Meryl Winterstorm guided the magic carpet up the rather steep slope. The magical construct swept over the ground, stirring up grass clippings and insects, but none of its passengers felt any noticeable jolts. It was as comfortable as sitting on a moving patch of grass.
Magic carpets had become quite rare in this day and age. It was not that their materials were scarce-in fact, far more mageweave thread was produced now than in Meryl's era. But fewer and fewer mages also practiced tailoring, making these magical constructs, which demanded both powerful magical control and sufficient tailoring skill, increasingly rare.
At least, all the magic carpets Dick had seen in Dalaran and Quel'Thalas combined numbered no more than ten. Antonidas, incidentally, had a treasured magic carpet of his own. Young Lady Jaina had told Dick that.
The party's composition was somewhat strange now, though. Three people had set out, but now there were four. Besides Meryl, who controlled the carpet, Med'an, who toyed with a shortsword and a crude wolf-fang pendant, and Dick, who rested with his eyes closed, there was now a strange woman curled into a ball, clutching a green scythe.
Anyone who drew close could see her body trembling slightly beneath the men's robe that covered her tightly, along with a tuft or two of animal fur poking out of her cuffs.
"Hold on tight. I'm speeding up!"
Meryl seemed not to notice anything strange about the woman at all. In truth, after living alone for three thousand years, even the strangest things would struggle to catch one's attention.
The undead mage tossed out those words, and Dick felt his body jerk backward. The entire purple carpet shot up along the other side of the mountain like a galloping warhorse, skimmed through the darkness above bustling Darkshire,