Weeds Meads and Steeds PDF

eeds, eads, & teeds
The
nfortunate Curse
of Deathfall Forest
Book One in the Inebriated Magic Series
By LUKE M CHARLES

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events
portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination
or are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2018 by Luke M Charles
All rights reserved.
Book cover Illustration by Lily Dormishev
Author Website:
www.lukemcharles.com
ISBN

ContentS
PROLOGUE; Legends of Old ...................... 1
1 The Curse ..................................... 5
2 A Long Time Later .............................. 13
3 The Accounting ................................. 23
4 Baobab Tree .................................... 31
5 Endless Bureaucracy ............................. 37
6 Toble the Goblin ................................ 47
7 The Academic .................................. 53
8 Little Intruder ................................... 61
9 The Knight ..................................... 73
10 The Priestess ................................... 81
11 Finding Someone ................................ 91
12 Gate of the Deathstalker .......................... 97
13 Chasing Rabbits ................................. 105
14 Painful News ................................... 113
15 Close Call...................................... 121
16 Tallamoor ...................................... 135
17 Bandit Encampment.............................. 147
18 Compromised Escape............................. 161
19 Vallea ......................................... 171
20 Aranea ........................................ 185
21 The Vault of Alvardak ............................ 197
22 Icy Wrath ...................................... 213

23 Dangerous Love................................. 231
24 Return to Deathfall .............................. 245
25 Dranden's Trial ................................. 253
26 Regroup ....................................... 269
27 Going Rogue ................................... 275
28 Tanor's Office .................................. 289
29 Harsh Beginning ................................ 299
30 Terrible Art .................................... 313
31 Mostly Somewhat Nice ........................... 323
32 Dark Desires ................................... 335
33 Luck and Water ................................. 349
34 Swampland .................................... 359
35 Jarbuffle and Sons ............................... 365
36 The Fog ....................................... 381
37 Shadows and Light .............................. 389
38 The Great Sigil ................................. 411
39 Hroglem ...................................... 423
40 Unanswered Questions ........................... 445
41 Furpletromp ................................... 449
42 Limber Timber ................................. 463
43 Illusions and Memories ........................... 479
44 Hundilt ....................................... 491
45 The Royal Castle ................................ 497
46 A Hero's Sacrifice ............................... 505
47 Fireside Chat ................................... 517

This book is dedicated to all the clumsy
knights wanting to help others, the love-sick
fools currently pursuing their sweetheart,
and the little slimy, smelly goblins who try
to understand the purpose of life.

Map

Map

Pologue
Legends of Old
Fire and ice, rock and flesh, blood and brimstone, that's how the world was
forged by the dark gods of old. At least, that's what the legends say. Since
it was so long ago no one knows for sure. The only evidence of the old
times are relics that contain power beyond comprehension or places still tainted
with a lingering darkness, waiting to infect the unwary traveler. Perhaps the
stories were only meant to scare misbehaving children into eating their veggies at
dinner? In any case, none of the legends ever gave an explanation as to why the
gods were evil, or what purpose they were trying to achieve when they enslaved
humanity; whether for more power or just mindless entertainment. But when the
last of the gods were destroyed and cast out into the fields of oblivion, humans
strived hard to build their own societies out of the rubble and ash.
Now that many millenniums have passed, and after the world's different
cultures have settled their disputes, the average citizen living within the borders
of any civilized land didn't have much to worry about. This was especially true in
the Pullormort kingdom, the largest and oldest of the human realms, and also the
place our story is set. Most people who live here are nice and fair-minded, though
a little suspicious of outsiders, and would gladly help any traveler in need. If you
ever got caught up in a conversation with one, they would boast as having the
best sports, the best taste in fashion, and the most powerful wizards.
That last part wasn't exactly true, since wizards didn't consider themselves
belonging to any one kingdom, though a lot of them did congregate in
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W E EDS, MEA DS, & S T EEDS
Pullormort's capital city for some reason, even stationing their headquarters
there. Wizards, though different than normal humans, were born from regular
people completely at random within the population at large and had all the same
personality quirks of their non-magical brethren, as far as anyone could tell. They
could get angry, jealous, prideful, or just not give a damn. In fact, the only
distinguishing features between a wizard and a regular simpleton are incredibly
long lifespans and an immense amount of power at their fingertips.
Not even the smartest intellectuals could figure out why the wizards existed
or how they derived their powers, but that certainly didn't stop people from
inventing all sorts of elaborate explanations. Some proposed they were caretakers
of humanity, created by the grace of nature to guard everyone against any
malevolent force daring to enslave mankind just as the dark gods had done.
Others said that the wizards were remnants of the dark gods themselves,
fragments of their wicked power that reverberated across eternity. Whatever their
purpose, this duality of wizards as light or dark, as saviors or destroyers, was the
reason many feared them.
This fear was hidden and subtle, and was usually never discussed except by
philosophers during debates or by drunkards at the bar, which were most likely
the same people. But it was a perfectly understandable fear. How can you ever be
at ease traveling next to someone who could zap you out of existence with a
single wave of their hand? This same line of reasoning, however, also gave
people feelings of protection and safety, since a wizard could just as easily zap an
enemy out of existence. Because of this, some thought it wise to stay close to a
wizard, just in case something bad ever happened. Friend or foe, greatest nemesis
or greatest ally, none could rightly say which one a wizard was, not until they
decided for themselves and behaved accordingly.
Despite the world's history and how powerful wizards were, there wasn't
actually that much magic to be concerned about. There were only a minority of
people able to cast simple spells, who were called mages, and even fewer who
were full-powered wizards. And since there was a lack of magic, science
attempted to fill the void as a useful tool for humans to shape their world. But
because of the presence of magic, no matter how minuscule, any scientific
advancements went excruciatingly slow. Why spend a lifetime understanding the
intricacies of stonework to build a castle, when a person who is magically
inclined can cast a spell to erect all the walls in a single afternoon?
This, however, didn't stop a few insatiably curious people from trying to
understand the natural order of things, and using that knowledge to build little
gizmos or contraptions for day-to-day use. These people were nicknamed
gadgetzers, and they were often described by their neighbors as eccentric or
2

LEGE NDS OF O LD
strange. This was because many of their inventions were obtuse or round-about,
difficult for the average person to grasp, whereas magic was much more direct
and instant.
If a gadgetzer's invention ever became extremely popular, people feared that
a wizard would “go rogue” and cast a curse to render the item useless, or even
make them dangerous. “Gone rogue” was a colloquial term people used to
describe a wizard who has turned evil, since they would often strike their closest
allies from the shadows without warning. Not too long ago in the past there was a
popular spinning-blades contraption that could either be large enough to trim the
grass in your yard or small enough to trim the hair on top your head. After a
mischievous rogue wizard cursed every device across the whole land, the epic
amount of snipped fingers and bald heads that occurred as a result, caused people
henceforth to second guess ever using another gadgetzer's product.
It was very rare for a wizard to go rogue, which is essentially them turning
their back on humanity, but when it did happen, it was a horrific, tumultuous time
period and would often scar an entire generation.
A rogue wizard usually embraced one of the two forbidden disciplines of
magic; sorcery or necromancy. A necromancer unnaturally alters the stages of
birth, life, and death in order to create hideous creatures to fight in his service. A
sorcerer, however, uses magical hotspots in the world, such as a mountain or a
murky swamp, in order to draw power and alter nature to their whim. Sorcerers
rarely happened since hotspots are extremely difficult to draw power from and
nature always has a way of fighting back evil influences. Necromancers are more
abundant since they could study in secret and away from spying eyes.
The last rogue wizard was the necromancer Neezlemek, who arose from
Pullormert and waged war against the kingdom with his army of rotting corpses.
Considered one of the most powerful necromancers to have arisen since the old
times, he was eventually defeated with an untold amount of suffering and many
great sacrifices.
But the passing of time diminishes all wounds, like how a gentle spring
breeze eases a troubled mind, and people soon forgot the lessons of that struggle.
Some scars, however, ran deep below the visible world and lurked in the
shadows, waiting for the perfect opportunity to finally surface and strike at the
living.
A few unsuspecting adventurers will soon cross paths with these lingering
shadows and the fate of the entire kingdom will be in their hands.
3

Chapter 1
The Curse
Thorns, shrubs, and whistlewhacks cluttered Dranden Pipperwhip's unruly
lawn. The simple plot of grass was no longer at a height of exactly halfa-finger,
just like all his neighbor's yards. It had instead adulterated with
every manner of weed, invasive vine, and ugly bush until becoming an absolute
wreck. Dranden overlooked the horror from the edge of his porch, shocked with
disbelief at how bad it had gotten in only a few short years. His backyard
resembled a miniature jungle more than anything else, and this fact alone broke
his heart, because now there was no way he could win the neighborhood's annual
'best yard' competition.
This was a prestigious award that anyone could proudly exploit at dinner
parties to silence annoying family members or to declare victory in any argument
no matter how absurd or unrelated. Dranden had achieved the award only once
before, but unfortunately, all he could hope for this time around was to not come
in dead last – an almost assured outcome.
Tending to his yard less than one hour a week – or was it once a month? –
may have been the reason for its detestable state, but Dranden knew in his heart
of hearts there was another explanation; dark magic. He had no other excuse to
point his finger at, besides himself of course, and since that couldn't be the reason
a dark magical curse must be the cause.
Magic was an infrequent occurrence for the average citizen living within the
boarders of Pullormert, the largest of the human kingdoms, because very few
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W E EDS, MEA DS, & S T EEDS
people could wield nature's arcane and mysterious power. Those able to cast
spells were licensed by the state and required to operate under the guidance of the
High Council of Magic; a dedicated group of wizards that saw to the proper and
ethical uses of magic.
Dranden was born a normal human, like most, and could not cast a simple
spell if his life depended on it. He was forced to rely upon regular tools for day to
day living and only went to magic practitioners for specialized services that
ranged from regrowing a lost limb to curing a hairy backside, all for a hefty
price. These services, however, expanded dramatically when one dipped into the
shadow market, which provided enchanted trinkets to help with household
chores, potions to sway someone's love or hate, and of course, many types of
curses. But who could possibly have paid good money to curse his lawn?
Maybe it was Barnaby Bigsby, a snoopy neighbor who was jealous of
Dranden's successful clock-making business? Barnaby had a habit of passing
Dranden's store front during the morning hours just to gaze with malicious eyes
upon the throngs of customers waiting to be served. He could have, out of spite,
hired a warlock to cast a curse.
Or was it Miss Whyrton from up the street who always won the most
beautiful flower bed competition year after year? She was always peering at other
gardens and lawns, no doubt devilishly plotting on how to best them in the
competition.
Whoever, or whatever, was behind the dreadful state of his lawn, Dranden
had to do something fast or else be overrun with weeds. They would soon be up
to his neck, or even worse, they could overtake the house!
Having so many uncomfortable thoughts about yard work had put him in
such a miserable mood that he really needed to clear his head, and the local pub's
bitter stout they kept on tap always helped; medicine for the wet sponge between
the ears.
Brushing his brown hair to look presentable, Dranden didn't have to do
much to be attractive, besides maybe trim his eyebrows every now and then. His
natural boyish face, along with his gently rounded nose, made him appear
younger than he really was, which wasn't all that old, but old enough to have to
start seriously considering having children. “You don't want your children to
mistaken you for their grandfather, do you?” Gossiping neighbors often said to
him in passing. “Better start making them now, while you still have the energy.”
Children was something Dranden and his wife were still negotiating; a
matter he hoped would be decided later rather than sooner.
Throwing on a light brown jacket and a dark flat cap, Dranden skipped out
his door with child-like enthusiasm. He strolled upon the cobbled streets and
6

THE CURSE
hummed an old tune to help forget his troubles, and to simply enjoy his town's
scenic quaintness.
Each house within the mid-sized town of Lotshill resembled the owner's
peculiar quirkiness. Some homes were made with thick logs, while others with
thousands of tiny sticks. Some had many stones stacked without mortar for their
walls and a large heap of grass for a roof, as a way to get back to nature. Some
houses had many large expensive support pillars in their frame to impress
strangers with their wealth, whereas others had too few in order to display
thriftiness as a virtue.
Such a variety of homes was strange to Dranden because he grew up far
away in the eastern part of the kingdom, a place considered farm country by
many since all the homes were shaped like barns. He arrived in Lotshill as a
wide-eyed, naive teenager with nothing in his possession except two worn out
boots and a pair of oversized slacks pulled up to his belly button.
He found an apprenticeship with an old and grouchy man named Hart
Clockston, a gadgetzer who lived alone and worked on strange projects only a
few could understand or use correctly – a dilemma most gadgetzers in this
kingdom struggled against. Dranden had a knack for whittling and was able to
carve anything he put his mind to, which impressed the aging and eccentric man.
Dranden embellished the projects with flair and pizzazz, carving all manner of
birds, reptiles and beasts with life-like realism. This easily doubled sales and
earned him a steady paying job.
This lasted for at least a decade until a few years ago when Dranden found
Clockston dead; keeled over his desk while laboring on the latest project
studiously named 'time-telling spinning gears contraption', of which Dranden
later renamed to 'Clocks' to honor the old curmudgeon. The gadgetzer didn't have
any relatives, at least no one willing to admit to it, so Dranden inherited the
business and the home.
He tried keeping up with the yard work, but the business took off
unexpectedly from the new clock invention and Dranden was swamped with a
rush of orders. Any time he spent on the yard felt exhaustive and wasteful; time
he could better use to expand the business. He had thought about hiring a
landscaper to help out, but that would violate the rule of 'no professional help',
and it would also cost money, which could be better spent on the business.
Dranden had to figure this out himself, and typically the pub was the place where
all his best ideas happened, and it was slowly coming into view up ahead.
The building was made of thick slabs of cherry wood, shaped in the
cylindrical form of a large mug of beer and with a few holes on the side for
windows. It was a cozy place with a warm fire and a sweet plump waitress that
7

W E EDS, MEA DS, & S T EEDS
liked telling dirty jokes, and who didn't mind Dranden's drunken sauciness.
Sometimes the more or less rowdy patrons passed through, but Dranden never
got involved with arguments and never talked politics, because that would most
definitely ensure a bump on the nose.
Getting closer to the pub, Dranden smelled the sweet aroma of slowly
roasted meats that drifted from the open windows, along with boisterous talk
from a medium-sized crowd. Suddenly, the doors swung open and an old man in
a grey robe with a pointy hat stumbled out. The wizard Pournel Brewsworth was
being forced to leave by the burly doorman.
Dranden guessed it was probably because the wizard had just cast a spell on
someone during a disagreement and turned them into a stalk of barley. It was
something Pournel was infamous for in these parts, especially since the last
incident involving the mayor's nephew – although to be honest, the little brat had
it coming.
The wizard's hands were a bit larger than normal, having some discernible
wear to them in the form of creases and roughness, but still strong and filled with
a kind of energy one did not want to cross. Wrinkles bordered his eyes and lined
his cheeks, but were mostly covered by his large curly white beard that hung
down to his chest, and bushy eyebrows that curved towards his temples. His robe
and hat were an unassuming grey color, designed not to stand out. But since
hardly anyone wore robes anymore, especially not grey-colored ones, he stood
out everywhere he went like a dusty ostrich lying in a field of lavender.
Nearly falling over from drunkenness, Pournel brushed aside the doorman's
firm hand and spoke with a sloshed voice. “Unhand me you brute, I was not the
one who started it.”
“Don't matter. You broke a rule.” The doorman said through his two missing
front teeth. He pointed his beefy finger at a plank of wood posted near the doors
with five rules etched into it's surface, which read; 1) No thieving. 2) No bad talk
about pub. 3) Pants go on legs not head. 4) Use fists, not weapons. 5) No
transform spells EVER.
“You broke rule five.” The uncouth doorman stated.
“You wrote that fifth one in there since the last time I was here.” Pournel
said, examining the board with wobbly eyes.
“Yeah that's right, you can't do that no more.”
Adjusting his robe and pointy hat, the wizard spoke softly. “I apologize for
breaking these exemplary rules to this fine establishment.” Pournel's sarcastic
tone was lost on the doorman, who smiled and nodded in appreciation. “The man
I transformed will be back to normal in a little while, and I would normally stay
to see to his wellbeing, but I have a quest somewhere in this great big world that I
8

THE CURSE
must be off to.” Waving goodbye, Pournel teetered drunkenly down the road.
A wizard! That's exactly what Dranden needed to lift the curse off his lawn.
Oh happy day! He knew going to the pub would solve his problems just like it
normally did.
Stepping alongside the meandering drunk wizard, Dranden needed to strike
up a conversation and immediately thought about the game Furpletromp, which
was a sport the common folk in this kingdom loved, and something Dranden
overheard that Pournel also loved.
“How about those Tumbletoads against the Muckworms this next week,
should be a fierce match?” Dranden said as casually as he could. These were two
opposing teams that had a long historical rivalry, and Dranden wanted to see
which team Pournel favored.
“Should be a fierce match indeed!” Pournel answered. “But in the end, the
Muckworms will be victorious.”
“I agree that the Muckworms have a huge shot at winning,” Dranden said
with wavering agreement, “but their defense could use a little work.”
“What?” Pournel grunted and rolled his eyes. “Don't be silly.” The wizard
then rambled on and on, with a few hiccups in between, about every single
Muckworm player's physical attributes, and how each one easily dominated their
Tumbletoad counterpart.
Agreeing with Brewsworth at every chance he got, Dranden made it seem
like his mind had been changed and that the wizard made an excellent case.
“You make a very convincing argument and have settled my mind.”
Dranden said while puffing out his chest and lifting his chin with confidence. “I'll
definitely put my money on the Muckworms.”
“It would be a wise investment.” Pournel pulled out a pipe from his satchel
and puffed on it, allowing a period of silence to settle between the two as they
walked the streets. The smoke rolled off the wizard's tongue and drifted high into
the air.
Sensing that he had put the wizard in enough of a good mood, Dranden
rubbed his hands together and cracked his knuckles, all while letting out a
hushed, unpleasant moan.
Hmmhmmhmm...
Noticing his walking companion in pain, Pournel turned to Dranden. “Are
you alright? You seem agitated.”
“Yes, yes I'm fine, thank you...well, no, not exactly. You see, it's all this
nonsense with my lawn. No matter how much time and love I put into it, those
despicable weeds keep coming up to ruin it.”
“I see.”
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W E EDS, MEA DS, & S T EEDS
“I thought at first it was just bad luck, but now I believe it's magic.”
“Magic?”
“Yes, dark magic in fact. I believe someone has put a curse upon my lawn.”
“Why would someone do that?”
“To hurt me, to make me suffer, to be evil; what does it matter? Will you
please come by and take a look? My house is only around that corner there.”
Taking a moment to think it over, Pournel felt a little curious as to what a
magical curse on a lawn looked like, having never heard of such a thing. He
shrugged his shoulders with fascination and allowed Dranden to lead the way.
In a short while they arrived to his house and the wizard inspected the lawn
carefully, then scrunched his eyes and curled his lip as puzzlement fell upon his
face.
“It appears to me,” he finally spoke, “that this lawn needs the simple remedy
of more maintenance.”
“I'm telling you, I've done all I could.” Dranden insisted while pointing
sternly at his yard. “There's dark magic at work here. Those weeds are not
natural.”
“Alright, I'll tell you what. I'll do something about these weeds of yours, but
you have to offer something in return. I cannot work for free. Roaming these fair
lands, I have every intent to help those in need, but this is merely a cosmetic
problem.”
“Cosmetic problem!” Dranden snorted with irritation. “These weeds will be
the death of me!” He quickly collected himself and calmed down. “Sorry, I didn't
mean to yell at you. Yes, of course I can pay you. I'm a clock maker who's very
successful.”
“Clock? What's that?”
“Right! They're these new gadgets that you set up in your house as their own
cabinet, or you can nail them up on your wall as big as a plate, or they can be
small enough that you can either strap one around your wrist or carry one in your
pocket attached with a chain.”
“Like jewelry?”
“They can be very fancy with jewels, or be simplistic. Here, let me show
you.” Pulling out his pocket watch, Dranden held it in front of the fascinated
wizard. “These smaller clocks have been nicknamed watches by my customers
because you find yourself constantly watching them.”
“What are those numbers on it?”
“That's the whole point of them,” Dranden gave a bright smile, “you use the
numbers to tell the time of day.”
“Tell the time of day? What rubbish!” Pournel chuckled. “Seems like a
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THE CURSE
perfectly useless gadget to me. If I want to know what time it is I simply do what
everyone else does and look up at the sky. If it's light out, then it's time for work,
if it's night out, it's time for sleep. I don't need a gadget to do that.”
“Well, appointments for one thing.” Dranden retorted. “You can keep the
same schedule as someone else, and arrive at the same time together.”
“If I schedule to meet someone, I specify whether it's in the morning,
afternoon, or evening. There's no need for more than that.”
“This lets you schedule up to the very minute, even the very second for
people whose time is valuable.”
“Well that seems far too complicated and strict. I like a little leniency with
my arrivals and exits.”
“It's becoming extremely popular and you don't want to be left behind the
times do you?” Dranden smirked. “That's one of my selling puns, behind the
times.”
“Yes, very clever.” Brewsworth puffed on his pipe some more.
“How about I give you a signature collection series pocket watch, that has a
carved jade top, copper numbers and moonlit hands?”
“Sounds nice.”
“It's very beautiful. Let me fetch it.” Dranden leapt into his house and bolted
out again with the watch.
Brewsworth examined it's exceptional craftsmanship, and raised his bushy
eyebrows in awe. “It's almost fit for a king.”
“Thank you very much.” Dranden blushed. “A dragon is carved on the jade
top to signify strength and the moonlit hands glow in twilight, so you can always
know the time in the darkest of places.”
Securing the watch in his satchel, Pournel took out his wand from
underneath his robe. It was a branch cut from the oldest tree in all the lands and
bathed in the boiling tar pools of the wicked Swampland pits. The dark wood was
twisted and knotted, and contained a hidden power one could easily sense even
without training. The wizard waved the wand towards the weeds and spoke a few
incantations that commanded the very elements to stand in attention.
“Darook, Bellum, Hartuk.” Pournel uttered.
Watching the spectacle with glee, Dranden grinned widely just as a harsh
wind poured upon the two. The first row of weeds darkened as a shadow crept
over them, and slowly they withered and dried, vanishing into the ground. Others
screeched with the howls of the damned, moaning in torment as the darkness
continued to spread until all of them were consumed and blackened.
“What is that noise? What did you do?” Dranden's eyes widened with
fearful curiosity.
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W E EDS, MEA DS, & S T EEDS
“I put a curse on the weeds.” Pournel smiled and stroked his beard.
“Put a curse on them? That's what I wanted you to remove, not cast another
one.”
“It's just a simple enchantment really. I put a few dark spirits into them.”
“A few d-dark spirits?” Dranden stammered. His cheeks went pale as he
became more anxious.
“Nothing to worry about.” Pournel assured him. “Harmless ethereal spirits
that sap the life energy out of anything they possess. By putting them in the
weeds, they will be consumed indefinitely.”
“I see.” Dranden said, still not convinced. “Is there any side effects to this,
um, little spell of yours?”
“Nope.” Pournel shook his head. “Can't you see? The weeds are already
vanishing. You won't need to worry about your lawn ever again. Just water and
trim and everything will be fine.”
With those last words still lingering in the warm summer air, Pournel
staggered off on a grand adventure to visit every tavern in all the lands.
12

