorry.”

  “It’s alright,” Zarni said. “Wait. Jorbinan, do you read old elvish?”

  “Jorbinan does not do this,” the dwarf said, shaking his head. “Milirore does this.”

  “Are you saying Milirore is an elf?”

  Tobin turned to Zarni, as if it suddenly clicked for the halfling as well.

  “Ah, this!”

  “Tobin, that’s it!” Zarni exclaimed.

  “Yes!” the halfling cheered. He scrunched his nose and pursed his lips. “What’s it?”

  “Elves are the longest lived of all the known peoples of Tarrine. Some have been known to live a couple thousand years. It’s entirely possible that Milirore was alive during the Second Great Black War.”

  “You mean when this map was made!” Tobin said, catching on.

  “Yes! Exactly. And when Jorbinan said, Milirore and Koris did this,” he said, turning toward the dwarf, who watched and nodded along excitedly as the goblin pieced it all together, “you really meant that Milirore and Koris knew each other.”

  “Ah, this!” the mad sorcerer bellowed.

  “Milirore may have been one of Koris’s contacts for the people of the south.”

  “Milirore love does this!”

  “And she may have helped Koris to craft a secret message on this map.”

  “Milirore love does this!”

  “And she would have been instrumental in aiding Koris in his mission and guiding him through this wilderness without him getting caught.”

  “Milirore love does this!”

  They all laughed at Jorbinan’s excitement. Even the dwarf himself.

  “That’s amazing,” Tobin mused as he chewed on his unlit pipe. “Too bad neither of us knows how to read elvish. I have a friend back in Galium who’s somewhat of a scholar. He’d have this read up in no time. Although, I’m sure Master Argus would be excited to read it himself. Though that’s a long ride back. I suppose it doesn’t make sense to drive all the way back to Galium at this point.”

  “No,” Zarni said before Tobin could continue. They couldn’t go back. “No, that wouldn’t make sense.”

  As much as Zarni wanted to know what the block of text said, it likely wouldn’t help them much. The more interesting thing about the new markings was that the path dots seemed to branch in the direction Zarni had mentally marked off in his mind as he’d followed the sorcerer to his home.

  “Jorbinan, thank you for showing us this,” Zarni said, patting the dwarf on the shoulder. “This is amazing. I’m looking forward to finding someone to read this for us when our quest is finished.”

  “Milirore love does this.”

  “Yes,” Zarni said kindly. “Yes, she did. Thank you again. Tobin, we need to get back on the road.”

  “Aye,” Tobin said. “Keep thinking about that Flapjack House, Jorbi. I’m telling you; those jacks are something fierce. Would give Lenor a run for her coin, I’d wager.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Though don’t go telling her I said so. I don’t like to bite the hand that feeds, you know?”

  “Jorbinan does not do this,” the mad sorcerer said with all seriousness.

  Tobin chuckled as he made his way out of the house. Zarni looked down at the small wyvern egg he still held close, then back to the dwarf.

  “Are you sure?”