Chapter 2
A Long Time Later
Decades soon passed after the fateful encounter between Dranden
Pipperwhip and Pournel Brewsworth, and the wizard's parting words
were proved justified, but not in the best way possible. Dranden no
longer had to worry about his lawn, but the darkened and twisted weeds crept
slowly backwards into the rest of the woods, which created a serious problem.
Pipperwhip's house was located in a neighborhood just on the edge of town, and
was directly connected to the southern half of the great Hornbul forest. This was
a beautiful, wild, and pristine place that some regarded as being magical and
even the heart of the kingdom.
Although Hornbul was much smaller than other forests, it did serve a
historically important part in the formation of the kingdom and was protected by
the usual preservation laws humans love to create – a way to feel like they have
control over nature. But those “harmless” ethereal spirits slowly tormented the
trees with their life-syphoning darkness and strangled the once beautiful foliage
with shadows of fear and death. The decline was incremental, with a few
generations passing before the darkness became unavoidably noticeable.
After a time, it became incredibly difficult, if not impossible, for wedding
ceremonies and birthdays to be held within the forest's boundaries anymore.
Newly weds who planned to have their first married kiss under a hamlet of
flowering trees, instead had to make haste with a peck on the cheek under
scraggly barren branches that reached towards them like long skeleton fingers.
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W E EDS, MEA DS, & S T EEDS
Tears of joy were replaced with sobs of children fretting about the stray pet that
could not be found among the entanglement of exposed rotten roots.
Funeral processions, however, did see an increase for a short while due to
the forest's matching qualities of death, but even they ended because the food at
the wake would be sapped of all taste by the stale dingy air, and replaced with the
foul bitterness of relentless decay.
After a century of slow demise, travelers altogether avoided the pathways
into and around Hornbul forest, even nicknaming it Deathfall because all the
animals had disappeared. Not one tittle of life could be found except for the
legions of bugs that ate away the rotten wood. During the height of summer they
made an annoying buzzing sound that could be heard throughout Lotshill.
The horrible forest soon became a byword and excuse for the locals to use
such as, “Sorry we're out of your favorite food, it's like a Deathfall supply here.”
Or, “Will you keep it down, you're making a Deathfall racket.” And even for
absent mother's or fathers, “Your parents didn't abandon you, they just got lost
within Deathfall.”
Few locals remembered what happened between Pournel Brewsworth and
Dranden Pipperwhip, that some sort of deal was made between the two, and since
memory isn't perfect, history became legend, fact became myth, and the story
became increasingly sinister. Currently told, it was a pact for power and
dominance, and the sacrifice of innocents was the price. Pournel was a
malevolent necromancer wishing for chaos, and Dranden was a maniacal rich
baron desiring to rule. Both were defeated in the story, however, with the heroes
banding together and either lobbing off the evil-doers' heads or entrapping them
within a crystal vault and launching them into the sun. But no matter what ending
the story was given, the forest remained dark and inhospitable; a serving
reminder never to make a deal with a necromancer, and for children to always
mind their parents, of course.
This continued for five generations until finally coming to Dranden
Pipperwhip the fifth, the great great grandchild of Dranden Pipperwhip, whom he
resembled quite well, except slightly taller and with a softer chin.
Standing on his porch, Dranden gazed with discontent upon the same yard
that was behind the same house of his ancestor; property he had purchased back
into the Pipperwhip family only a few years ago. The stubbornness of the grass
confounded him, but this wasn't due to weeds, those were strangely nonexistent,
the problem was that nothing else grew there – a grievous dilemma in itself.
The yard remained strictly green grass as if it consciously rejected any other
seed, including flowers and a popular type of colorful vine. Normally this
wouldn't be an issue, but currently there was no way he could win his
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neighborhood's annual 'best yard' competition. One was practically required to
have a variety of plants all arranged beautifully together, and maybe even a little
chaotically for a natural jungle-esque effect. Having perfectly trimmed grass at
exactly the height of half-a-finger was considered boring and a thing of the past;
an ancient design concept that not even the oldest of the old recommended. Fresh
ideas, exotic plants, and brash design were what the judges favored.
Scratching his clean shaven chin out of frustration, Dranden remembered
what his grandfather used to say whenever he was sad in spirit; “My grandfather
always said whenever you find yourself troubled and without a solution, go to the
pub and have a drink.”
With those words echoing in his thoughts, Dranden threw on a light blue
coat along with a matching hat, and headed to the pub.
While passing the many store fronts, he glanced into the windows to admire
his reflection of brown eyes, trimmed brown hair, soft round nose, and 'boyish'
youthful cheeks and chin. He wasn't vain, but his mother taught him to “take
pride in one's appearance”, a lesson he took to heart by spending a little extra
time in the bath each day and using glamour products other men shied away
from. This made him somewhat popular with the ladies, not to an absurd degree,
but it did help him find a nice unassuming wife named Bella, who was out of
town at the moment, staying with some relatives. But that didn't matter since she
didn't care at all about the yard. Only the pub could help him now.
He soon passed by the local flower shop, which was made of thick slabs of
cherry wood, shaped to resemble a large cylindrical flower pot, and with holes
for windows on it's side. The shop featured many exotic plants from all over the
world, which Dranden knew quite well because he had handed over plenty of
money. All for nothing, unfortunately, since everything kept dying in his
unusually stubborn plot of grass.
Dranden went to tip his hat towards the florist and owner Miss Pulweather, a
nice older woman who was widowed, but noticed that she was in the middle of
dealing with a confused old man.
“I'm sorry but there is no pub here,” she said, nudging the old man's
shoulder and leading him out of her shop, “it's down the street and across the foot
bridge.”
“I was almost certain there was a pub here and it had a sign with rules
posted near the door.” The man said through his white beard that covered most of
his face and hung down to his chest. “And the building is shaped like a mug of
beer, like this one.”
“Nope, you must be thinking of some other town, this has been a building in
my family for a few generations now and it's never been a pub, not that I know.
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W E EDS, MEA DS, & S T EEDS
And it's shaped like a flower pot, although one could think it's like a mug of
beer.”
“I see,” said the old man, “sorry for the intrusion.”
“Don't worry about it.” She smiled with wrinkled, rosy cheeks. “I'm closed
for the day, gotta get my beauty rest, but you're more than welcome to come by
tomorrow. I offer a wide variety of flowers for any occasion. Even a few magical
ones.”
“Magical ones, is that so?” The old man's eyes lit up for a moment. “Maybe
I will come by to see for myself.”
“Hello Miss Pulweather.” Dranden said, stopping for a moment to talk.
“How's business lately?”
“Hi!” She called out. “Business has been hectic, so many orders it's hard to
keep up for a woman my age. I'm closing shop today just to catch up on rest.
How have you been? It's been more than a while since I last saw you.”
“Well, that's because I've given up on my yard. Nothing ever grows there
except grass.”
“Yes, that's right.” She pointed at Dranden but talked to the old man. “This
one here, bought so many flowers and plants from me for some time, almost
bought my whole shop, but had the worst luck. It's as if his yard rejects
everything, like it's cursed.”
“Like a curse on a yard you say?” The old man squinted his eyes in thought.
“For some reason that sounds familiar.”
Miss Pulweather waved goodbye, went back into her shop, and closed the
door firmly shut. Dranden also waved goodbye and then walked right next to the
old man where he got a good look at his bulbous nose, long white beard, and
wrinkled forehead.
The stunned Pipperwhip froze in place with an open jaw.
“You!” Dranden blurted out.
“Me?”
“You – you're a wizard, right?”
“Well, as a matter of fact I am.” The old man pulled out a pointy hat from
inside his grey robe and placed it on his head. “It's good to know I don't always
need my hat for others to recognize that I'm a wizard, because this thing gets
warm in the summer. Good day to you.”
“Wait a minute.” Dranden stepped in front of him. “Is your name Pournel
Brewsworth?”
“It is. I see my reputation precedes me.”
“It certainly does.” Dranden said sharply. “Especially with what you did the
last time you were here.”
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“Drinking?” Pournel asked with a furrowed brow.
“Drinking?” Dranden echoed with confusion.
“Sure, it has to be about drinking. That's really the only thing I do when I go
anywhere and the only reason I get out of my house, always in search of some
exotic local brew.”
“Oh no, you've done a lot more than drinking. Don't tell me you don't
remember.”
“I remember being here some time ago and there was a pub that served a
nice bitter stout. It seems to have relocated, if you can kindly point the way.”
“There hasn't been a pub here for at least a century.”
“Is that so? Well it has been a while then.”
“Five generations to be exact.” Dranden said with some force in his voice.
“I'm sensing that you know me from somewhere.” Pournel's woozy eyes
steadied as he focused on Dranden.
“I am Dranden Pipperwhip the fifth.” Dranden said while straightening his
back. “You knew my great, great grandfather with the same name.”
“I don't recall meeting anyone with that name.”
“I can prove it. Pipperwhip the first had an artist draw a picture of you, and
it resembles your likeness right down to the mole on the side of your cheek.”
Dranden pointed at the mole located on Pournel. “This is how I recognized you.
My family passed down my ancestor's journal, which detailed your little
arrangement with his yard. I didn't believe the story at first, that is, not until I
moved back into the house and found the yard to be ridiculously stubborn.”
“Little arrangement?” Pournel's eyes became wobbly again.
“I'll make a deal with you.” Dranden extended his hand. “You stay here and
let me run home and get the journal, and in exchange I'll show you where the pub
is, but then we have to discuss how we can help each other, alright?”
“Sounds like a fair trade.” Pournel shook Dranden's hand.
Taking off, Dranden returned shortly later to find Pournel wandering around,
examining the roads and shops. With the journal in hand, Dranden led Pournel to
the pub just across the walking bridge and showed him inside.
A small crew of farmers were gathered at the counter, taking a short break
before going out to their fields again. They gleefully reminisced about bountiful
harvests long ago, and had their dirty over-boots stacked in a pile near the door.
Pournel and Dranden sat at a booth near the back, so they could keep out of
earshot, and ordered some drinks from Sophia, the bubbly young bar maid.
“I'll be back soon.” She smiled with round blushed cheeks. “You two just
relax until then.” Her long braided hair swayed as she walked away.
Watching her disappear into the back room, Dranden turned to Pournel to
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W E EDS, MEA DS, & S T EEDS
discuss business. “Here's the drawing of you.” He flipped open the journal and
plopped it down in front of the wizard.
“Yes, this drawing does resemble me remarkably well, like you said.”
“It was meant to be a sketch that would have been used to create a larger
painting, as a tribute in your honor, but that never happened.”
“I assume it was because of our arrangement, or something related.”
“Not exactly.” Dranden pulled the journal back towards himself and flipped
through some pages near the middle. “Pipperwhip the first was a clock maker, the
first in this kingdom or any kingdom, and was very good at it. So good that he
was commissioned by the King himself.”
“That's nice. What an honor.”
“It was – at first. He got his own place within the palace walls, they even
named the first clock tower after him; Pipperwhip Tower. It's chimes were heard
throughout all the kingdom.”
“Where am I in this story?”
“That's the thing, you're hardly mentioned. My ancestor only wrote one
entry about you, at the same time he had the drawing made. It says he gave you a
beautiful jade watch in exchange for cursing my yard, which was his yard at the
time. But since he became wildly successful with making clocks soon after, he
sold the house and pretty much forgot all about you. The first half of the journal
is about the great times he had at the palace; the parties, the hordes of female
fans, and a long list of angry, divorced wives.”
“I see. Unfortunately I don't recall any of this, and a curse on a yard is
highly unusual. Though I suppose there are curses for all sorts of things
nowadays.” Pournel reached into his satchel and pulled out the jade dragon
watch. “Your story would explain where this comes from. Very pretty, but I never
found use for such a contraption.”
“Put that away right now!” Dranden commanded. He leapt from his seat to
cover the watch with both hands and nervously glanced around the bar to make
sure no one else saw. “Sorry, it's just that all clocks, including watches, are
illegal.”
“Why in the world is that?” Pournel complied and put the watch back in his
satchel.
“That's what the second half of the journal is about.” Dranden said with
hushed tones. “Watches, clock towers, and anything that told time took the
kingdom by storm, everyone used them for everything. From when farmers
should pull the harvest up, to when friends should meet for a drink. All life was
connected to those ticking machines. But then the evil necromancer Neezlemek
put a curse on them, making each clock tell a different time. Chaos reigned in the
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streets, businesses shuttered their doors during the day, important meetings had to
be cancelled because no one showed up, and farmers uprooted their harvest too
soon or too late. They were terrible times indeed, but the King acted quickly and
declared that all such devices were henceforth banned; unless with proper
licenses for scientific, magical, or governmental reasons.”
“That sounds terrible.”
“Pipperwhip the first was ruined!” Dranden shouted, but then lowered his
voice. “They blamed him for the countless suffering, and even accused him of an
alliance with the necromancer. Our family name was so tainted that they changed
it from Pipperwhip to Haddital and went into seclusion. But time passed, and
memories faded. My father took up the family name again, and I recently bought
the old house to restore it.”
“Well, I do like happy endings. I'm glad it worked out in the end.”
“Not exactly, you see this leads us back to the little arrangement you had
with Pipperwhip the first's yard, which is now my yard. Whatever you did, that
itself became a story of legend.”
“How so? Me curing a yard of a curse seems like a small matter, easily
forgotten.”
Sophia burst through the double doors from the back, holding their order of
beer on a wooden platter. She sauntered over to the table and set their drinks
down, along with a basket of bread and dip. “Here you are my loves.”
“You're such a sweetheart Sophia.” Dranden handed over some money with
a generous tip.
“No, you are.” She brushed her hand across Dranden's shoulder and smiled.
Taking the money, she walked into the backroom again and shook her hips
as she went. Dranden turned back to Pournel to continue.
“Before my ancestor was hired by the King, he went around town telling
everyone what you had done; that you had cursed his yard to be perfect. At the
time he used the word curse in a rather playful sense, but as time went on, and as
the forest became darker, it was the only word anyone remembered him saying.
The story is so ridiculous now I think there's a dragon in it somewhere.”
“A dragon, no, no, I'm sure that didn't happen. I would remember a dragon.”
“I wouldn't go around town telling people your name, because there's a
bounty on your head.”
“Oh dear.”
“No, nothing serious, they just want to make you accountable for what you
did to the forest. Which usually means setting things right, but that was so long
ago no one is alive that remembers the forest in it's former glory, except you that
is. Where were you for all this time anyway?”
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W E EDS, MEA DS, & S T EEDS
“I was away in far away lands across the ocean and to different worlds
throughout this wide universe. I traversed the path between space and time, life
and death, and came up to the edge of oblivion, but turned back again.” Gazing at
Dranden with cold unflinching eyes, the bar almost appeared to dim and fall quiet
for a second, but Pournel cracked a smile. “No, I'm just joking. I actually got lost
on my way to the Ardarak Kingdom and had a mighty hangover. There were,
however, some other things that happened, but I don't want to get into them as it
is a long and boring story.”
Bursting into the bar were three men, two of them town orderlies and the
third was a round short man whose body was shaped like a lumpy potato.
“There he is, right in the corner.” The lumpy man shouted, pointing his
stubby misshapen finger at Pournel.
Turning to face the the men, Dranden recognized the short round one.
“Wheezy Pottenshot! What are you accusing my friend of?”
“Stay out of this Pipperwhip. And you know my name is Meezy not
Wheezy.”
“Stay out of what?” Dranden asked, acting aloof to the situation.
“That's Pournel Brewsworth, the wizard wanted in the town chronicle. See,
look!” Meezy held out a copy of the drawing of Pournel to show the orderlies
and everyone in the bar. They all looked upon it and acknowledged it's uncanny
resemblance.
“The town chronicle?” Dranden smirked. “Who has time to check through
those stacks of dusty papers?”
For those who don't know, the town chronicle consisted of rows and rows of
old books detailing the day to day happenings in this part of the kingdom and it
went back for many generations. Only the most bored and obsessed could
rummage through their dreary passages to find anything important. Meezy
Pottentshot had difficulty getting along with the other kids while growing up
because of his physical limitations and that he always made a wheezing sound
when he got too excited, thus earning him the nickname 'wheezy' by Dranden and
his friends. The relentless mocking forced Meezy to stay indoors for long
portions of the day in seclusion, where he would read everything from platitudes
of the great sophists, to boring lists of genealogies. But Meezy wasn't very bright
and what he read didn't stick in his head for very long. This made choosing a
serious profession for himself difficult and he would often be inspired by
whatever he read at the time. He wanted to be a doctor when he read anatomy
books, an inventor when glancing at gadget schematics, and for the past year it's
been a criminal investigator because he's been indulged in the town chronicle's
rewards section for wrong doers. He told everybody he would investigate these
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people's whereabouts and bring them to justice, which got him a mixture of
applause and laughter. The drawing of Pournel Brewsworth was copied in the
archives at the request of Pipperwhip the first, to record their meeting, but later
was moved to the rewards section because of the possibility of Pournel cursing
the southern half of Hornbul forest.
“I overheard you two talking in front of Miss Pulweather's place.” Meezy
said. “You called him Pournel Brewsworth.”
“Look, I realize that you, Wheezy, want to be a detective, bounty hunter,
investigator, or whatever it is now, but this is clearly a case of mistaken identity.
That drawing looks nothing like this man.”
“No, no, thank you Dranden.” Pournel said as he stood up. “It is part of the
wizard's code to identify oneself truthfully to members of authority. I am this
Pournel Brewsworth that you seek.”
One of the orderlies stepped forward and motioned for Brewsworth to
follow. “Then you don't mind coming with us to the county hall, and face an
accounting?”
“As long as I get to take my beer.” Pournel said. “If not, I do tend to get a bit
grumpy, and I wouldn't want to accidentally shock any of you with a lightning
spell.”
21

Chapter 3
The Accounting
The town's court was packed with farmers, shop keepers, hunters, and
many confused bystanders wondering what the commotion was about;
everyone seemed to be there except for the presiding judge, Pummet
Cotsbot. He was out fishing on the lake when the biggest news this small part of
the kingdom has ever heard, arrived to fill his ears. They sent someone out on a
fast boat just to fetch him, taking along an extra judge's robe and wig so as not to
delay him further.
Dranden Pipperwhip had a front row seat to the proceedings and he
laboriously fanned the sweat off his forehead from the stuffy air. This was not
how he thought his morning would go and he felt upset about it, disappointed
even. After completing the yard work, he had planned to spend the rest of the day
grumbling over neighborhood gossip and preparing some apricots for jamming.
But all of that was now ruined.
Maybe his grandfather's advice that going to the pub always solved
problems, was wrong. No, this wasn't the pub's fault, it was Pournel's fault. If he
hadn't put a curse on the yard all those years ago, then none of them would be in
this mess.
Pournel was currently slumped over in the defendant seat next to the judge's
tall podium, covering his face with his pointy hat to block the light so that he
could take a nap. Snores drifted from his direction and could be distinctly heard
over the crowd's chatter. Dranden couldn't figure out how the wizard could sleep
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W E EDS, MEA DS, & S T EEDS
in such a predicament, it was as if the wizard didn't take any of this seriously.
Wheezy sat in the witness box, bubbling his puffy cheeks as he smiled, most
likely proud that he had accomplished something that brought so many people
together. Dranden shuddered at the thought that the big round oaf was sure to be
the talk of the town for months to come. Perhaps he would even get a new
nickname; Wheezy the Bounty Hunter.
The back door swung open and an orderly in full government garb, which
consisted of a bright purple suit with orange cuffs and ankles, strutted out to
address the crowd. “Here all, here all. Rise for the admirable, duly appointed
overseer and judge, a compelling and prime example of the model citizen, the
honorable and exemplary, Pummet Cotsbot.”
The crowd lifted their fists straight into the air, a sign of loyalty to the state
in this part of the world, and chanted the township's motto for good luck. “May
the best choice prevail and all evil be banished for good.” The orderly motioned
towards a young boy in bright blue overalls that carried a long horn, who then
came forward and started playing a stepping tune.
Pournel jolted awake from the noise and looked at the spectacle with slight
irritation.
The back door opened again and this time judge Cotsbot came forth. He was
a short round man with stubby arms and legs, and a thick neck that gave him a
noticeable double chin. His dark blue robe dragged along the floor behind him,
and his purple wig, which made his head three times as big, rose up and around
in an apple-like shape. The crowd of people then touched their left knee, a sign of
respect, just as Cotsbot took his seat upon the high chair behind the tall podium.
“Why doesn't the wizard do the motions?” Asked a man who sat next to
Dranden. “Where's his manners?”
“Because he's guilty, that's why.” A woman answered.
“No.” Dranden rebuked to the two. “He's not from around here.”
“So he doesn't have manners?” The man grunted with disapproval and
crossed his arms.
“Sorry I'm late.” Cotsbot said as he motioned for everyone to sit down. “I
was on holiday at the lake, but this is an important matter, perhaps even the most
important matter this court has decided ever since the case of the twelve missing
oxen. And we all now how much of a disappointment it was that they were all
found alive and well, grazing in an open field. Anyway, before us today is the
infamous Pournel Brewsworth.”
The crowd gasped at the proclamation.
“Is he the dark necromancer resurrected to kill us all?” A large woman
shouted from back.
24

THE ACCOUNT ING
“They cut off his head and limbs and burned the remains, there's no coming
back from that no matter how powerful.” Another shouted.
“Silence.” Cotsbot said as he held up his hand. “We all have heard the
stories, in their wild variations, and I want everyone to know how false they are.
This court is not swayed by superstitions and folk lore, but by evidence and facts.
Bring the first piece of evidence forward please.” Cotsbot motioned to Meezy,
who carried a book up to the judge's podium and placed it on top. Skimming his
finger across the page, Cotsbot glanced up at the crowd. “Meezy Pottenshot
discovered a passage in the Rewards Section of the Town's Chronicle. All we
know is what's recorded therein, which is that the wizard Brewsworth cursed
Dranden Pipperwhip's yard many generations ago. Since that time, the southern
half of Hornbul forest, now named Deathfall, has declined to inhospitable levels
and has become haunted with a dark presence so much so that none dare enter the
woods any longer. This decline happened over the course of a few generations,
making it difficult to draw a link between Brewsworth's action and the forest
itself. But since the forest is somewhat connected to Pipperwhip's backyard, we
can only presume Brewsworth's original curse may have something to do with
the decline. The records on this event are sparse because it happened so long ago,
which puts us in the disadvantaged situation of relying on the accused own
testimony.”
“I will do my best to answer your questions.” Pournel said, perking up now
that he had a chance to speak. “I have no ill intent towards anyone here, but my
memory of this place is limited.”
“Please tell us what you remember.”
“I remember coming into town a very long time ago, and stopping at the pub
for a nice bitter stout.”
“Do you remember having a troll army that ravaged the farm lands?” Yelled
a skinny man that wore a tall straw hat.
“I told you, the current mythology is wildly inaccurate.” Cotsbot shouted.
“So there wasn't a gorgon's labyrinth at the foot of an ice citadel?” A man
with a large bushy beard shouted.
“Gorgon's labyrinth?” Asked Dranden. “I hadn't heard of that.”
“Yeah, it appeared right after the Orc army invaded while riding on top
molten lava unicorns.” A little girl added.
“No, they had man-eating wolves the size of rhinos. Molten lava unicorns
was just made up for children.” Another retorted.
The crowd then erupted in chatter about the varying accounts that each
person swore was the truth.
“Order, order!” Cotsbot slammed the gavel down repeatedly until everyone
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W E EDS, MEA DS, & S T EEDS
fell silent. “Stop this Deathfall racket! I'll say it again for clarity, all I am
interested in is evidence and facts. I understand that life in this part of the
kingdom is rather uneventful, and we are susceptible to creating fantastical
narratives to make us feel like we matter in this world, but I cannot fulfill my
duty as accountability judge if I listen to such nonsensical rabble. Now
Brewsworth, please continue.”
“Yes, I remember a little more now.” Pournel said. “There was a rude man at
the counter in the pub. I forget what was said, but I had defended myself by
transforming him into a stalk of barley.” Pournel chuckled for a moment but
stopped after seeing the shocked expressions in the crowd.
“He admits to using transform spells, which is how the story starts; he
transforms orphan children into vile hideous monsters to do his bidding. All the
rest must be true!”
The crowd broke out into a shouting match with some questioning the start
of the story, others demanding Pournel be sentenced immediately, and a few
wondering what was said because they had trouble hearing. Cotsbot slammed his
gavel down multiple times before it snapped in half, but the chattering mass
refused to be quiet. Standing up as a last resort, he ripped off his large purple wig
and threw it to the floor.
The crowd fell silent again, including the howling puppy a boy had brought
along and held in his arms.
“I'll give this warning only once.” Cotsbot said with a snarl. “The next
outburst from anyone will be sent to a week in jail, and don't think I won't send
you all!”
The nearby orderly picked up the wig and handed it to Cotsbot who then
placed it again on his head. Taking a moment to adjust the large purple bundle of
fake hair, Cotsbot turned to Pournel.
“Do you remember anything about the curse?”
Pournel scrunched his brow and shook his head. “No, I do not. All I know is
what Dranden Pipperwhip the fifth has told me.”
Cotsbot and the entire room turned to Dranden, who suddenly felt tiny from
all the eyes upon him.
“Please step forward and state you name.” Judge Cotsbot demanded.
Picking himself off the bench and stepping in front of the podium, Dranden's
throat went dry, but he spoke anyway. “I am the great, great grandson of Dranden
Pipperwhip, the renowned clock maker who fell into poverty after the
necromancer Neezlemek came briefly into power.”
“The same Neezlemek who Dranden consorted with to bring down the
kingdom?” A man in the audience suddenly shouted.
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THE ACCOUNT ING
“Orderlies! Apprehend that man at once!” Cotsbot commanded, pointing his
finger at the man who was already pushing through the crowd and bolting out the
door. “Dranden, please continue.”
“The account of Pipperwhip the first and Pournel is contained in this
journal,” Dranden said, holding up the journal for all to see, “passed down in my
family, but consists of only three or so lines and a drawing.”
“Please read them.”
“Quote; 'I met the wizard Pournel Brewsworth while on my way to the pub.
After showing him my yard, he put a curse on the weeds so it would become
perfect, in exchange for a jade dragon watch. I've chosen to commission a full
portrait to be painted in his honor.' Then the entry goes on complaining for many
pages how artists charge exorbitant rates and that he was only able to afford a
rough sketch from a street vendor.”
“That's pretty much the account I was told as well.” Pournel said, shaking
the very tip of his pointy hat as he nodded.
“Oh, there's one more thing a little later. It reads, 'He smelt like a mix of
warm brandy and sweet daffodils'.”
Cotsbot leaned over slightly and attempted to smell Pournel, but then pulled
away. “Pournel, does this describe you?”
“I suppose it does.” The wizard answered. “The drawing also shows a
remarkable resemblance.”
“It's the same drawing I found deep within the Chronicles.” Meeky said with
a burst of enthusiasm from the witness bench, reminding the court of his
undoubtedly paramount contribution. His cheeks were red and his short stubby
fingers flapped as he tried to fan himself. He also had trouble breathing the stuffy
air and made a slight wheezing sound.
“Thank you Mr. Pottenshot for the tireless work that you do, whatever that
may be at this time.” Judge Cotsbot said to a smiling Meezy. “Now that we have
established that Brewsworth did in fact put a curse on Pipperwhip's weeds, we
must now connect this curse to the decline of the forest. This again leaves us at
the mercy of the accused, because no matter how much this court has searched,
there's not a curse expert within a week's ride from here, and no one that this
court can afford. Pournel, can you tell us how do curses work? Is there a
possibility that your curse could have spread from the weeds to the forest?”
“Curses do many things, so I suppose it's possible.” Pournel said. The crowd
began to murmur their judgements, but the wizard continued. “It depends entirely
on what curse I used, and that, I do not remember.”
“Is there an inspection you can perform that will determine the curse used?”
“That's it!” Pournel brightened as if remembering an ancient lesson. “A
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W E EDS, MEA DS, & S T EEDS
sample from the infected tree is needed. From it I can determine the curse used
and then create the appropriate removal spell.”
“Very well then, we shall fetch a sample from the nearest part of the forest.”
“No, no.” Pournel shook his head. “You can't just get a sample from any tree
that's infected, you have to retrieve it from the source.”
“What would the source look like?”
“I couldn't say because it could take on many forms. But once you see it,
you'll know.”
“Hopefully this source wouldn't be too far in the woods.”
“It should be located directly in the center of whatever is plaguing the forest.
Right in the middle of disease, decay, and death.”
“That's unfortunate, because I don't think anyone is willing to venture more
than a hundred paces into that haunted place, not for the price this court is willing
to pay. Unless you say it's simple paranoia, and there's nothing to worry about.”
“Oh no, if the stories are right about Deathfall, then whatever is there, it's
terrible and deadly, and would most likely fight back if threatened.”
Cotsbot sighed heavily, along with the rest of the people, and scratched the
end of his nose like a nervous tick that surfaced whenever faced with an
uncomfortable truth. “This court finds itself once again at the mercy of the
accused. Pournel, are you willing to venture into Deathfall to search for the
source and retrieve a sample?”
“I thought you'd never ask.” Pournel said with a slight tone of irritation.
“Who wouldn't want to venture into a haunted forest? But I suppose if I have to.”
Hushed tones of relief murmured through the crowd, and even Dranden felt
a wash of happiness pour over him. Perhaps this whole affair will finally be
solved after all this time, and his yard can be normal. He didn't want to get too far
ahead of himself, but his head nevertheless filled with images of various jars to
use when canning homemade apricot jam later in the evening.
“Now that that is settled, I will also send Pipperwhip the fifth along with
you.” Cotsbot said, shattering Dranden's imagined serenity. “He should help you
along with this matter since his family started the whole thing. It's fitting that he
be the one to help end it. There's something very poetic about it, if I may say so.”
“I don't think that's fair.” Dranden protested. “That was five generations ago
and I had nothing to do with any of it. Should everyone be judged based on what
their family did five generations ago? What type of world would that look like?
Madness, that's what.”
This made Cotsbot frown and nod in agreement. “Alright, I guess you
can...”
“He tried to lie about Pournel's identity.” Meezy shouted, interrupting
28

THE ACCOUNT ING
Cotsbot. Seeing his opportunity to get back at Dranden after all these years,
Meezy stood up from the witness bench in a frenzy and pointed his fat stubby
finger at Dranden to continue his incrimination. “When I arrived at the pub with
the orderlies, Dranden said this man was not Pournel Brewsworth, openly lying
when he knew all along.”
“Is this true?” Cotsbot asked.
Wheezy, you insufferable round rat! Even when growing up, Wheezy always
did this to Dranden and his friends, telling on them whenever they did a harmless
prank or poked fun at his physical limitations; and he always asked the teacher to
deal the most severe punishment. The awful smirk Wheezy used to do when he
was a young boy, like a horseshoe squeezed together and pressed into a melon,
was now present on his wide cheeky face.
Dranden clenched his teeth in irritation but tried not to show it. Instead he
shrugged his shoulders and remained calm. “Well, I thought I was just defending
someone from a false accusation. I meant no harm or ill-will.”
“A lie is a lie, even with good intentions.” Cotsbot said. “You shall assist
Pournel Brewsworth in the woods and seek a suitable sample to be tested. Let
this journey be amends to your wrong doing.” Cotsbot slammed the broken gavel
one last time and waved for everyone to clear out.
The crowd dissipated quickly enough for it's size, with some expressing
disappointment at the outcome, while others whispered their sympathies for
Dranden and his wife. “At least he doesn't have children, he'd leave them behind
too.” A woman with a crooked nose told her friend.
Having a playful skip in his steps and wearing an oversized smile, Meezy
waddled close to Dranden and smacked him on the back. “This is for calling me
Wheezy while growing up.” He whispered and then laughed. “Good luck in
Deathfall, Slippernips!” Slippernips was the opposing rhyming funny name
Meezy had invented for Dranden Pipperwhip, but it never caught on; not having
the same force or readily apparent physical humor as Wheezy did.
Shifting in his chair, Pournel gently pulled himself up and headed to the
door. He adjusted his pointy hat, pulled at his curly beard, and ran his fingers
through his bushy eyebrows, as if freshening up before the journey.
Dranden felt the air lighten up, relieved of so many lungs, but he still
couldn't breath very well, nor could he move. The sinking feeling that had started
in his stomach when he first entered the court had dropped into his feet, weighing
them down like iron shoes.
Even though he has known his whole life that every single story others told
about his ancestor and Pournel were lies, he wasn't so sure about the stories of
Deathfall forest. Parents taught children to stay away from the woods in the same
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manner they taught them never to jump into a burning hot oven; a lesson that was
self evident to all except the most dense or careless.
Every now and then some adventurer, usually an outsider, made a big deal
about leading an expedition into the woods, which always led to disaster. One
such instance, the last time anyone tried, occurred when Dranden was a boy. He
remembered how the group of six, all dressed up in the latest hiking gear, stood
at the edge of the forest in front of the entire town and waved their goodbyes.
They were never seen again.
Although, as Dranden later learned, they were being funded by the town's
treasury, so perhaps they took the money and ran. But nevertheless, Dranden had
heard too many stories of darkness and torment surrounding Deathfall that it was
impossible for him to feel content with going.
Carrying the paperwork from Meezy and the journal from Dranden, judge
Cotsbot stopped at the back door, the one he came in through, and looked back.
“You'll have your great grandfather's journal back just after some processing.”
Cotsbot then noticed Dranden's despondency and complete lack of movement,
and decided some words of assurance were needed. “Don't worry, you have a
powerful wizard by your side in case anything should go wrong. Isn't that right
Brewsworth?”
“That's right, nothing to worry about.” Pournel nudged Dranden on the
shoulder in good cheer. “In the best case it's nothing more than an enchantment
where a few weeds or vines got out of hand and plucking them should do the
trick. In the worse case, the trees have drastically altered and will attempt to feast
on your soul. Which reminds me, we should get something to eat before leaving,
I'm famished.”
30

Chapter 4
Baobab Tree
Roaming through the decrepit cursed woods for the second day, Dranden
swore they had gone around in one great big circle. The maps he was
given were old and useless, and including his own terrible sense of
direction, they were indeed lost. Pournel didn't complain and in fact seemed to
enjoy it, like he was taking a leisurely stroll through a quiet park.
Dranden, however, desperately needed something to take his mind off the
horrible surroundings, so he talked about a wide variety of subjects for
conversation; relationships, sports, education, and even pie making. The wizard
grunted and occasionally sighed as though following along, but remained aloof
and suspiciously carefree. Besides having a calming effect, this made Dranden
feel even more nervous hiking deep within the haunted Deathfall forest.
The tree's soggy barks had the appearance of rotting wood, with an
assortment of green and brownish-orange blotches that crumbled at the slightest
touch. Murky ground water saturated some patches of land, which festered within
their wooden bodies, causing limbs to bow downward with too much moisture.
Other patches of land were arid and made the trees exceedingly brittle, slowly
turning them to dust. Everything in the forest remained trapped within a strange
state of near-death, one that refused to allow anything to die but also made them
unable to live. Causing them to linger around as undead vegetation.
Drifting from the East was a disgusting odor that dominated every other
smell, carried by a stream of air that dipped, circled, and poured around the dark
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twisted trunks. Dranden tried everything he could to avoid this foul current of
sickening odor, insisting they hike around it or move away in the other direction.
Pournel, however, seemed almost interested in the smell, wrinkling his face
whenever they passed through.
“We should head East for a little while.” Pournel finally said with a faint
shimmer of deep intellectual thought that sparkled in his eyes. The flask of
whiskey he sipped on all afternoon was finished and he placed it into a hidden
pocket within his robe.
Dranden nodded in compliance, but he secretly didn't want to go because the
smell was so awful, like a thousand beasts rotting in a pile, or a chicken house
where all the eggs were spoiled. Dranden's nose screamed the simple message,
GET AWAY, but he had to follow along, court's orders.
Dranden's last meal yesterday at the local restaurant had to be eaten quickly
because Pournel insisted on getting the sample as soon as possible. The wizard
had consumed so much in only a few minutes, that Dranden felt like he had only
sat down when Pournel stood up invigorated and ready to go. Dranden tried to
stall their journey by any means necessary, including ordering several meals and
eating only a few bites from each then sending them back because of petty
problems – a trick he learned from his mother when she wanted to pester his
father. Dranden hoped he could delay the journey, but was aggressively shoved
out the door with a piece of toast still in his mouth. The wizard could be quite
forceful when he had to to be and Dranden thought it wise not to test Pournel's
patience any further.
A day and night had already passed without any sign of being close to the
mysterious source. They had camped underneath a rocky uplift that wasn't as wet
as other places, nor as smelly, and his breakfast was a stale loaf of bread and a bit
of dried meat. Dranden didn't foresee eating a decent meal again anytime soon,
but perhaps it was for the best because this foul stench was entirely sickening and
would make it difficult to eat any food, or to keep it down. If the dark presence
infecting the forest didn't kill them, becoming lost and succumbing to starvation
would certainly do the trick.
What if it came down to life and death? Dranden thought. Although he
journeyed with a wizard, which was a person 'imbued with the powers of the
elements' as they say, Dranden couldn't be sure of Pournel's trustworthiness.
Would the wizard show indomitable courage to rescue Dranden if the need arose,
or would he simply save himself? Yet, on the other hand, Dranden would save
himself if placed in the jaws of death, but that's excusable because he didn't have
any magical powers, no military training, and certainly no map reading skills; he
was entirely useless. The only person he was capable of saving was himself, and
32

B AOB AB TREE
even that was questionable.
And that's exactly what I should have argued before judge Cotsbot, Dranden
thought as he cursed his pride. He had missed the perfect time to grovel, plead,
and supplicate himself to be spared this mess. Perhaps if he had fallen to his
knees and teared up, displaying to the world his pathetic cowardice, he could be
at home right now deciding which soap to use for a long hot bath. But maybe all
this wasn't that bad, perhaps they'll find the source quickly enough and he can be
on his way; back to a life of neighborhood gossip, putting together saddles, and
flirting with Sophia the bar maid. Er...I mean, Dranden quickly corrected his
thoughts, eating dinner with my wife.
Snagging onto Dranden's shirt, the trees suddenly reached out with their
skeleton twig fingers and surrounded him more than before. All this worrying
and feeling dizzy from the horrible smell, Dranden had completely lost track of
Pournel.
How could I have lost track of a wizard so easily?
Crossing overhead, the barren tree branches extended outward like prison
bars that shuttered out the few remaining slivers of sunlight. Darkness overtook
the area and a cold wind blew from above.
Dranden panicked and reached between the cluster of trees to feel around
for an exit, but became tangled even more. He cried out for help, but received no
answer. The trees grew closer with their twisted roots and out stretched limbs,
catching his feet and clothes more and more as he struggled. Dranden punched
and kicked in desperation until he lifted totally off the ground, ensnared
completely by the haunted wood's cruel grasp.
Screaming out one last time before being ripped to shreds, Pounel's hand
clasped Dranden's shoulder and forcefully yanked the saddle maker out of the
mess.
The wizard, still oblivious and carefree, looked upon the terrified Dranden
with an enthusiastic grin and pointed in a direction. “Just up ahead is the source.
We have found it!”
The pale sun was in the sky once more and the trees stood a distance away
from Dranden, as if their attack was just in his mind; a delusional episode born
from dizziness and hunger. But just in case, he decided to stay closer to the
wizard from now on and followed Pournel over the top edge of a nearby ravine.
Looking down into the pit, there it was, as large and putrid as it smelt. A
bloating, rotting, disgusting, sliming, revolting, monstrously oversized trunk of a
tree with tiny little branches at it's top that bloomed blood-red leafs. Dranden
didn't even know what type of tree it was, but he immediately plugged his nose at
it's sight, not wishing to be subjected to any more stink.
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“It's a Baobab tree.” Pournel said as if sensing Dranden's ignorance. “Or at
least was one. It's strange because these are usually found only in far away
southern, hotter regions. They suck up all the ground water in order to survive
arid desert conditions, which is why their trunks are so wide. This one's trunk is
especially wide, and instead of water, it must be sucking up the life force of the
forest.”
“It's definitely not something we can pluck up, is it?” Dranden said, still
plugging his nose and examining how the tree was easily fifteen paces wide and
forty paces high. “Many have passed through this forest, including those from
foreign lands when it was at the height of it's glory. So maybe it's likely that
someone a long time ago accidentally dropped a few seeds and they took root?”
Pournel nodded in acknowledgement and hopped further down towards the
base of the tree. Dranden was surprised that the wizard was completely
unaffected by the smell, and assumed he must have cast a spell that reduced the
odor. But if that's true, why didn't he cast a spell for me? Dranden then
considered that it's probably best not to beg for handouts, since he didn't want to
make this trip any worse. Dealing with evil woods was one thing, but dealing
with a irritated wizard was something he wanted to avoid altogether, and this
wizard was known to turn you into a stalk of barley, even admitting to it in court.
Reaching out and pulling off a sizable chunk of bark, Pournel wrapped the
sample in a light cloth and buried it within the folds of his robe. “There, that
should be enough.”
“So, we can go?” Dranden asked with excitement.
“We can go.”
Snapping loudly, a portion of the massive trunk split open and released a
violent shockwave of purple dust that knocked Dranden off his feet and pushed
Pournel aside. Dranden felt around his body for any lost limbs or skin
deterioration, even double checking his face just to make sure he wasn't effected
at all. He quickly plugged his nose again and turned to Pournel who also
appeared unharmed.
“What was that?” Dranden asked, but Pournel stayed silent and examined
the gash on the tree with a furrowed brow.
Creaking and moaning, the woods all around swayed back and forth as their
branches filled with anger and contempt with the intrusion. Their trunks twisted
and stretched like they were pulling themselves out of the earth.
“We should leave immediately.” Pournel said.
Hoping out of the ravine, they hurried down a meandering path and skipped
over the many exposed roots that wiggled like giant earthworms that sometimes
lashed out to scratch or trip them. Their pace was brisk and steady, except for
34

B AOB AB TREE
Brewsworth who wobbled a little from drinking the whiskey earlier.
Dranden felt the sodden ground rumble with movement, like something
followed beneath them, waiting for the right time to burst out and attack. He
carefully guided his feet around the roots, which was cumbersome because there
were so many to avoid. He also felt ill from the unpleasant odors and was
exhausted from all the traveling. Having to run at this hurried pace was proving
too much to bear and Dranden's resolve diminished with each step.
Waiting only a little while longer, he noticed how the trees swayed slower
and the roots no longer wiggled or reached out, and believed this was the only
chance to rest. He stooped over with his hands on his knees for support and
called out to the wizard. “Wait, Pournel!”
Stopping immediately, Pournel came back to gaze at Dranden. “We must
keep going.” He cautioned, sticking out his bushy eyebrows to emphasize his
words, but also acknowledging Dranden's fragility with a passing look of pity.
“I know, but...my sides ache, my feet hurt, my back is all sweaty and sticky.
I'm just not used to this much physical labor.” Dranden backed away and let his
butt fall onto a tree stump. “If I can just rest for a moment, I can then keep
going.”
“Do not linger for long.” Pournel glanced around at the looming shadows.
“Many dark forces move against us.”
“Yes, yes, but I have to catch my...” The deep rumbling that shook the
ground beneath the two, suddenly stopped, which caught the attention of
Dranden who smirked. “See, it's already getting better. Now, if I can just rub my
feet I'll...”
Erupting out of the ground and flinging dirt everywhere, several vines
wrapped around Dranden's legs and lifted him into the air upside down. His small
pack of supplies flung off his body and landed in a murky puddle. He cried out in
shock and reached for the vines in an attempt to pry away their tight grip, but he
didn't have the strength.
The stump he had sat upon suddenly twisted and contorted, until opening up
like a mouth with brittle bark teeth and tree sap saliva slopping around. The vines
slowly lowered Dranden into the eager chomping mouth, while whipping at the
wizard to keep him away.
“Do something Pournel!” Dranden cried while retrieving a small knife from
his pocket, hoping he could cut away the vines.
The tree stump mouth spit out a stream of sticky sap that drenched Dranden
and knocked away the knife.
“No, my knife!” Dranden shrieked, now covered with sap. “Help!”
Pournel whispered a few words and waved about his hands to summon a
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W E EDS, MEA DS, & S T EEDS
spark of energy that shot once into the vines and once into the stump, blackening
it's already fragile wood.
Shuddering with death spasms, the rough bark lips curled away, the sharp
splinter teeth fell apart, and the twisted roots oozed with a foul black sap. The
vines unwrapped from Dranden's legs, letting him drop to the ground, and
retreated into the hole they burst from, then vanished from sight.
Dranden panted heavily and thoroughly checked the scuff marks on his
shins from where the vines held him, but found no major wounds. He looked
gratefully at Pournel and successfully resisted the temptation to hug the wizard,
just before bursting into ecstatic celebration.
“You saved me! I wasn't sure you would. That was a nice spell, really
showed that tree who's boss.” Dranden wiped away some of the sap that
drenched his forehead, and then sneered at the stump. “I'm not going to be tree
food until I'm already dead and buried.”
“Don't think anything of it. I only used a simple shock spell.” Pournel
wiggled about his fingers. “Did you still want to rub your feet, or shall we go?”
“Lead the way.”
Learning his lesson the hard way, Dranden found the strength to carry on by
thinking about how great it would be to tell the others about his foray into
Deathfall. They'll never believe I was almost eaten by a tree!
Soon enough, the moving branches and twisting trunks were far behind
them and they found better footing on the ground, though were still surrounded
by plenty of decay and death.
Evening soon turned to night, and darkness overtook the woods, causing it
to appear even more evil than during the day. Pournel used a crystal to light their
path, an item he retrieved from his satchel and held it above himself. But
Dranden was too tired to notice the shadows dancing around, and how they
swayed to the rhythm of the wizard's feet shuffling forward. He instead focused
on simply getting out of Deathfall.
It was very late in the night, and even almost early morning the next day,
when they finally arrived at the edge of the forest and entered back into Lotshill.
Pournel went straight to judge Cotsbot's home to speak about the discovery,
while Dranden staggered home, barely able to feel his legs or lower back.
Stepping through his back door and hobbling to his room as if he were a
hundred years old, he gave no announcement of his arrival and collapsed into his
warm, soft bed. Dranden heard his wife, Bella, call from the dining room with an
apology for being late from her out of town trip. She was overwhelmed with
happiness that he made it out of Deathfall alive, but he could not respond and
drifted into a much needed slumber.
36

Chapter 5
Endless Bureaucracy
Holding a silver mug filled with sweet beer, Dranden drifted aimlessly
within a plethora of fuzzy colors and sounds. It was disorienting at
first, but shapes, figures, and music slowly segregated themselves
within his blurred senses.
A gentle breeze rolled over Dranden's shirtless body as he danced to drums
and trumpets, which made his heart pound with excitement and reckless revelry.
He could not tell if his feet stomped the rhythm or if it was something else that
shook the ground, perhaps both.
Many men and women surrounded him, all of them adorned like soldiers,
but they had removed the majority of their armor and placed it in piles on the
outer ring of the festivities. The stars that filled the midnight sky looked down at
the crowd with unabashed wonderment, twinkling their approval at the carnal
exhibition. Spherical cloth lanterns hovered a little above their heads, keeping the
area bright enough to see, but dim enough to allow devilish fantasies of the mind
to play.
Moving to the rhythm, curvy naked women let their long hair drape over
their shoulders and breasts. A few had the shape of the bar maid Sophia, and even
though Dranden knew none of them were her, he allowed his imagination to run
wild. One woman in particular stood out, dancing twenty paces away, swaying
her wide hips back and forth like the pendulums of his great, great grandfather's
clocks that were stored in a secret place. She detected his gaze and leaned
37

W E EDS, MEA DS, & S T EEDS
forward while swiveling her shoulders, letting her plump breasts dangle and
bounce, giving a show just for him. Covering them with her arm, she turned
away to dance some more with other men.
Closer to Dranden, another woman lifted her arms to the sky and rolled her
body as if she swam in the sea. Gently rotating her hands and interlacing her
fingers, she created a mesmerizing display of grace and beauty that captured
Dranden's wandering attention. Her lower armor was removed and revealed a
firm round butt, like two hills on a forbidden landscape that waited to be
discovered and claimed by a worthy adventurer. He wanted to reach out and grab
her in a lustful embrace, but hesitated because the woman's eyes were closed and
he didn't want to offend a stranger.
In fact, all these people were strangers, this place was unfamiliar, and he had
no idea what was happening. Having felt so interconnected to everyone only a
moment ago, Dranden now felt isolated and confused, like he had been cut off
from the pack and excluded from the hunt.
A pointy grey hat quickly passed in the distance, which caught Dranden's
eye since it stuck out from the mass of flesh. It was Pournel Brewsworth and he
was busy doing something.
Dranden felt better now that he saw a familiar face, so he concentrated on
the swaying white beard and noticed how the wizard drifted between the people
like a soft breeze, constantly refilling their cups of liquor. He urged the party to
continue, and persuaded them all to sink into mindless debauchery. Then, like a
blur of shadows, Pournel stood in front of Dranden and held up a large pitcher,
using it to fill the silver mug.
“There you go.” Pournel said as he pushed on the bottom of the mug and
tilted it into Dranden's mouth. “Just a little more should do it. Don't go too wild,
we have to leave early in the morning.”
Drinking down the last of it, Dranden let the mug drop to the ground and
lowered his gaze to offer thanks, but had lost track of Pournel who vanished into
the night.
The liquor worked quickly in dulling Dranden's senses and heightening his
temptations, which left him floating between naughty manners and brazen
etiquette. He wanted to be lost in the moment, to allow his desires to choose for
him, to belong to the pack once more and continue the hunt.
Gripping Dranden's waist from behind, a woman had snuck up and found
him within the crowd. Her hands moved up to caress his chest in soft soothing
circles and then slowly meandered down to his stomach. Her hands went further
down to loosen his belt and let his pants fall off.
Pressing her body into his and exhaling hot breath across his shoulders, the
38

ENDL ESS BUR EA UCRAC Y
mysterious woman took her time to savor his essence and softly kiss his neck
with thick wet lips.
“You're mine.” She whispered.
Enjoying the softness, the attention, the warmth, Dranden became immersed
in her scent of lilies and pomegranate, and adrift in the current of sweat on her
breasts that trickled down his back. Keeping his head just barely above the
powerful undertow of lust, Dranden turned to face his admirer.
She wore a black-laced cowl that was studded with rows of diamonds, along
with a light cape that flowed across her bare backside. Her long black hair split
into two braids that went in front of her shoulders and along the sides of her
exposed breasts. Slung across her neck was a golden necklace made of thick
interlocking cylinders with a diamond as large as his fist as the center piece – a
beautiful gem worthy for royalty. On her delicate fingers were several rings of
family crests, identifiers passed down through generations of crossed blood lines.
Her face was darkened with painted black lips and eyes, but she glowed
with affection. Her body remained distant, but also dripped with lustful ambition.
Her light pink nipples stood as erect as him and pointed outward into the cool
night air like banners of a kingdom signaling surrender. Gazing into his eyes she
pulled off the headdress and cape, tossed them aside, and pressed her hands into
his chest.
Dranden feared to indulge in forbidden pleasure, but her mouth and tongue
quivered with expectation and swelled with sweet nectar. So he embraced the
eager queen and unleashed the passion that surged beneath his skin. He explored
her hills, valleys, and caverns, craving more with every kiss and leaving nothing
to imagination.
Embracing her for what seemed like the whole night, his desire was finally
released and his strength sapped. He settled his head between her breasts and felt
her heart pump a soothing rhythm that gently put him to sleep.
But the rigid hand of a man suddenly gripped Dranden's shoulder, shaking
him awake and pulling him away from his lover's warmth.
“Wake up Dranden.” Pournel's voice was sharp and urgent. “We need to
leave this place. Dranden!”
Gripping his pillow, Dranden snapped awake in his bed and he sat upward.
Leaning over him was Pournel and Bella, who were attempting to wake him.
39

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“Honey!” Bella yelped. Her short black hair dangled just above her bare
shoulders and her soft green eyes were scrunched with concern. She wore a
strapless summer dress that was pastel pink with a thick orange belt wrapped into
a bow at the waist. “Are you alright?”
“Yes, yes.” Dranden said, and he didn't lie. He felt entirely refreshed except
for his sore eyes that were getting used to the sunlight from the bedroom window.
“Thank goodness,” Bella sighed with relief, “I got worried when I tried to
wake you. It's already midday and I let you sleep in, but you still weren't
responding.”
“Your wife sent for me because she thought your sleepiness may have had
something to do with the woods yesterday.” Pournel explained as he stood up and
went to the bedroom door. “But it appears you're fine, so I should be off.”
“Wait!” Dranden hopped out of bed already dressed, since he didn't change
last night. There were many parts of his body still sticky with the tree sap,
including his hand which he forcefully peeled away from his thigh. “What's
happening with the forest, the quest, the sample? What did judge Cotsbot say?”
“Oh, I didn't think you cared.” Pournel said, stopping at the door. “I must
travel to the state University to analyze the bark sample since they have the
necessary equipment and learned academics. I gave my recommendations to
judge Cotsbot, who said that the town council must decide the matter. I was on
my way over to the town hall to check on their progress.”
“You don't mind if I come along do you?”
“Not at all.”
“Please dear, have something to eat beforehand,” Bella said as she pushed
him out of the bedroom and towards the kitchen. “And also take a bath
afterwards, before you go.”
His wife was right, Dranden felt starved and he gladly let her guide him.
Bella prepared eggs, bacon, buttered toast and pancakes topped with a sweet
apricot jam – the same jam he was supposed to make but was forced to go into
the forest. They invited Pournel to sit and make company, which he did happily,
and Bella served them both too much of everything, which was a good thing.
After putting the dishes into the sink to soak, Bella kissed Dranden on the
forehead and reminded him. “Don't forget to take a bath dear.” She then left to
tend her flower beds located on the frontside of the house.
Leaning back in his chair, and stuffed with food, Dranden turned to Pournel.
“You were in my dream last night.”
“Was I?” Pournel sipped on a pouch of brandy that he kept on his lap and
out of sight.
“Yes, it was strange. There was a large gathering of people and they were
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all...” Dranden paused to choose his word correctly, “dancing.”
“Sorry, my dancing isn't the best and must have been an eye sore.”
“No, no, you weren't dancing, you were hardly there, but there was this one
woman in particular, who really stood out, like she was important, like royalty of
some sort, having emblems and family crests I've never seen but felt
recognizable. I don't know, it all seemed so real, like she actually laid – uh, I
mean, stood in front of me.” Dranden slipped away from the conversation and
fell silent in memory.
“I take that it was a pleasant dream.”
Dranden nodded and remained quiet for a moment before continuing. “It
was unlike any dream I ever had. Far too vivid, but hazy at the same time. I've
also decided to join you on this quest.”
Pournel perked up at this news, but leaned back in his chair with hesitation.
His eyes wandered and his lips went crooked as if looking for some words that
would discourage such an action.
“Now, now, I don't want any protest. I can bring my own supplies, and won't
burden you in any way, except for an occasional rescue if need be. I just think
this quest is very important and I truly want the forest to be restored.” Dranden
nodded with a half-smile at his proclamation, but then rolled his head and sighed.
“Well, you see, if I'm being fully honest, it's my saddle making business, it's hit a
bit of a snag – too much competition. I need something to stand out from the
others, a reputation of sorts.”
“And you think that by completing this quest, you'll be known as the man
who restored Deathfall forest to it's former beauty.” Pournel said, finishing
Dranden's thought.
“Exactly! I can't see my business do anything but succeed.” Dranden moved
his hands across the air as if painting a landscape. “They'll come from all over to
get saddles from the man who helped restore a part of the kingdom. There'll be
horse rides through the forest, all using my saddles of course, festivities and
carnivals held there annually, and the children will gather all around wanting to
listen to the stories about this quest, stories that only I could tell.”
Interrupting them, a man dressed in official town-messenger garb, which
was a bright red long sleeve shirt that went down to the knees with sharp boxy
shoulders, entered the house and addressed the two. The front door was already
cracked open to let in a cool breeze, so the man showed himself inside. “It is my
duty to inform you that the council has made a decision.” He bellowed as if
addressing an auditorium packed with people. “They request your presence as
soon as you can.”
“Thank you.” Pournel said in a forcefully loud voice, unsure if he should
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shout or not. “We will be there shortly.”
The man saluted with his fist straight above his head, narrowly missing the
ceiling, and then marched away. His oversized shiny brass buttons jingled as he
went.
“Well, lets be off then.” Dranden said. “Let's hope the council is as
reasonable and quick as judge Cotsbot.”
Chaos reigned in the councilor's chamber, which was like an enclosed colosseum,
containing rows of benches that went upward all around a central open area.
Hurling insults, crumpled paper, or even bits of food, a dozen or so older
gentlemen and women were on two sides of a long table that stood in the middle.
The chamber's many seats were empty now, but in the height of political
season they would be packed with spectators to witness the legislative death of a
disliked councilor during the more hotly debated topics. Beer would be sold, bets
would be made, and votes would be cast to determine the winners of the
bureaucratic brawl.
Arriving through the front, Pournel and Dranden entered the chamber wideeyed
and confused, and even a little ecstatic at the spectacle.
Managing to peel himself from the fray and stepping towards the two, Sir
Belgius Huttonbut customarily tapped his left knee to greet them. He then glared
at Dranden's appearance, still covered in dry tree sap, but turned to Pournel. “The
others must have called for you because they do that sometimes for leverage in
these matters.” Being the youngest of the group by far, his youthful clean-shaven
face dripped with sweat and expressed some sadness as he lowered his head.
“Well, you see – unfortunately – we haven't decided yet.”
“I don't understand, what's taking so long?” Pournel asked.
The roar of the council increased as some sought to use Pournel's presence
to their advantage, and their voices piled on top each other, trying to drown out or
derail the unavailing debate. “Pournel has other things to do, send him on his way
so we can fix the forest ourselves.” “But the matter of figuring out the curse
seems to be lost on you.” “Just as lost as that disgusting pig you allowed to run
wild, causing mayhem inside of town.” “What pig, what are you blabbering on
about?” “Counselors, we have to stay on topic.” “I'm saying you let your wife
out, who's a pig.” “I'll tell her you said that, then you'll deal with the
consequences because my wife is great friends with yours.” “I meant your first
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ENDL ESS BUR EA UCRAC Y
wife, or your third, so hard to keep up since you change them like one changes
socks.” “Except for you, I can smell your horrendous feet from all the way over
here.”
Pournel gleefully whispered to Dranden. “I do love politics. There's usually
as much action as sports, and they could go on for hours – days even.”
Huttonbut nervously tapped his chin as he looked back and forth between
the chaos and the two. “We, as proud Wigglehorns, believe that Pournel's plan
should be followed. But the uninformed Razorbacks believe that Pournel has
done enough damage already.”
“Wigglehorns?” Pournel asked.
“It's one of the two main parties in this district.” Dranden whispered quickly,
realizing that he forgot to take a bath like his wife requested. “The Wigglehorns
are on our side and the Razorbacks on the other.”
A much older man, whose wrinkly face and chapped dry lips drooped from
years of political exhaustion, lead the discussion for the Razorbacks. His voice
was rough and prickly, like the side of a cactus during a cold winter. “We
shouldn't trust Pournel with this undertaking. If he's the one who did this, then
what makes us think he wont make it worse, even by accident.”
“That's Mikelwink, the speaker for the Razorbacks.” Huttonbut said,
pointing sternly at the old man.
“Seems to me like they're all speakers.” Dranden smirked.
“He's our main opposition right now.” Huttonbut continued. “If we change
his mind, then we can finally pass a resolution.”
“Then we can be on our way.” Dranden said to Pournel.
“No, no.” Huttonbut retorted. “No, dear no. First it's the resolution, then we
have to get the commissioner's approval, then that is checked by the county's
head clerk, which is then passed to and rubber stamped by the central officer who
must be endorsed by the high assistant chancellor, who then double checks
everything, and then it's posted to the public record so that any citizen wanting to
protest it can have their say, and then you are able to go.” Retrieving a
handkerchief from his vest's pocket, Huttonbut wiped away the sweat from his
brow. “You should have learned all this in grade school, it's just basic
government stuff.”
“I don't get involved with politics.” Dranden said. “It's not very interesting
to me.”
“The workings of our government isn't that complicated, not as much as our
neighboring districts. It works, but it takes time to work. You two may be here for
weeks, if we're lucky.”
The group suddenly erupted in more noisy exchanges because of a few
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W E EDS, MEA DS, & S T EEDS
derogatory words about someone's family member, and Huttonbut lifted his hand
in the air to protest. He stormed the huddled mass to shout his case and left
Pournel and Dranden to the side.
“We don't have weeks.” Pournel whispered sternly, his beard becoming
ruffled at the words. “The Baobab tree became very aggressive just at our mere
presence, and has already grown strong in these past centuries, so who knows
how much longer it will wait before doing something more drastic. Perhaps even
a full scale invasion.”
Nodding in agreement, Dranden searched the room for others, hoping to find
any stray politician who could help. In the far back were some vagrants trying
not to be seen, only here because it was a warm place to sleep. Lawyers sat in the
second row of benches, nibbling on their lunches and talking to one another
about matters of policy. In separate corners on the ground floor, two typists
vigorously pricked their writing-gadgets with their fingertips, hurriedly copying
everything the councilors woefully uttered. One of the typists was clearly on the
verge of collapse by leaning precariously to his side. Then finally, Dranden saw
judge Cotsbot sitting up high near the rafters with his face buried in his hands
and taking a nap.
“Cotsbot!” Dranden said. “Let's see what he has to say.”
Approaching the sleeping judge with caution, Dranden reached out and
shook Cotsbot's shoulder. Snoring awake, he wiped the drool from his chin and
looked warily upon the two with sensitive eyes.
“Judge Cotsbot, it's me Dranden Pipperwhip and Pournel Brewsworth.”
“Yes, of course I know who you two are.” Cotsbot grumped, rubbing his
forehead as if soothing a headache. “Why would you wake me? What's the
meaning of this?”
“Sorry. We just seem to be in the middle of a problem, a government
problem.”
Cotsbot grunted and then chuckled, nodding his head in acknowledgement.
“Yes, they have been at each other all night and all morning. But it's nothing
unusual.”
“We're told it may be weeks before anything can be done.”
“Weeks! That's if you're lucky. No, it'll be longer, I can tell. The Razorbacks
are holding out for something else, I'm not sure what, but this is a political
power-play of some kind.” Cotsbot squinted his eyes like he envisioned some
devious plot.
“I too enjoy some good politicking.” Pournel said. “I find the treacherous
back-stabbing and endless speeches very amusing.”
“Then you may like this group here.” Cotsbot said. “Ruthless and cruel, no
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ENDL ESS BUR EA UCRAC Y
stone is left unturned, no individual they will not demean, no offensive word left
unspoken, and no scandal left undone.”
“I would love to stay, but I'm pressed for time.” Pournel's bushy eyebrows
stuck out as he explained. “Whatever is in the forest has reached a critical mass,
and it could be only a matter of months before possible catastrophe.”
Cotsbot stroked the short curly beard jutting down from his chin, and
pondered with a furrowed brow. “In matters of town security, the judge can make
a decision without any of the other office's approvals. But it could have severe
consequences for me if I did. Pournel, is the forest's current condition because of
something you did that got out of hand?”
“I'm not sure. I've never seen anything quite like this before. It has all the
hallmarks of necromancy, just without any souls or dead bodies. I understand all
the evidence currently points towards me, but it's still unclear if my curse did
anything at all. Maybe I cast a simple shadow spell, to make Pipperwhip the first
believe I did something significant. It wouldn't have been the first time I did
something like that. I won't know unless I test the sample.”
Taking a moment to ponder, Cotsbot hummed out loud and then spoke
softly. “There's a lot at risk with sending someone the townspeople don't trust
away with the sample.”
“I will accompany the wizard.” Dranden straightened out his back,
presenting himself as courageous and strong. “I've been here for most of my life.
Though born further West, I came here as a small boy. My family has spent
generations here, more or less, so I have a stake in protecting this community.
I've witnessed firsthand the horror in those woods and realize how serious this is
and will sacrifice life and limb to restore those woods to it's former glory.”
“Alright then.” Cotsbot said as he stood up and fixed the ruffles in his suit.
Grabbing hold of Dranden's sap covered shoulders, Cotsbot used a deep judge
voice to speak. “The power granted in me by a two-thirds majority vote, and with
approval by the top A-class commissioner, appointed by the sergeant field
marshal general, and licensed by the king's licensor, I grant you the authority to
discover the true nature of this wickedness and to root it out, literally if need be.
Dranden Pipperwhip, you shall be the town's emissary, and shall accompany
Pournel Brewsworth on this task until the very end. Now you can both go.”
“That's it?” Dranden asked. “What about the signatures, rubber stamps, and
endless approvals?”
“Nope, I don't need any of that.” Cotsbot sat back down and relaxed.
“If judges can simply make decisions,” Dranden scrunched his forehead,
“what's the point in having all those other procedures and politicians?”
“That's a good question.” Cotsbot shrugged his shoulders. “I guess everyone
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needs to believe that there's a system looking out for their best interests. Also
don't go around announcing I did this. Just quietly slip out of town and come
back as quickly as possible. The council will probably still be here quibbling and
be none the wiser.”
“We will.” Dranden said, slightly tapping his left knee in respect. “Thank
you.”
Both of them left the town hall in a hurry and made their way back to
Dranden's home, while Pournel explained his plan further.
“On our way to the university, I will make a list of the sort of academic
student I will require. The dean is a wizard I've known for a long time and he
should be willing to help.” Pournel's eyes lit up with enthusiasm, and he became
slightly sober for a moment. “I really have no idea where this quest will take us,
so pack for rain, pack for ice, pack for extravagant parties. Maybe we'll run into
an orc or two, so bring a weapon. We could cross over the dark-rock chasms in
the forbidden lands or traverse the desolate dunes of the forsaken desert. Or we
could easily discover the counter spell and be back in only a few days. This will
either be the most exciting trip of your life or very disappointing. Maybe
somewhere in-between, hard to say.”
“You do have a way with words.” Dranden said. “I just hope we don't come
across any orcs, those big smelly green beasts, because I'll be useless against
them. And I especially hope not to run into goblins. From all the stories I've
heard about those little things, they're horrible, absolutely horrible.”
46

Chapter 6
Toble the Goblin
They'll bite your toes, jab your nuts,
Slice your throat and spill your guts,
They stalk the road where money goes
The only path a goblin knows
- Traveling merchant song, “Beware of goblins”
Licking his dry tongue around his parched mouth and chapped lips, Toble
the goblin felt like he was rubbing hardened leather against the bark of a
rough tree. He was famished and dehydrated, and so was the group of
bandits he took company with, which consisted of two other goblins and two
orcs. The relentless summer sun scorched the bandit's patchwork tents and
equipment, and darkened their normally bright green skin to an olive brown.
Their makeshift encampment overlooked a narrow rocky gorge just at the
northern edge of the Hallowed Steps mountain range; a place that separated the
eastern and western kingdoms. This particular spot was a popular shortcut for
unscrupulous merchants who wanted to avoid taxation and the inspection of
authorities that occurred on the highways. Chicken farmers, sheep herders, fur
traders, exotic furniture dealers, and needle-point therapists, have all made their
way through here just to be ransacked. Humans, their pets, and their livestock, all
cooked well and were delicious, but there hadn't been any wayfarers for weeks,
nor any rain.
Toble was the lowest ranking member of the group and also the scrawniest,
but that didn't matter since none of them were well-fed at the moment. Goblins
were typically short, averaging half the height of a human, but their oversized
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hands and feet allowed them to wield all the same weapons with the same
deadliness. Toble was slightly shorter than most other goblins, and had a
preference for using two daggers in combat; choosing to rely on his nimbleness
for defense rather than a shield or armor.
Toble's head resembled a squashed pumpkin, and his face was full of
wrinkles with flaps of skin that drooped down as if partially melted. His long
sharp nose jutted outward like a rocky ledge from the side of a cliff, jagged and
filled with hidden crags, possibly housing tiny critters of which even he was
unaware. His dark eyes were like pieces of coal jammed between the flaps of
green skin, and they quietly surveyed the hot barren desert to the west for signs
of travelers.
Finding nothing but the blistering hot sun beating upon barren sand dunes,
Toble cringed with pain at his unfortunate situation. For a moment, he displayed
his heavily crooked teeth, like rows of small pebbles surrounded by a blanket of
green moss, but closed his mouth to avoid the stench. Normally, a goblin's teeth
would fall out and be replaced with new ones, but since there was no food, they
festered in his mouth and slowly rotted.
Coughing out the bitter taste of decay, he tried to remember what meat
tasted like, it's texture, heat and softness, and how the juices ran down his chin.
Toble snatched up an old chicken bone that laid on the ground nearby and stuck it
in his mouth, only to promptly spit it back out. The chicken flavor had been
sapped entirely and it tasted like a dusty dried twig.
Rotating the object in his hand, the wary goblin soon realized that the stupid
thing was a twig, and only resembled a chicken bone for a moment. Starvation
had made everything appear like food, a terrible condition that painfully
increased his hunger. Even the smooth round stones at his feet began to look like
fresh fruit when he squinted his eyes just right.
Tossing the stick away in disappointment, Toble turned to his exhausted and
depressed allies and said what they all thought.
“We need a good chicken farmer to come this way.”
Glob, the goblin to Toble's left who laid stretched out upon a smooth rock,
shook his head in disagreement. He was the quietest of the group and was a
stargazer – a common nickname among goblins because their thoughts were
elevated and indiscernible to most of their kin, and also because they often
looked up into the starry night sky in astonished wonderment. But since they all
starved, Glob was more talkative than usual and didn't care about the ridicule he
might incur for his opinions.
“I knew we should've kept a few chickens alive and breed 'em,” Glob sighed
heavily, “then we would be eatin' now.”
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TOB LE T HE G OBLI N
Iturp, the most handsome of the three goblins because his eyes were a sky
blue, and therefore also the most arrogant, curled his lip in disagreement and
snorted with his long curved nose. “Why keep chickens around when we can be
stealin' instead? Besides, chickens are tasty. I can't possibly have them squawkin'
nearby without always gettin' hungry.”
“But that's exactly the problem with basin' our lively hoods on theivin'.”
Glob retorted with an instructive tone. “Those we take from and kill, can no
longer produce. When producers die, those of us who prey on 'em suffer the
most.”
“That's some stargazer nonsense.” Iturp crowed in contempt. “What are ya
trying to say?”
“There needs to be a balance between us theivin' and us producin'. If
everyone in the world be theivin' like us, and not producin', there would be
nuffin' to rob. Society requires a certain number of producers for there to be
robbers. There's only so much takin' we can do before the whole system
crumbles.”
“But yer' sayin' that we should be producers by raisin' chickens, which is
dumb stargazer talk.”
“I just think diversifyin' our resources will be beneficial in the long run, to
get us through tough times like now.”
“But if we spend time raisin' a bunch of squawkin' chickens, who's to say
someone won't come theivin' them, and make us the losers?”
“There are risks with everything.”
“Too much of a risk I say.” Iturp snarled. “I'd rather just keep stickin' my
sharp sword into others that waste their pathetic lives producin', so I can take it
all, an' be a winner.”
With that as the final word, they each went back to comforting their
grumbling stomachs that twisted inside their starved bodies.
Thinking to himself, Toble wondered if Glob was right, that perhaps there
was more to life than waiting for people to pass by so they can kill and eat them.
He was never raised like a proper goblin, being orphaned as an infant after his
mother had him strapped to her back as she charged into battle. The strap was cut
and he was nearly trampled on, but he managed to crawl out of the chaos. Shortly
after, he was taken and raised by bandits who sorted through the remains on the
battlefield. Toble then spent his life traveling around the Hallowed Steps
mountain range, and going in and out of groups to find a place to belong;
somewhere he could be useful. This was Toble's fifth bandit party he belonged to,
and for the most part they seemed fair when splitting the spoils; with orcs getting
only three times as much, regardless of effort. And also, there was a lack of
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fighting between the orcs.
That was always the most difficult aspect for Toble; whenever the two
largest orcs split up the camp and waged war on the other. Toble was never good
at picking a side, with all the political maneuvering it involved. And it wasn't as
if he enjoyed the company of anyone he encountered. He usually picked the side
he thought would most likely win and stayed out of the ensuing rumble. There
were a few goblins that did him right, raised him with some care, and taught him
a few tricks, but now they were all dead or presumed dead. The brutal desert
always took as much as it gave.
Besides simply doing as much as he needed to survive, Toble also collected
small treasures when the others weren't looking. Hand mirrors, fancy hair
brushes, stamps for letter seals, and even a small music box that had a spinning
dancer when opened. Toble kept them all in his satchel to examine at night and
ponder their origins and meanings. Sneaking off to the woods, he would listen to
the music box's tune and gaze at the distant mountains with the white tops, which
reminded him of an old lesson from a scruffy goblin with a crooked hand; “The
mountains are white on top 'cuz the pillows the gods sit on leak out their soft
stuff inside, an' it sprinkles down.”
If that's true, then mountain tops were the softest places on earth, and Toble
wondered if he would ever have a chance find out for himself.
The two orcs of the party whispered amongst themselves near their big tent
and glanced at the three goblins every now and then as if they were calculating
some devious plan, or sizing up their chances in a straight up fight. By default,
orcs were the bosses of these co-race bandit parties because they were bigger and
stronger, but not necessarily smarter. This was because the goblin intellect was
strange and difficult to determine due to it's wonky nature.
A goblin's mind not only produced the sophist stargazers with their penchant
for philosophy, it also produced many specialized experts like gadgetzers, bomb
makers, and metal smiths, among many others. But just as one fills a cup with
water, one cannot also fill it with milk, so too was the goblin's intellect.
If one became an expert bomb technician, that goblin cannot think about
anything other than bombs; even the ability to communicate to other goblins on
the most basic level is lost. One famous legend tells of a goblin that built a bomb
so large, devastating, and sophisticated, he could not properly tell anyone else
how to use it. Soon after the goblin's death, the small city that housed his creation
suffered a cataclysmic explosion, leaving only a few survivors to tell the tale.
Toble, Iturp and Glob didn't specialize in anything and were moderate
intellectuals, which made them best for general combat. Toble did, however, have
a wonderful ability of discerning languages with little effort. If he merely
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TOB LE T HE G OBLI N
browsed the text of looted books written in distant foreign tongues, Toble could
immediately recognize patterns and repetitions within the befuddled mess of
what his comrades called “simple chicken scratches” and could surmise a general
understanding of what was written. If Toble listened to someone talk, his mind
unlocked definitions, grammar, and idioms so that he could soon follow along
and even speak it after a while.
This ability wasn't very useful as a bandit, however, because there were
usually no survivors to interrogate and orcs weren't particularly interested in
negotiating with traders, travelers, townspeople, or anyone other than fellow orcs.
Toble worried about what the bosses discussed under their big tent,
whispering to each other some secret plan far from earshot. There aren't many
creatures that eat goblins, since they are unsavory just to gaze upon let alone
consume. But it was not entirely unheard of that a hungry orc would devour
anything, including rocks, tree stumps, and his own ragged clothes. Eating a
goblin would probably be a step-up in comparison to some of the items orcs have
been rumored to munch on.
Also, these three goblins were all skinny, especially Toble, and their meat
wouldn't last long. But maybe, just maybe, their bodies would make a big enough
meal to let the orcs hold out until the next hapless traveler passed through. In
difficult times, Toble knew he couldn't trust anyone, so he left open a watchful
eye on all his companions and kept his daggers close at hand.
Standing up and grunting, Bur, the smaller of the two orcs, sauntered over to
the goblins and gestured towards Toble. Bur spoke broken goblinese in his gruff
voice.
“Toble. Need word. You, me, walk.”
Even though Bur's large body dwarfed Toble, the orc was shockingly skinny,
like a skeleton draped with a green sunburnt leather cloak. His ribs stuck out and
revealed a few broken bones that healed slightly out of place, and his cheeks
protruded outward like clenched fists just under his dark sunken eyes. Orcs
naturally grew or shrunk according to how much food they consumed, and some
legends speak of orcs roaming the lands as big as towers, but the
shrinking/growing phase took time to occur. If there's a sudden famine they
become skinny; if there's more than enough to eat they grow fat.
Toble left his spot but kept his two daggers on his belt for quick retrieval,
and walked with Bur to the edge of the camp where the orc appeared to have
difficulty finding the right words.
“Group, famine, sacrifice.” Bur sputtered out.
“Please speak Orcish.” Toble said, stopping the gruff orc. “Your goblinese is
horrible.”
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“Sorry, forgot that you're multilingual. Look, I'm not sure how to put this
but...” Bur paused for a moment to reflect. “We've spotted large merchant
wagons heading this way. They have cows, lamb's, ducks...”
“Chickens!” Toble shrieked.
“Chickens! Of course.” The orc said, lifting his arm as if wielding a battle
axe. “And many more things for us to plunder and eat.”
“We should tell the others! We need to prepare!” Toble turned to the camp.
“No.” Bur grabbed Toble's shoulder and turned him back. “I'll tell them, we
need you to do something else. A secret mission.”
“Secret mission?”
“Yes. You see, this merchant is protected by a very powerful warlock who
can only be killed by a certain weapon.” Bur stroked the dark rough stubble on
his chin. “It's a dagger with a hollow blade and a golden edge, and with diamonds
on it's handle.”
“A dagger with a hollow blade?”
“Yes, along with magical runes all over it's surface. It lies far to the
northwest, past the highest mountain, across the longest fields, and up countless
steps. As far as one can go before falling off the edge of the world.” Bur pointed
at a mountain range towards the west on the horizon.
“Um, sure.” Toble's face scrunched up, wrinkling it even further. “I don't
understand. If it's so far away, how am I supposed to get it and be back here in
time?”
“Oh, uhh...” Bur looked around himself and then reached into his pouch.
“Here, take this. It's a magical crystal that will speed up your journey, by making
the one who carries it move outside time. The merchant will be here in two
weeks, that gives you a week to fetch the dagger and a week to get back. But
with the crystal it will appear to be six or seven weeks each way.”
“I don't understand any of this.” Toble said as he scratched the patch of
scruffy hair on top his head.
“No time to explain everything. Just head northeast. Once you get there,
follow your instincts, you'll know what to do.” Shoving the crystal into Toble's
hand, Bur pushed the confused goblin away from the camp and kicked up some
dirt with his foot. “Off with you, there's no time to lose.”
Running as fast as he could down the rocky ravine, Toble's heart fluttered
like a dragonfly's wing, excited he was finally headed on a journey outside these
lands. It sounded dangerous and a bit ridiculous, but with the magic crystal Bur
gave him, he felt confident in his abilities.
“Don't come back without the dagger.” Toble heard Bur's voice call out from
the camp one last time. “We're all counting on you!”
52

Chapter 7
The Academic
Studying wasn't something rendle enjoyed, which would have surprised his
fellow classmates because he could usually be found slouched over a
dusty old book in some corner of the university's library. But this wasn't
due to a love of learning, rather it was because of extreme boredom, which
caused him to read excruciatingly slow and take more than twice as long to finish
than the other students.
The book currently in front of him, however, was a rare exception. Titled
“The Life and Development of the Bullwarp Toad and their Subspecies”, the
subject matter was intoxicating and consuming. It wasn't something any of his
teachers listed as required material – he already spent the whole week working
on that mind numbing drivel – this book was instead filled with a subject he
happily studied during his spare time in an effort to quench his immense curiosity
and love for anything about amphibians.
Being so engrossed by the content of the book, Rendle couldn't even hear
the school attendant shouting for his attention from across the room. The chapter
detailed how the bullwarp toad molted during the first two weeks of spring for
the emergence of it's mating colors – very interesting stuff.
Forcibly slamming the book shut, the angered school attendant looked
coldly at Rendle's confused face. “Rendle!” The attendant shouted once again.
“I've been yelling at you for a while now. The dean wants to speak with you.”
“The dean?” Rendle asked, his mind still cloudy with facts about toads.
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“The dean of botany?”
Rendle hated botany. He always had to spend extra time just to drudge past
the various names of trees and fauna. The only time anything really stuck is if it
had something to do with amphibians, which unfortunately wasn't all that much.
His grades suffered from this lack of enthusiasm and Rendle believed the botanist
conspired to get him expelled by purposefully picking out unfavorable subjects
that Rendle dreaded.
“No, not the dean of botany.” The attendant said with irritation. “The big
dean, the dean of deans. Tanor Grisvernus.”
Tanor? Rendle wondered. What could he possibly want, especially now?
Rendle walked these halls for nearly five years, and Tanor hadn't so much as said
Rendle's name, and only barely looked in his direction a few times, which were
all by accident. If Tanor wants to see him, it must be bad. “Did he say why?”
“No, but he says it's important and you are to immediately come with me to
his office.”
As the two walked down the many hallways with the attendant in the lead,
Rendle tried guessing at what it could be. Was he getting kicked out? Did his
grades slip from being subaverage to well-below failing?
It was probably that last botany project, Rendle surmised. The students were
tasked with growing a magical flower of their choosing and to make notes of it's
development stages, but Rendle just plain forgot about it. At the last moment
before the project was due, he pulled up a flower from one of the school's front
gardens, stuck it in a pot, forged the progress notes, and submitted it for review.
The poor flower was half dead by the time the teacher looked at it, and certainly
didn't survive the trip back to it's original plot of soil. The pathetic way it's stem
limped over as it slowly died, still made Rendle shudder thinking about it. He
certainly wouldn't like it if some callous giant creature ripped him out of his
home and put him somewhere he didn't belong.
Rendle was incredibly sensitive to such minor things and preferred to keep
things, particularly living things, exactly the way he found them. But he was
desperate and the flower was easily accessible. Sacrifices had to be made, and
Rendle chose to live with the guilt no matter how painful. Perhaps the flower
forgave him just as it passed away and sunk into the dirt to become nutrients for
the next generation. Or perhaps it whispered a curse – that Rendle should be
kicked out of the school for incompetency. Magical flowers are rumored to do
such things on occasion.
The attendant led him through the student dormitory as a short cut to the
faculty offices instead of having to go all the way around the school grounds.
Some students were busy studying in their chambers, while others socialized
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outside their doors.
A few guys from the University's Furpletromp team, men who Rendle
thought were uninteresting slogs who only ever talked about that awful game,
stood near the beautiful, the perfect, the wonderful, Pearlith Manasby; who
giggled at something one of them said.
Her gorgeous smile, long eyelashes, slender nose, moist plump lips, and
brown curly hair, enchanted Rendle the first moment he saw her nearly five years
ago when he arrived to register for classes. A day he remembered well.
He had just jumped off the back of the poultry wagon that a farmer was kind
enough to let him hitch a ride in, shook away the pieces of hay and chicken
smell, and strode confidently to the front gate. The beautiful Pearlith was up
ahead on the road, stepping out of her family's luxurious stage coach led by a
dozen black horses. She wore a flowing red gown and a large red lace hat that
shimmered a fiery gold, which wowed several onlookers. Rendle would have
introduced himself, but a crowd of people blocked his way and her entourage
kept everyone at arms length. No matter, he had five years to masterfully woo
her, so he didn't have to be hasty.
Knowing by instinct alone he was destined to marry her, have lots of
children, and live in the countryside in a cottage – preferably near a swamp so he
can create a refuge for amphibians – Rendle set his plan of undying love into
motion. He put handwritten notes within the pages of her textbooks, shadowed
her steps at night to make sure she was safe, and spread flower petals near the
places she frequented. These flowers were already plucked so using their petals
was perfectly fine since they didn't go to waste and were sacrificed for the noble
pursuit of true love.
He performed these selfless acts for a grueling four and a half years, but the
end was near, since the DresMerden Gathering was fast approaching. In only a
few short months, the entire graduating class would descend upon a large private
garden to celebrate their hard earned diplomas. Alcohol would be drunk,
longtime rivals would become allies, underwear would be used as hats, and
lovers would share an intimate embrace. Not only was this the biggest party of
the year, it was also the final piece of Rendle's plan to forever secure Pearlith's
heart.
He planned to hire musicians to play her favorite song, and at the song's
climax, he would materialize in a puff of smoke and sparkles, go to one knee, and
reveal to her that it was he who had been doing all these romantic gestures. She
would naturally fall into a passionate devoted love and they would live happily
ever after. The plan was flawless, as far as Rendle was concerned, unless he was
prematurely kicked out of the university for failing botany.
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As the two finally approached the dean's office, the attendant opened the
door and Rendle hesitantly entered. The last time he was this close to the dean's
office, his hands shook, his eyes went sideways, and he could barely breath – all
conditions he was now currently suffering. Rendle barely took one step forward
into the office before immediately coming to a halt, frozen with trepidation.
Standing behind a large oak desk, the tall, big, and muscular Tanor
Grisvernus smiled wide at the meek academic. This was unusual, because Rendle
couldn't remember a time he ever saw the dean smile. But there were his teeth –
shiny, white, and unsheathed, like small white daggers that glistened after being
polished.
“Rendle, come here.” Tanor's deep voice trembled Rendle's fragile skin. He
lifted his brawny hand and curled his fingers to beckon the academic forward.
Not only was Tanor the university dean, he was also a powerful wizard and
a member of the High Council of Magic, but he didn't have the traditional
appearance of a wizard. Tanor refused to wear a pointy hat, or any hat, and
instead made his jet black hair stick straight up, which added an extra foot to his
already daunting height. His black beard was slicked down with oil to be as silky
as his hair, and was split into three spikes at the end to resemble a ceremonial
spear. Also, instead of simple linen shoes, Tanor's thick leather boots were made
from the hides of fierce Bothmodo bears; deadly creatures found in the southern
plague-regions. The boots were “skinned from two female adults Tanor barehandedly
wrestled to death” – a story students whispered to each other at night.
His robe wrapped tightly around his body to show off his muscles, and was
a deep reddish brown; a color extracted from the dark leaf of the mighty
willumpter tree. These were trees that grew so tall that even the giant eagles had
difficulty reaching the incredible heights one needed to retrieve a sample for the
dye.
Tanor Grisvernus had so few similarities to other wizards, that if criminals
ever crossed his path, they would never realize his powerful nature, not until they
found themselves the victim of his spells. This was against one of the rules for
wizards; that 'one should be readily apparent as a wizard to common folk', so as
to give them a chance to retreat or make amends. Tanor obviously ignored this
rule, to the annoyance of his colleagues, but never yet had a problem with
harassment, since no one dared bother him based on his large stature alone.
Rendle hesitantly stepped towards the desk and noticed two others in the
room; one of them a wizard, dressed traditionally, and the other a common
citizen. They both gazed at Rendle with a strange expectation in their eyes, as if
he was under some sort of examination.
“Here's the student I was talking about.” Tanor's powerful voice resonated
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sharply in the flat air. “Rendle Bottenshoad.”
Turning to his dean with surprise, Rendle mumbled, “You know my name?”
“Of course I know your name, I know all my student's names, especially my
best students.”
“Your best students?”
“Ha ha, so modest.” Tanor turned to Pournel. “Rendle is the top of his field,
one of the brightest, a very fast learner, and quick on his feet.”
“Is he now?” Pournel said, slightly raising an eyebrow. “What's your field of
study?”
Rendle opened his mouth to speak but Tanor interrupted.
“He is currently on his way to earn a diploma in ecology. Being so
passionately devoted to the subject, he spends many more hours in the library
than average.”
“With an emphasis in amphibians.” Rendle's soft voice added.
“Since he has such an insatiable curiosity in all manner of subjects,” Tanor
continued, “it's hard to put any restricting emphasis on him. Currently in his final
year, he will surely land a cushy job with the state somewhere.”
“What's your grade average?” Pournel asked.
“It's currently at...” Rendle began to answer.
“What do grades matter?” Tanor interrupted again. “One cannot explain
genius with a grading system. Many intellectuals in the past were considered mad
by using the standards of their time. Rendle is everything you need; nothing less
and possibly a whole lot more.”
“May I ask what this is about?” Rendle's question fell on deaf ears.
“What I actually need is someone within the field of botany,” Pournel
pointed at the paper he had set upon Tanor's desk, “maybe a student that matches
the list of attributes I provided.”
“Rubbish.” Tanor crumpled up the list and tossed it into a nearby trash
bucket. “Rendle, from what our resident botanist tells me, is a very astute
student, perhaps one of the best we've had in a long while.”
“I am?” Rendle's eyes widened.
“Ha, there's that modesty again. That's what I like about you. Having Rendle
go will be tough on the school since he provides us with so much, but this quest
of yours is obviously more important so I cannot refuse.”
“What quest? What's happening?” Asked Rendle with no one paying
attention.
“Maybe I should speak to the resident botanist myself,” Pournel said, “to get
this praise from his own lips.”
“The botanist is currently away I'm afraid, off doing research in another land
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somewhere far from here.” Tanor leaned his head forward to look deeply into
Pournel. “I'm doing everything I can for you Brewsworth, old friend, but my
hands are simply tied. If it was truly up to me I would have half the school
helping, but you know how councils can be with their pesky votes and such.”
Pournel let out a deep sigh as if remembering some long lost memory, then
spoke with heavy sarcasm. “Your overwhelming kindness and hospitality is a
hard burden to bear, and quite humbling, truly it is, but I never expect anything
less from you Tanor, being such a fine example of wizard decency and grace. I
believe this quest is sure to be a success, despite your unparalleled generosity.”
“I accept your tactful compliment and release Rendle into your service.”
Tanor smiled wide to show all his teeth again.
“Sorry to interrupt, but what am I doing here? What service?” Rendle
desperately looked at his dean for answers.
Tanor stepped out from behind his desk and stood next to Rendle. “You are
to assist Pournel Brewsworth, a wizard renowned for his stumbling stride and
slurred speech, on a very important quest across these great lands.”
“But...” Rendle tried to object.
“Ah, ah, ah, ah.” Tanor put his large finger to Rendle's small lips to silence
him. “Not another word of worry or doubt. You've already completed the
majority of your course work, so this field work will count towards the rest of
your degree.”
“You mean?”
“Yes! Once you come back you will graduate with full honors.”
“Full honors!”
“Now make haste and pack your things. Take everything you may need for
this journey to assist Brewsworth. Perhaps also a few distilling instruments just
in case he runs dry.”
The office door opened and a lab assistant in a white uniform entered. He
held a rolled scroll along with a bag that contained the bark sample, and
presented them to Tanor.
“Wonderful, the lab results are complete for that bark sample you gave me
earlier.” Tanor took the items and handed them over to Pournel. “This report has
all the information you need to point you in the right direction. I wish you the
best of luck on your travels. I, however, must be going, a dean is always busy.”
Tanor rushed from the office and disappeared down the hall.
Dranden's face scrunched with confusion as he eyed Pournel. “You don't
mind telling me what that was all about? I thought you said this university would
help.”
“It's quite a long story.” Pournel said. “I'd rather not go over it.”
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“You say that for everything.” Dranden protested, raising his hands above
his head. “Is there some history between you and Tanor? Don't give me that look!
I'm just going to start speculating until you tell me. Perhaps it was a lover that
came between you two. Some woman you both wanted but she ended up
breaking both your hearts.”
“No, goodness no.”
“Perhaps it was a quest you two went on a long time ago and everything
went wrong, and you left him to die. Or you stole something of his, like a cup of
sugar and never returned the favor. I saw one tiny hair at the end of your beard
move, that means I'm right. I'll tell everyone I'm right.”
Pournel shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Alright, I'll tell you, just stop
making things up.” Pournel's eyes wiggled as if searching for a memory, then
continued. “Ruling over the High Council of Magic, is an elected leader, and as
you can imagine, this leader rarely changes because of the long life span of
wizards. I used to be part of the council a long time ago, and at that time, the
leader had – umm – let's say he unexpectedly retired, so it was up to the council
to elect someone new. Tanor Grisvernus ran for the position but so did Ugorn
Dampleorb. The vote was split and I became the deciding factor.”
“You voted for Dampleorb, rather than Tanor.” Dranden's eyes lit up with
understanding.
“I thought by now it would've been long forgotten or forgiven, but Tanor has
proven to be very stubborn.”
“So, am I still going?” Rendle asked, which barely elicited a response from
the two, except maybe some surprise that he was still standing there.
Pournel remained silent as he mulled over the report for a moment, just
before he rolled it up and slipped it into his robe's pocket. He then peered down
at Rendle and scrunched his forehead with disappointment. “I could use at least
some assistance from an academic, so yes, you're going. Gather your things
quickly, we must make it to devil's pass by nightfall.”
“Umm...” Rendle fidgeted with his fingers. “Devil's pass? Is it dangerous?”
“Oh, quite so. Goblins, orcs, maybe a troll, all looking for a meal. But you
shouldn't worry, you'll be dead long before they start munching on your bones.”
59

Chapter 8
Little Intruder
After traveling for weeks, Toble made his first major stop at the edge of
the nearest forest filled with wildlife and an array of vibrant, lush
vegetation. With some effort and patience, he managed to catch a
squirrel for dinner. This finally defeated the painful starvation that had tried to
finish him off.
He relaxed next to a small campfire and simply enjoyed the smell of cooked
meat that lingered in the air and upon his breath. Soft grass chilled his sore feet,
which had been burnt to a brown crisp by the bare faced stones of the rocky
desert plains that broiled in the summer sun. He tried to wiggle his toes, but they
barely responded. He may as well have walked for days on top of burning
embers.
Traveling exclusively at night would have been the normal way to cross the
dangerous desert, since it would have avoided the brutal daylight. He could have
also used his bedding sheets as makeshift sandals, to save his feet. But since Bur
had kicked him out of the camp so suddenly, and because of the mission's
impossible time restrictions, Toble couldn't gather any provisions for such a long
and tedious journey.
Toble was forced to eat the lichen from under rocks, which made his teeth
more speckled green than normal. He even gnawed a bit on the sleeve of his sun
battered linen shirt, pilfered from a slain dress maker, which had kept it's pleasant
lavender smell despite being drenched in sweat and dirt. But it didn't taste nearly
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as good as it smelled.
Despite the difficulties, he now had shade from the harsh sun, a belly full of
roasted meat, and cool grass between his toes. Toble felt nice and relaxed, like he
had stepped out of the sandy plains of death and into a colorful paradise.
He constantly glanced into the distance at the nearby mountain peak that
Bur had pointed to, and felt the breathtaking, unsettling, and wide-open sensation
that only freedom offered. Especially now that he was farther out than he'd ever
been from the Hallowed Steps mountain range, a home from which he never
strayed. Content with being a bandit, Toble's sense of exploration never toppled
his paralyzing fear of the unknown, but this important mission forced him to
embrace the greater outside world.
He was already past the two weeks he was given to complete the mission
and had travelled only to the edge of a small forest, which wrapped around the
base of the first, and also smallest, mountain in the range.
Past the mountains, across the plains, and up some steps. Toble muttered to
himself, trying to remember Bur's vague instructions. But where would the axe
be? Would it be in an armory? Bur said instincts would take over and show the
way, but only after arriving to wherever he was supposed to be. The crystal he
was given must have broke because time moved normally, as far as Toble could
tell, so he tossed it away to reduce weight and conserve bag space.
Strange noises and calls of animals he did not recognize, constantly drifted
from the thicket of trees. And among the whistling, chirping, and buzzing of
forest life, there was also a low resonating harmony. Like an instrument being
played, similar in tune to the music box stuffed inside his satchel.
Driven by curiosity, Toble rose to his feet and lurked deeper into the forest.
He was careful not to make a sound, and soon came across another campsite not
too far from where he had been. The fire was extinguished some time ago and
any signs of the travelers were gone. But the instrument sound continued to drift
through the forest, stronger now than it was before and resonating with clarity, as
if magic allowed the melody to remain suspended in the air.
If they are travelers, then maybe they know of a pathway through the
mountains, Toble thought, and I could follow them to it?
Scratching his crooked chin, Toble considered the risks. The size of their
camp fire meant they were a small party of maybe three or four. The music they
played meant they were civilized and intelligent, so not trolls or orcs. And they
left very few tracks as they moved, which meant they were graceful and elegant.
It had to be Elves.
Toble shuddered at the thought because he hated the elves. Even though he
had only encountered them once, it was a horrible day he remembered well.
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Many years ago, when he was still employed with the first bandit party, the same
group that had found him as an infant and decided not to eat him, Toble finally
got a chance to assist in a highway robbery. The merchant group looked normal
with only three guards, but they were actually of high elven descent sent by the
kingdom to uproot all bandits in the area and make the roads safe again. The
bandits were hunted down and nearly exterminated, except for Toble, who
managed to escape the slaughter by slithering through the mud pits.
The way elves effortlessly moved in battle, how their superior weapons cut
through orc armor, and how their relentless assault of arrows always found a
target, was both magnificent and terrifying. Toble became scarred with a deep
fear, which slowly developed into resentment, and then finally festered into a
loathing hatred.
The general rule of thumb for a goblin was, see an elf, run the other way.
For orcs, it depended on numbers and the surprise factor. But for goblins and
orcs, if you ever did kill anything of elven blood, “don't eat 'em, 'cause if ya do,
that gets 'em real mad and they'll hunt ya to the ends of the world till yer dead.” A
gruff old goblin once warned. “An' when they kill ya, they'll put a curse on yer
corpse, an' make ya swim through lava for all eternity.”
Despite the risk, Toble decided to follow the music because he knew he was
lost and they were the only chance he had to find a way through this place.
Pushing aside the lush green foliage, the goblin tip-toed his way through and
let the enchanting melody guide his way. Mushrooms with white stems and
orange tops grew in clusters around boulders and rocks. Tall thin flowers with
bright red petals bloomed around the outstretched tree roots.
Toble soon spotted a narrow pathway with footsteps upon it's damp soil,
indicating that a small group of people recently traveled upon it and weren't too
far ahead. Movement caught his eye and he saw the group of four striding in
single file through the thick woods.
The one in front was a she-elf with long white hair, a white dress, and a
braided crown of yellow flowers on top her head. She skipped along the path and
held a flute up to her soft thin lips, playing the tune the forest gladly carried – the
same song luring Toble. Three men paced steadily behind her, stoic and silent, as
if they guarded her and were deep in thought. Each of the men were covered with
white robes that had blue and gold trim.
Elves, Toble cursed in his thoughts. See an elf, run the other way, also
echoed, but they were unaware of his presence and he meant them no harm. He
was just a passing stranger in a strange land.
Figuring he could follow them a little longer, since they hadn't spotted him
yet, Toble slowed his pace and stayed in the thick of the forest, away from the
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open pathway. But the beauty of the place distracted him, containing so much
wildlife that Toble never knew was possible.
Butterflies danced around milkweed stalks that swayed in the gentle wind
between the trees. Marvelous birds, with long rainbow colored wings, were
perched high in the branches. Other birds were a pure white, like the mountain
tops, and their beaks glittered a pearlescent sheen. The canopy of the forest was
tall and thick but still let in plenty of sunlight, casting warm golden stripes upon
the rich umber bark.
Snaaaap!
A large dry twig suddenly broke under Toble's foot by accident, causing a
deafening silence. It was as if the forest hushed for a moment to listen, but then
quickly resumed it's cacophony of bird chirps and leaf rustling. He foolishly lost
track of his careful tiptoeing and may have given away his position. Making
matters worse, the group mysteriously vanished from the path and were no where
to be seen. Perhaps they made a sudden turn or sprinted ahead? Toble cursed his
clumsiness and wondered if the twig snap was loud enough to cause alarm.
“Ellum Valdrum Lekotik.” A voice grunted in elvish from behind Toble, just
as a sharp sword jammed into his back between his shoulder blades, but without
puncturing the skin.
Sticking his jittery green hands straight up to surrender, Toble slowly turned
around and looked upon his captors. The group consisted of three elves and one
human, and they peered upon the trembling goblin with curiosity, disgust,
indifference, and contempt. They argued among themselves about what to do,
using a language Toble never heard before.
The she-elf spoke with a softness Toble had rarely known, as if a sense of
compassion drifted within her words. This wasn't so much towards Toble himself,
but rather a part of her very nature. The second elf, who appeared to be closely
related, perhaps her younger brother, stood next to her and held the sword that
stuck into Toble's chest. He snarled at his sister's misguided pity and rolled his
eyes at her words. His robe was pulled open, revealing hardened white leather
armor decorated with silver buttons that shimmered in the sunlight. Slung over
his shoulder was a white wooden bow with a quiver full of black-tipped arrows.
The third elf, who was older in appearance with lines under his eyes and grey
streaks in his hair, stood off to the side with arms crossed and deep in thought. He
listened to the two siblings bicker as if he was used to it. Their fourth member, a
human, chimed in once or twice, as if attempting to reconcile the two opposing
views.
Having been raised in the brutal desert and forced to wage battle after battle
to survive, Toble knew when he was done for. The only thing that could save his
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skin now was some sort of wondrous luck; perhaps a tree could fall and kill them
all?
The sibling's argument became more cross, especially from the younger
brother that held the sword, who obviously wanted to kill Toble right then and
there. The human also looked around suspiciously, as if anticipating an attack
from more goblins nearby. But the she-elf steadied their paranoia and calmed
their blood lust.
Toble had come across elvish words before within a book that was
plundered, but hearing it now, with it's own peculiar phonetics and timbre, those
lifeless letters on the page jumped to life and danced within his strange goblin
mind. As they moved their lips and bent their tongues, they displayed the
foundation for how to speak the language, which caused Toble's own mouth to
naturally twitch and contort in imitation.
The older elf, who stood to the side, finally silenced the two younger ones
and spoke with a voice as smooth as stones in a river. He was giving a command,
and it made the young elf with the sword roll his eyes in irritation, as if the matter
was settled without his approval.
The she-elf smiled and twirled her slender hand in the air, commanding
Toble to turn around, which he did so very carefully. He knew that any sudden
movement would surely mean death.
Pulling out a pair of shackles from his pack, the human bound Toble's feet
and neck, and pulled on him with a short metal pole to keep a safe distance. The
bindings were normally used to drag along the carcass of a large animal after
hunting, but the group had no other bindings, and they fit the goblin well enough.
Going back to the pathway and heading further into the forest, the she-elf
took out her flute once again and played a tune to pass the time. The melody
drifted around them, bouncing off the thick trunks and catching the attention of
many birds, which began to chirp to it's tempo.
Toble was tempted to whistle, but then thought it best not to accidentally
provoke the wrath of his captors, especially the younger brother, who
occasionally glared at him with malicious eyes.
Nestled between a cluster of massive oaks was a small encampment that had
thin wooden walls, moss encrusted rope bridges, and a few dusty, leaf covered
tents. They locked Toble in a cage originally designed to hold chickens, to keep
them safe from roaming wolves or other predators, but now re-purposed to keep
Toble from harming any of them.
He wasn't sure why they were so afraid. Three elves and a human against
one little scrawny goblin? He probably couldn't even get close enough to bite one
of their ankles before being struck dead. But they took every precaution by
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double checking the sturdiness of the lock and patting him down for any hidden
weapons. The human took Toble's satchel and rummaged through it, taking out
the two daggers to show the others how they were covered with green specks,
which was lichen scraped from the rocks in the desert. They seemed to speculate
as to what the green stuff could be by smelling it and examining it closely,
showing signs of doubt and anxiety.
Nightfall was quickly consuming the forest, so the older elf went to the
middle of the camp where there was a prearranged pile of wood. He threw some
powder on the bottom tinder, which sparked bright and erupted with flames. The
wood burned smokeless and had a pleasant smell like warm honey. Nearby lied
the corpse of a small deer they had hunted earlier with dry herbs rubbed over it's
skinless carcass, already prepared for cooking. Hanging the deer above the
flames and letting it roast, the captors talked among themselves; telling stories
and jokes, triumphs and embarrassments.
Toble's mind sharply focused on their words; the more they spoke, the more
clear it all became. He only heard two of their names, since they still acted
cautious with sharing information while talking around the goblin.
The she-elf was named Elrin, and she carried herself like royalty and leader
of this tiny group. She spoke of how good it was to be outside her family's castle
walls, and how this part of the forest made her feel like a child again; carefree
and boundless.
Elrin's younger brother was named Arelius, and he seemed gentle, pensively
nostalgic, a bit crude with his jokes, and just a little patronizing towards his
sister, but an all around nice soul, except when his gaze turned towards Toble.
Then cruelty, malice, and vicious savagery coalesced around him like dark
clouds. No trace of compassion existed within the chambers of his eyes whenever
he glared at the goblin.
The human acted slightly aloof, like his mind was elsewhere, and the others
teased him about some woman he was fond of but wasn't here. He was a military
tactician in their ranks, and needed more experience in the woods for his training.
The older elf was their captain, but Elrin wasn't under his direct command
so she was permitted a sizable amount of subordination. The other two, however,
followed orders even if reluctantly, like when the captain made the earlier
decision to spare Toble's life.
Their discussion dwindled into small talk, and the deer finished roasting to a
golden brown. They dampened the flames but did not quench them, keeping them
high enough to warm the entire camp. The deer's juices and fats sizzled,
permeating the air with a thick meaty aroma as they pulled it apart and
distributed it among themselves.
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Toble craved for it more and more until he knew for sure this was an act of
torture. It had to be. The food was so close, mere paces away, but it could have
been across the expanse of the entire universe and it wouldn't have made a
difference. He would not be getting any; not a single morsel. Unfortunately, that
didn't stop his mouth from watering and his nostrils from flaring. So he bit his lip
and plugged his nose in a vain attempt to curve his desire.
Pulling off a strip of meat from the thigh, Elrin tossed a sizable chunk at
Toble, who snatched it up immediately.
The goblin chewed with merriment and savored it's slow roasted flavor,
allowing the meat to melt away like butter between his rotted teeth. He also
began to feel that maybe the elves weren't so bad after all. That behind their soft,
nimble, smug exteriors were living beings who didn't believe they were the
center of the universe. But then his thoughts jittered as the realization struck him
that this was his final meal. It wasn't so much an act of kindness, but a shrewd,
tantalizing way to excuse themselves of their cruel actions. A single meal for a
single life, that's how it worked with the sneaky elves.
Arelius shook his head in protest of Elrin tossing over some food, and he
furrowed his brow in anger. “What about our little intruder?”
“I still think he's an assassin sent to kill you.” The human said towards Elrin.
“Green specks cover his daggers.”
“But we don't know if it's poison.” Elrin said.
“We would have to get it tested back in town,” the human nodded in
agreement, “but that'll take days.”
“We don't have days.” Arelius snorted. “I say we kill it now, and be done
with it. It's mere presence has sullied these great woods. Probably fouled a small
hole by now.”
“As if you haven't fouled a small hole.” Elrin said. “Look at him, the poor
soul looks mostly starved. His feet are burnt and his skin is darkened, probably
banished from wherever he came.”
“Banished for a reason, no doubt.” Arelius raised one of his silvery white
eyebrows. “Maybe it carries a communicable disease? No creature can be so
naturally ugly, not even for a goblin.”
“It's too much of a coincidence that he is here the same time as you.” The
human advised, just like a tactician. “And mixed with the green specks on his
daggers – the evidence is too great and too risky to ignore. We must execute him
before he is able to contact the rest of his group.”
“Lichen!” Toble suddenly shouted, causing everyone to turn to him. “I eat
lichen, scrapped from rocks. See!” Toble grinned wide to show the same green
specks covering his gums.
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“He speaks Elvish!” Elrin's eyes widened with curiosity.
“How is this so?” Arelius echoed his sister's amazement. “When we
captured the vermin, it looked as confused as ever.”
“I listen, I learn.” Toble pointed to his large droopy ears.
“I've heard about goblins before,” the human said, widening his eyes, “that
their minds are very peculiar, making some capable of superior thought,
including learning languages quickly. But I never thought I'd witness it.”
“Good thing it speaks elvish, because I never learned how to speak ugly.”
Arelius grunted. “But no matter, it should die before uttering another word.”
“I agree.” The human nodded. “He may call out to others at any time,
summoning them here.”
“No.” Elrin rebuked the two. “Since he speaks, we should at least ask a few
questions before acting rashly.”
Not waiting for the other's approval, she stepped closer to Toble's cage and
commenced the interrogation.
“Why are you in this forest?”
“Travel east, through mountains.” Toble's elvish improved as he moved his
tongue and lips.
“Why were you following us?”
“Find way through mountains, sent by orc, on mission. Thought you show
way. Heard music. Such sweet sound, like song-box I have.”
“Song box?” Elrin asked.
Toble eagerly pointed at his satchel, of which the human opened and took
out the box. Elrin grabbed it away and tilted back the lid. The box gently played a
simple tune and the dancer figurine spun in circles.
“Your song sounded same.” Toble said.
“Yes, it looks like it came from an elvish kingdom.” Elrin said. “Maybe
from one of the old colonies.”
“And I'm sure you looted it off the dead bodies of those you murdered,”
Arelius snarled, “then feasted on their corpses.”
“No, no.” Toble shook his head. “We never eat elves.”
“But humans are fine?” The human asked, casting a cold glare.
Toble shifted in his spot, wanting to change the subject. “What is music
about, any meaning?”
“It's from a play, about a young girl that's trapped in a city under siege.”
Elrin answered, still staring at the spinning dancer in the box. “She eventually
puts on a dance performance to raise the people's spirits.”
“Forget about the music.” Arelius interrupted. “Tell us about this mission
from your leader.”
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“Mission, yes. Go past mountains, past plains, up stairs, and find dagger.”
The group looked bewildered at each other.
“What dagger?” Asked Elrin.
“Magic dagger, with hollow blade, gems on handle, and runes all around.”
Laughing so hard, Arelius nearly choked on some meat, while Elrin paced
back to her seat on the log and woefully sighed. The human shook his head and
smirked as he looked over the other useless treasures in the goblin's satchel.
Coughing out the piece of meat lodged in his throat, Arelius took a deep
breath and steadied himself. “A dagger with a hollow blade?”
“Yes, you know?” Toble asked with wide eyes.
“No, no one knows it.” Arelius laughed again. “I know you're a goblin but
you must realize that your leader sent you on a fool's errand.”
“Fool's errand?”
“You were probably with one of the bandit parties, and seeing how famished
you are, business wasn't good, so they sent you away.”
“No, no.” Toble shook his head. “They need me. They need dagger. We
starved, and boss told me.”
Arelius and the human continued laughing, but Elrin pouted.
“So a goblin that's smart enough to learn another language at lightning pace,
doesn't realize when he's tricked.” The human chuckled with arrogance. “A
goblin's intellect is peculiar indeed. I'll have to tell my old school master about
this.”
“Oh no.” Toble mumbled while opening his black eyes wider, finally
understanding the possible truth. “We starved! Three goblins and two orcs. Orcs
wanted to eat the others. True, I was tricked – a fool!”
“Then you were sparred.” Arelius said with a smile that quickly formed into
a snarl. “But it seems for only a little while, now that you've ran into us.” Turning
to the others, Arelius unsheathed his sword. “Should I be the one to put this vile
wretch out of it's misery, and spill it's green blood upon these lands?”
“You can't possibly kill him now, knowing his story.” Elrin protested. “And
orcs are the ones that have green blood. Goblins have red blood.”
“What does it matter his blood color?” Arelius growled. “They are just as
unnaturally foul as orcs.”
“And this could still be a clever ruse,” the human said in agreement, “to
make us believe it's sad tale, so we let our guards down.”
“No, I won't allow it.” Elrin declared.
“We must!” Arelius said, clenching his sword's handle and stepping closer to
Toble's cage. “A goblin that kills alongside orcs can never be trusted!”
“Enough.” The elf captain said, finally breaking his silence. Puffing on his
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pipe the whole time, his stoic countenance never changed until now. “It seems we
have solved the mystery of our guest. We will take him back to our city and let
the council decide his fate.”
“But....” Arelius tried to speak but the older elf lifted his hand in rebuke.
“Yes captain.” Arelius said quickly, trying to not show his disapproval.
With that final order, the night was officially over and they each wrapped
themselves with their own bedding of soft linen until resembling cocoons. The
fire died down and everyone settled into slumber.
Drifting from the northeast was a cool breeze, which rolled silently over the
camp and over the sleeping elves, human, and goblin. Toble dreamt about being
hit with sticks by one of his long dead orc bosses and told to “move faster” and
“put your back into it!” Toble grunted, fidgeted, and erratically twitched his
limbs as he dodged the imaginary blows.
Everyone slept except for one, and he silently tip-toed to the goblin's cage
where he cast a simple spell that made the lock fall to pieces.
Opening the squeaky door and nudging Toble awake with his boot, Arelius
covered the goblin's mouth so he would remain quiet. Toble warily looked up
with squinting, tired eyes, and thought to call for help, but saw the stern face of
the elf, that he was not to be disobeyed. Arelius gripped his sword, still sheathed,
and tilted his head in a direction, commanding Toble to follow.
The elf lead Toble deep into the woods where it was dark and damp.
Crickets and many small bugs had replaced the symphony of birds that were here
during the day, and played their own discordant serenade that only insects could
appreciate or understand.
Reaching an acceptable distance from the camp, Arelius stopped suddenly
and let out a deep sigh.
“I must confess Toble, I think that's your name, that I feel bad for all of this.
Now that I've had the night to think, all creatures should be given the benefit of
the doubt no matter how disgusting or pathetic.”
Staring at the elf with wide eyes, Toble didn't know what to say because it
was a strange thing for an elf to apologize to a goblin. He had never known an elf
personally, but what every single goblin has ever taught, this was completely
unique.
Taking a slight bow in appreciation, Toble kept his eyes on Arelius, but the
elf had his hand off his sword, and even appeared content rather than scornful as
he had been. Maybe this was a genuine reflection of elven hospitality, something
Toble thought was impossible.
“You should head west, and leave the forest forever.” Arelius continued.
“The council in the city will probably hold you in a tiny cage for years and years.
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This way will be much better for you.”
Turning to leave, Toble's mind danced with endless possibilities and
destinations, but hopefully none of them had him running into another group like
this again. Of all the stories other bandits had told, no elf had ever been so
gracious as to spare a goblin's life, let alone allow one to go free. No one would
ever believe this story even if Toble somehow managed to find the hollow dagger
and make his way back to the Hallowed Steps. But none of that really mattered,
Toble was simply happy he could live another day.
Taking only ten little steps, Toble heard a bow's string go taunt – it was
Arelius pulling back one of his black tipped arrows.
That dirty, lying elf!
Of course it was an act of deception, how could Toble have been so blind?
There was always a nagging suspicion of this treachery lurking in the depths of
his subconscious, until hope infiltrated his judgement and covered the awful truth
with an elegant shroud of sweet lies.
“This way is far better.” Arelius mumbled under his breath, smirking a little.
“What are you doing?” The elf captain suddenly shouted from a distance.
The arrow was loosed, but because of the distraction, it went wide to the left
and bounced off Toble's ear, leaving only a scratch.
“The goblin escaped, and I tracked him here.” Arelius tried to explain as he
turned to face the angry captain.
Seeing his chance to escape, Toble dashed away as fast as he could into the
night covered forest. Elves were exceptional trackers, but he knew the best way
to avoid their detection – mud. Elves hated to get dirty, and mud stains were hard
to get out of their fancy, sparkly clothes, and it also blemished their smooth, soft
skin, so they avoided it at all costs.
Toble sniffed the dewy forest air and caught the aroma of mud; like a wet
pair of socks mixed with old sodden wood. He eventually spotted a long mud
bank that ran along a small river, so he happily plunged into it's squishy coolness
and squiggled away.
71

Chapter 9
The Knight
Stumbling on the dirt pathway and wearing nothing but a sword strapped to
his back, Belfast Tilwyrst covered his nakedness as best he could and
glanced frantically across the horizon for anyone; friend or foe. Athletic in
build with broad shoulders, thick full arms, and trunk-like legs, Belfast was tall
and handsome. His black hair curled across his sturdy forehead, his light blue
eyes sparkled like gems in the sunlight, and his well trimmed beard wrapped
around a chiseled jaw line. Though strong and formidable in appearance, he was
still not immune to the dangers of the open road, nor to the impulses of his
altruistic nature – which is what got him into this mess.
His journey had lasted less than two weeks and everything except his sword
was taken by nefarious bandits. But he was not robbed by ugly goblins or
ferocious orcs, that would be easier for Belfast to comprehend. No, these horrible
little wretches were women, young decent-looking women no less.
He was trotting on his horse through Heirender forest, minding his own
business, when he came across one of the bandits by the side of the road. But the
horrible fiend was deceptive in her approach. Instead of lunging at him with
weapons and threats of violence, she reached out with terrified and trembling
arms. Tears of panic streamed across her cheeks as she explained how evil
marauders kidnapped her little sister and took the helpless girl further into the
woods.
There were “only three marauders”, the lying young woman assured Belfast,
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“which can be easily defeated”, since he had the surprise advantage and because
he was such a “strong and abled man.”
Feeling a sense of duty to justice and honor, and that this could be the start
of many heroic deeds to remedy his past misfortunes, Belfast charged into the
woods with foolish conviction and steadfast courage. But there was no little
sister, instead it was a trap set by horrible women who leapt from the surrounding
woods and stripped him of all his possessions.
After nightfall, when they were all asleep and not paying attention, he
escaped his cage, took back his family sword, and dashed out of the camp in a
mad rush. An alarm was sounded and they searched for him throughout the
forest, but Belfast found the road and continued on his journey, only now without
a horse, clothes, or supplies. His sword was an important family heirloom, so he
was glad to still have it, but he also wished he could have snatched up some
pants.
Looking across the horizon for anyone, Belfast spotted a small group of
travelers ahead, only three of them, but couldn't tell if they were friendly. He
didn't want to retreat back into the woods because that risked being captured by
those women again. So he sucked in a deep breath, which expanded his large
chest even more, and decided to continue forward.
Getting closer, Belfast noticed the traveler in front had a long, pointy hat.
Hopefully he was a real wizard rather than someone merely dressed as one, since
a huckster would no doubt try to steal his sword in the night. One of the other
men looked like a commoner, while the other looked like an academic with the
appropriate university cap and cowl. Academics normally wore their silly little
outfits of brown and burgundy in order to appear official, which was great for
Belfast, because they are never allowed to do official business without a proper
escort, such as a wizard, to ensure their safety. Although the outfit could still be a
forgery, just like the pointy hat.
Belfast chose to keep his distance, at least at first, so he could size them up.
The group had stopped and were waiting for Belfast to get closer after noticing
him approach on the horizon, along with his lack of clothes. They tried their best
to ignore his nakedness, but couldn't help but glance down in his direction every
now and then. The small academic gave especially strange glares, which seemed
to be more from confusion than anything else.
“It's quite a nice day for a stroll in the buff.” The one with the pointy hat
shouted, his voice carried by the warm morning air.
“Yes, today's very gorgeous.” Belfast held up one hand to wave and kept the
other down below to cover himself. He continued moving towards the group at a
steady pace but kept his eyes open for any sudden surprises. “I am Belfast
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Tilwyrst and was on a quest until female bandits ambushed me in Hierender
Forest not far from here.”
Belfast abruptly stopped within twenty paces of the group, thinking it was
the safest distance to get a good look, while also being able to avoid an attack.
“I am Pournel Brewsworth,” the wizard tipped his pointy hat, but also
noticed Belfast's hesitancy, “a real wizard, not someone merely dressed as one.
And this is Dranden Pipperwhip the fifth, a saddle maker from the town
Lotshill.”
“Nice to meet you.” Belfast gave a slight nod to the saddle maker, which
was politely returned. There was nothing special about Dranden, as far as Belfast
was concerned, and the man had many youthful features, which meant he
appeared younger than he really was, but not by much.
“And this is Rendle Bottenshoad,” the wizard continued, “an academic of
sorts.”
The little academic tried to tip his hat, which jutted upward from his head
like a small brown pillar, but his burgundy gown was far too stiff for any
substantial range of motion. His hand barely moved above his waist before he
compromised with an awkward hand wave and crooked smile.
“I think I have some clothes to spare.” Dranden said, just before he reached
into his bags for a cloak to toss over. “But since you're bigger, here's the only
thing that can fit you.”
“Thank you kindly.” Belfast caught the cloak and slipped it on. It was light
blue with faint images of clouds as a pattern, and the soft fabric effectively
soaked up his sweat while remaining cool and breezy. “It fits nicely.”
“It's a one-size-fits-all bath robe.” Dranden said. “My wife helped me pack,
so she must have threw it in there. She apparently thought I would be lounging
around in a spa somewhere, but only because I may have kind-of told her that –
just to ease her fears of me going on this trip. Sure fooled her!” Dranden
snickered with a fading smile, “but I haven't had a decent bath the whole time, so
I guess I'm the fool.”
The wizard gently rolled his eyes, perhaps irked at the saddle maker's words,
since it was a strangely personal thing to state. But Belfast didn't mind the
friendly banter, since it made them appear genuine rather than frauds.
“You said female bandits waylaid you?” Pournel asked, changing the
subject.
“A vicious bunch – young and reckless.” Belfast said. “They must have seen
my path through Hierender forest and laid in wait for their devious ambush.”
“Did you happen to get a good look at them?” Pournel's eyes glistened with
curiosity.
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“Yes, especially their leader. Long black hair, sharp nose, thin lips, just a
little shorter than myself, an overall stern look, and ice blue eyes. I believe I
overheard the others call her Elanor.”
“Elanor Branorwool.” Pournel smiled in acknowledgment. “For many years
she was an apprentice for a wizard friend of mine, but she had found her mentor's
training too slow so she ran away to learn the arts on her own. Before leaving,
she ransacked the wizard's house and workshop, so is probably in possession of
many powerful artifacts.”
“Now that you mention it, the bandit's spoke about a stone that would erase
my memory, or to distort it. I wasn't sure, they were a distance away talking
amongst themselves.”
“It's called the inquisitors stone.” Pournel said, knowing the item in an
instant.
“The inquisitors stone!” Rendle spoke up suddenly, his dull eyes suddenly
bright with enthusiasm. “Formed under the roots of the Bretmark tree found in
most marshlands, which also produces a flower that tadpoles of the giant Heddit
toad feed upon.”
“Fascinating that you remember so much when it's related to frogs.” Pournel
glanced at Rendle with amusement, but the academic had became silent again;
going back to only giving awkward stares and wiggling his lips. “The stone is
used to muddle with someone's memories,” Pournel continued, “to make one, in
a sense, misremember. Inquisitors have used the stones during times of war to
cause their subjects to remember being tortured, so they would answer any and
all questions. The victims would remain unharmed physically, but believe with
absolute certainty they survived all manner of horrors. A very effective, but very
costly, item to use. Elanor must be drawing from a larger source of magic to use
it.”
“So they were going to make me not remember being robbed?” Belfast
asked, becoming more relaxed with the thought that this old man was most likely
a wizard. Frauds are unlikely to know such magical things, nor could they make
them up on the spot, unless they were exceedingly clever.
“I assume they would have made you remember something else entirely,
like being robbed by orcs and goblins, rather than by young women.”
“They used my sense of compassion and helpfulness to their advantage,”
Belfast frowned, “by making me believe I could save a child. I'm going into my
final year of training to become a knight, so my desire to rescue others blinded
me to the trap. No orc or goblin could do the same.”
Belfast felt safe enough to take several steps closer, and to strap his sword
on the outside of the robe. If this man was indeed a wizard, then how lucky he
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THE KNI GHT
was to have stumbled upon such a group, especially in his time of great need.
Luck had been entirely nonexistent the past few years, which made it almost
incomprehensible to him how any of this was happening.
Brushing his black hair from his face and tightening the robe's belt to keep it
from opening up, Belfast continued, “Wizards don't normally travel with
commoners, unless they're invited on a quest.”
“We are on our way to the forest of Tellifar,” Pournel lazily pointed in the
distance, “where lies my place of residence.”
“We have to study a cursed tree so we can kill it.” Dranden smirked. “A
curse Brewsworth himself cast a long time ago.”
“We don't know what's infecting the tree, yet, and I don't remember casting a
curse.” Pournel said to Dranden, then turned to Belfast. “You spoke about being
on a quest, does it have to do with your knight's training?”
“Not exactly. I plan to travel to the Gate of the Deathstalker,” Belfast stuck
out his chest and lifted his chin, “and brave the caverns in search of the lost
mask.”
“You're what?” Pournel gasped, raising his head as if coming out of his
drunken haze. “What type of madness would drive you to go there? Is this some
sort of suicide quest or strange joke?”
“No.” Belfast said, sensing the wizard's distress. “Why? Is it too
dangerous?”
“Too dangerous is an understatement. Haven't you been told the stories
about the Gate of the Deathstalker?”
“Yes, of course, just ghost stories it seems. That's why I thought it would be
a brave thing to do. Impress everyone.”
“How can you impress anyone when you're dead?” Pournel became
flabbergasted and perked up his bushy eyebrows.
“Sorry,” Dranden said, “but what's the problem? Am I the only one here who
doesn't know the stories?”
Rendle simply glared blankly at Pournel, also unable to conjure any memory
about the gate.
Pournel frowned at them both with stern eyes. “What are they teaching
young people in school nowadays? The Gate of the Deathstalker lies inside a
gorge between the two Ash mountains. The clouds of ash covering the mountains
is what's left of a massive battle between many forces, both light and dark, which
has never settled and may never settle. Do not venture into the ash of the dead, do
not tread into the caves past the gate, for nothing dwells there but death and an
eternity of darkness.”
A moment of silence passed over the group as Pournel peered into them, and
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past them, as if reliving some memory buried deep and hidden away. Pournel
then faced Belfast and spoke calmly. “This road goes for two days until splitting
to the path you want to take. You're welcome to travel with us to that point and
then you can march to your demise, or whatever you choose.”
Belfast would have thought it over more, but he didn't have much of a
choice, being without clothes or supplies. The closest town was days away, which
was arguably manageable, since he still had his sword and could hunt small
animals for food until then, though it would be difficult.
The wizard took his eyes away from the horizon for a moment and motioned
towards Rendle. “You may share his steed, if you wish.”
The options for Belfast were indeed limited, if there were any at all, but he
believed he should be perfectly fine, even if they were frauds. What's the worse
that could happen in only a few days? And besides, they probably had more to
fear from him than he did of them – but hopefully no catastrophic accident would
happen, just as long as Belfast didn't try to do anything.
Belfast hopped onto Rendle's steed, and the group continued on their
journey. The aspiring knight rode in silence and examined how the wizard's
mood changed from contemplative brooding – but after a few drinks – to a
relaxed mellowness. He even hummed a few tunes in good cheer.
The sun crossed the midday point and each of them munched on some road
snacks that Pournel divvied up. Then after a short while, and a few melodies
later, Pournel nodded off into a nap.
While trotting further behind, Belfast decided to take advantage of this quiet
time and whisper out of earshot of the wizard.
“I don't believe the stories.” He mumbled to Rendle. “What do you think?”
The academic merely shrugged his meager shoulders and gave a slight
frown.
“The only thing I know about the matter,” Belfast continued, “is that the
Deathstalker mask was a relic of the old dark gods, something they used during
sacrifices, and that it contains unimaginable power, but also unimaginable
horrors. But seriously, a magic mask protected by living shadows that can slice
you in half without effort, and curses the person who wears it into madness.
That's a fable told so long ago no one knows if it's real or not.”
“But a wizard would know.” Rendle's crooked eyes glanced this way and
that, indicating his own ignorance of the subject.
Belfast frowned with disappointment and frustration. “But I need to
complete a heroic quest and what could be more heroic than venturing past a gate
everyone is so scared about? Even if I find nothing there, it would still be
extremely courageous.”
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Hearing Belfast whisper, Dranden slowed his horse to get closer and to
speak softly. “I've been traveling with Pournel for more than a week now, and
never once saw him get so excited. He seems quite calm again now, but I think he
told the truth. He is a drunk and a bit off balance, but he is no fool and has been
around for a very, very long time. You may want to reconsider your quest.”
Belfast looked to the east, towards the Ash Mountains that had come into
view just on the horizon, and examined the vast pillars of dust and smoke that
enshrined them. Always a source of ghost stories and intrigue, no one knew what
lied within that swirling darkness, and those who ventured into it were never
heard of again, or so they say. Also, what was the point of exploring them? They
were only two small mountains in a somewhat barren part of the world. There
were plenty of other mountains to conquer that were beautiful and glorious – and
safer.
Belfast's uncle was the one to suggest the journey, not explicitly, but while
telling stories of his various journeys when he was a young man. “Mountain tops,
evergreen fields, deep vaults, I saw it all.” Uncle Humphrey used to brag.
“Except the gate of the Deathstalker.” His countenance would shift from
excitement to regret. “I was traveling with a merchant who dealt in rare
antiquities and we were passing by the Ash mountains where I remembered
hearing of the caves that lay past the gate. I suggested we take a quick peek
inside, but they shivered with fear and would not budge. I took their reaction as a
warning and chose not to explore it.”
Years later uncle Humphrey gathered the necessary equipment and resources
to make the trip back to the gate, but kept getting burdened with life's day to day
troubles until old age snuck up on him, which made adventuring impossible. He
still had a dust hood that he stored away, getting it out to use as a prop in his
stories. It was the same dust hood Belfast had taken for this trip, but subsequently
lost to the female bandits. The hood would have protected him from the dangers
of breathing in the ash, but it was now lost, and so was the quest it seemed.
Honestly, all he had planned on doing was simply stroll in and out of the caverns.
The ghost stories never bothered him and were so ridiculous that they couldn't
possibly be true.
Contemplating in silence, Belfast knew he had to make a decision about
what to do and hoped there would be a sign to guide him.
79

Chapter 10
The Priestess
Bathing, scrubbing, and feeding the animals, wasn't technically Zelendra
Willowind's job and she sighed with annoyance at her sad circumstance.
Being part of the traveling performers known as the Wonderlings, wasn't
all that wonderful, and it made Zelendra second guess the choice to run away
from home years ago.
She was a Tundian, which is a half-elf, half-human race of people that lived
far to the east on a cluster of islands. Her ears were half-pointed, her hair was
currently died a dark royal blue, though naturally a silvery white, and her frame
was tall and voluptuous. But she minimized her attractiveness by pressing down
her large breasts with tight pieces of cloth to reduce their size, and wore many
layers of baggy clothes to hide her other curves. This was to avoid unwanted
sexual attention from the uncouth slobs she worked alongside.
Dark rain clouds moved on the horizon and would soon be overhead, so she
had to finish the chores quickly. She hustled past the cages that held elephants,
giraffes, rhinos, wolves, leopards, and many more. She refreshed the water
buckets and double checked the locks, so that none would escape.
Most of her time was spent doing another worker's chores, but she had to or
else nothing would ever be done, and she certainly didn't want to live in a dump.
All manner of excuses were given by the others: sickness, bad back, dry eyes,
tingling toes, an unexplainable sense of wariness – she heard it all. The day to
day grind wouldn't be so bad if the animals seemed grateful for her extra effort.
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But the apathetic, defeatist, lazy attitude of the workers had somehow transferred
into everything, including the rats and squeaky wheels. “Work less, drink more”,
was the motto often uttered, followed by a swig of whatever hooch was at hand.
Muffles the cat brushed against her leg as she changed the animal's straw
beds, and he let out an affectionate purr. Muffles was smart, loyal, graceful, and
the only creature appreciative of her. His fur was a darker orange color, his neck
was puffed out around his face and on top his head, and his tail had a dark poof at
the end which he slyly shifted back and forth. Technically, Muffle's wasn't a
small house cat even though he had the appearance of one. Instead, he was a
transmogrified lion.
There were strict laws in this land against the use of lions in traveling
performances, so the great beast was concealed with an expensive transform spell
rather than abandoned. Muffles took a liking to Zelendra and could constantly be
seen around her, watching everything, studying perhaps. He refused to become
complacent like the other animals and stayed true to the title, 'king of the natural
beasts'.
Finishing up with the last of the chores and getting sleepy growls from the
animals as they rolled around in their bedding, she motioned for Muffles to
follow as she walked towards her own personal wagon.
“Let's go Muffles,” she called out, “we get to finally relax.”
Unlike many of the others, she was given an entire wagon as a place to sleep
and work, rent free. Having a wagon was important, because there were only a
few and they had luxurious interiors, as opposed to sleeping on the ground in a
tent like everyone else. This was one of the main reasons Zelendra even stayed
with the group, resisting the temptation to burn everything to the ground and run
off with the valuables – a fantasy often played out in her dreams.
Her wagon was placed between the animal tamer's shack and a tent that held
an assortment of games for customers to play, which were all disassembled at the
moment. Posted along the top of her wagon was a wooden sign that read,
“Zelendra's House of Wonders”, in big bright colorful script, along with small
text underneath; “Fortune Telling, Psychic, Love Potions, Seance.”
Besides having to do the bulk of the labor behind the scenes, Zelendra also
worked as a psychic when the show ran. She contacted the dead, read the future,
and even gave advice on how to win over a possible sweetheart for those
unfortunate love-struck souls. It was great practice for her to learn how to
swindle weekly earnings out of the feeble minded.
Opening the wagon door and stepping inside, several candles lit up at her
presence. They revealed lustrous satin walls, a round oak table, a bed in the
corner, and a vanity desk with a large mirror. The carpet was soft and thrummy,
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and made the whole wagon feel like it was part of a beautiful, larger house filled
with warmth and intimacy.
She plopped down on a nice cushion seat in front of the vanity desk and
loosened her chest straps to let her bosom ease out. She jiggled them and rubbed
their sides to release the built up pressure, and sighed with relief that the day was
finally over.
Pushing gently on the wall nearby, a hidden compartment popped open and
revealed several dresses next to a wooden staff jammed inside. She had crafted
secret spots within the walls because the other workers would sometimes break in
and go through her stuff. She knew this happened because the door was often
open when she specifically remembered locking it. She would normally make an
effort to find the culprit, but there were easier ways to protect herself and her
stuff.
The humble staff was her weapon of choice, and she had brought along a
favorite one when she ran away from home. It was made with the bright white
wood of the mighty elvish Willod tree and had a polished bronze star attached on
it's top. The staff had seen plenty of use against bandits or hunting small game
when she wandered the roads. But now it simply collected dust in the closet
alongside an assortment of dresses she feared would also never see the light of
day. At least not with her luck in finding a suitable husband.
“Maybe I'll wear the red one tonight, I like how it matches my lips.” She
mumbled while briefly glancing at the dresses, then rolled her eyes at how
pathetic she had become. She needed someone, but not just anyone, someone
perfect, and maybe not perfect perfect, but someone perfect for her.
She believed traveling around to various places with a steady job would
introduce her to many suitors, which it did, but there was always a problem;
either they were already taken or had another issue of incompatibility.
The front door rattled from a hard knock, causing her to quickly shut the
secret closet and re-strap her breasts. One of the workers stood outside, lifting up
his smashed finger and requesting medical treatment.
“Struck it good while hammerin' away.” He said with smelly breath.
Zelendra placed the worker's smashed hand on her round table and
whispered several incantations taught to her. All elves, even half-elves, had
magic flowing in their veins, though only a small bit compared to wizards or
even mages. Zelendra had trained in magical healing as a former priestess
apprentice, which was another reason she got a job immediately. The amount of
sprains, cuts, and broken bones this place needed mending, convinced her that
everyone became more careless after she arrived, because there was no way
anyone was still alive if they had always been this constantly injured.
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Light glowed around the worker's hand, causing his finger to puff up and
realign itself into the socket. He drunkenly gazed upon the display with
wonderment and glee.
Despite being good at healing, Zelendra never wanted to be a priestess,
preferring instead to breed horses and train them, which was the profession of her
parents. But that job wasn't part of her chosen sect.
Tundian society was divided into different sects, regardless of one's lineage,
decided by a small group known as the oracles. Each citizen, upon nearing
adulthood, went through rigorous testing, both physical and mental, to
demonstrate particular strengths and weaknesses. The oracles would verify the
test results and make a final judgment of the sect one belonged to for the rest of
their life. Zelendra was found to belong to the priesthood, something generally
seen as a cushy job since it required her to listen to confessions, heal the wounds
of the sick, and tighten the wrinkles on the elderly. It also demanded chastity; a
seriously grievous problem.
Her parents were relieved when hearing the results because they already had
a hard time taking care of the dozens of grandchildren Zelendra's many siblings
had produced. But Zelendra was not happy. Not at all.
The light faded away and the worker's broken finger was whole again,
causing him to smile with relief and joy.
“The puffiness should go down in a day or two, and you shouldn't put too
much stress on the finger until then.” Zelendra instructed as she shoved the man
out of her wagon. But before she could close the door, the worker spoke about a
group of strangers passing through, and how one of them looked like a wizard.
“He's got that pointy hat, he does, the type 'dem sorts wear.” He put his hand
above his head to emphasize the pointedness. “And also, the hostess on duty has
a sprained wrist – or was it a sore nose – I don't remember. So you gotta
accommodate 'dis group tonight.”
Of course, Zelendra rolled her eyes, another worker's task that needs to be
done, another excuse given.
Sighing with annoyance, she stepped outside and headed to the front
entrance to greet the unexpected guests. A soft drizzle began to fall from the
cloud filled sky and four strangers hid under their thoroughly soaked cloaks.
Pathetic expressions marred their miserable faces.
The one with the pointy hat was definitely a wizard as she could sense an
aura of power surrounding him, while the other three were rather uninteresting,
or so they seemed. Their horses were already put into the stables, so all she had
to do was show them around.
“My name is Zelendra. I will be your hostess.” She said, motioning for them
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to follow.
Leading the group through the grounds, she explained that the main show
wasn't currently running, and wouldn't be until they arrived near a bigger city
further south, but they had tents, food, and beer for anyone willing to pay.
“It appears the rain has followed us here.” Pournel said, glancing at the
drizzle starting to pick up. “I want to get out of the downpour as soon as possible
and I have enough money for only one tent.”
“It may be cramped,” Zelendra said, “but one tent should hold all four of
you.”
“We would have set up our own tent,” Dranden said with a scornful snarl
directed at Rendle, “if someone didn't drop the stakes into the mud, losing them.”
“It was pouring by the time we started.” Rendle muttered, trying to defend
himself. “So if someone who was on lookout didn't fall asleep, we would've
started sooner.”
“It was late in the afternoon.” Dranden protested. “I'm sorry that I wanted to
take a nap, just like Pournel. Besides, what was so important that you couldn't
look at the sky?”
“I was reading a book.” Rendle stuck his nose in the air as if he made a valid
excuse.
“And I was too deep in contemplation,” Belfast said with a shiver, “so I
apologize.”
“See, he apologizes for his mistakes.” Dranden said. “Why can't you do the
same?”
“What?” Rendle shrieked. “You haven't apologized!”
“Yes I did. I said I'm sorry I wanted to take a nap.”
“That's not an apology.”
“Silence!” Pournel shouted at the two. “Everything happens for a reason.
Let us take up here for the night, and be off in the morning when it's drier.”
“The tents are just up ahead.” Zelendra said as they passed by her wagon.
Belfast took a moment to read the wooden sign on top and gasped. “You're a
fortune teller?”
Zelendra turned to him and finally noticed his lovely blue eyes that peered
out from the damp hood covering his head. “Yes I am.”
“I don't mean to press you, and it is late in the day, but are you available for
a reading?” Belfast leaned slightly forward in eagerness.
“Well, I'm tired and...” Zelendra's breath became a little fluttered.
“It's urgent.” Belfast pulled back the hood to reveal his handsome face and
silky black hair that curled over his forehead. “I need to know what path I must
take.”
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Zelendra's heart skipped for a moment and she forgot where she was. “Um,
I'm not, you're...” She stammered.
“I don't have any money on me since I was robbed, but my sword has a few
gems on the handle that I can pry off.”
“That won't be necessary.” Pournel said. “I can pay for it, if she is willing.”
Zelendra took a moment to gather herself as she tried not to gaze upon
Belfast. “Sure, let's go inside.”
Leaning over to Pournel, Belfast humbled himself. “You are too kind, I don't
know if I can repay you any time soon.”
“Think nothing of it.” Pournel said. “Besides, I would like to see a reading. I
find them educational at best and entertaining at worse. And if it can get you to
reconsider this dreaded quest of yours, all the better.”
Stepping onto the wagon's short wooden stairs, Zelendra became distracted
from Belfast and Pournel talking that her foot slipped from the rain and she fell
backwards.
Leaping ahead, Belfast wrapped his muscular arms around Zelendra and
caught her. She melted with a burst of ecstasy, feeling his bulging chest through
the wet cloak and all her layers of clothes. Not having a man pressed against her
in quite some time, especially not one so good looking, she savored the embrace
for a few moments longer than necessary.
“Are you alright?” Belfast asked.
Pushing him away, she regained her composure and giggled. “These steps
can be tricky.” She wanted to sound more serious, and even furrowed her
forehead, but the giggle slipped out unexpectedly. Stepping back up the stairs,
she unlocked the door and turned to the group. “All of you, enter Zelendra's
house of wonders!”
“More like wagon of wonder.” Dranden snickered to Rendle as they
followed her inside.
Rendle noticed Dranden's pout and eye roll upon hearing that Zelendra was
a fortune teller, and he stopped for a moment before entering.
“Don't you believe in fortune telling?” Rendle asked.
“No, of course not.” Dranden answered with a snort. “And I don't know why
anyone else does.”
“You don't believe in magic?”
“Of course I believe in magic, real magic. The type that shocks things or
summons fireballs or whatnot. But reading the future, listening to the spirits,
that's just nonsense.”
“I like to keep an open mind.”
“I've seen quite a few of these psychics at county fairs and cities ever since I
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was a boy and not a single one could predict next weeks weather let alone
anything else. But sure, I could keep an open mind. How about we go in and see
how well she does?” Dranden held out his arm, letting Rendle step into the
wagon first.
Zelendra skipped to a small storage chest next to her bed and retrieved a
crystal ball, which she set upon the round table in the center of the wagon, then
went to a cabinet to fetch a long blue robe and used it to cover herself. Sitting on
one side of the round table, Zelendra motioned for the others to sit on the other
side. She glided her hand over the ball's surface, which glowed a dim red and
then a yellow. The candles suddenly flashed all around them and Pournel perked
up with a smile, letting a joyful grunt slip out from the surprise.
Zelendra snapped her head upward as if receiving an electric shock and
opened her eyes to gaze upon Belfast, observing the plethora of spirits
surrounding his destiny. With lips still and straight, she flared her nostrils like
they inhaled a heavenly scent.
“The spirits are telling me your story; past, present and future.” Her voice
was firm and instructive. “You are on a quest.”
“Yes.”
“You come from a place not too far from here. I'm getting an
Eh...Frah...Bur...”
“Burnedale!” Belfast said. “I'm from Burnedale.”
“I'm sensing you left for a reason, an important task, something personal.”
“Yes, yes! But I don't know anymore. I'm not sure what to do.”
“I'm getting an aura of vengeance.” Zelendra said, examining Belfast's
handsome face for clues. “Does this seem true?”
Belfast furrowed his brow in confusion.
“A woman, maybe a lover you have.” Zelendra secretly bit her lip, hoping
there wasn't anyone.
“I have no one.” Belfast said. “Not since I've become an outcast.”
“That's it, it's an aura of reconciliation, of righting certain wrongs, of
regaining lost honor.”
“Yes! Honor! You are good at listening to the spirits. I have to do an act of
bravery so that my name is honorable again.”
“But what about the aura of vengeance?” Dranden interrupted. “What was
that about?”
“The spirits guide my vision, sometimes their voices are faded or
indiscernible.” Zelendra rolled her hands over the ball once again as if to
recharge her energy. “The spirits themselves seem angry, maybe something you
did wrong? A person you hurt? Something you stole, lost, hid?”
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“Oh no,” Belfast said with a sob, cupping his face into his hands. “I guess I
have to say it since the spirits are forcing me. I lost a Furpletromp game.”
There was a moment of silence between the others to wonder why Belfast
was so shaken by this.
“That doesn't seem too bad.” Dranden said, breaking the silence. “Usually
there's always a loser in every match of Furpletromp, as far as I'm aware.”
“But it wasn't just any game, this was the game; the final match to determine
which township team got to go to the kingdom's Thunderbowl amateur opener. It
would have been the first time my town had gone; a historic moment. But it came
down to a final elimination play. I was chosen to serve, but I...” Belfast paused to
wipe his eyes. “I don't know what happened. I headed to the q-box and I was hit
by a Sid-ball, which was quite disorientating. Then I served, and the ball
somehow landed into the opponent's grate-trap thus ending the game.”
“That's pretty rough.” Dranden said as honestly as possible, knowing that it
was the worse play anyone could make.
“Q-box? Sid-ball? Grate-trap? I'm not familiar with this Furpletromp game.”
Zelendra said.
“It's quite a popular sport in this kingdom, and not hard to learn. What you
do is...” Dranden began to explain, but Pournel lifted his hand for silence.
“Belfast,” the wizard raised his eyebrow, “I'm still unclear how this made
you lose your honor, so much so, that you have to complete a quest of bravery.”
“Something happened that day,” Belfast answered, hesitating with his
words, “I changed or something. Besides being vilified by everyone and getting
nicknames like 'Belfast the bumbler', 'Belfast the tripper', or 'Belfast
butterfingers'; my hands now shake, my feet stumble, and I bump into almost
everything.”
“You seem quite fine to me.” Pournel said. “If I may say so.”
“But that's because I haven't tried to do anything. All I've done is ride a
horse and talk. It's been years since that fateful game and I've only gotten worse.
I can't even dance without constantly kicking, elbowing, and shoving my partner.
Women shun me, workers in the field fear me, and even my own dog hides away.
I had to hold off on my knighthood training so I wouldn't hurt myself or others.”
“You caught me when I tripped on the stairs.” Zelendra said with a sly
smile.
“Sometimes my fumbling vanishes when I lunge in to help people, like an
act of bravery, which is why I thought I should take on a quest, so that I can cure
myself of this terrible affliction. I need to know what the spirits say, what shall I
do?”
“I see this is a very important matter. Let's get out the cards.” Zelendra set
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the glass ball away from the table and pulled out a deck of cards. She dealt them
out in several long rows and then picked out a single one, which she slid towards
herself and flipped over. The card of Death.
Belfast let out a breath of defeat, but Zelendra quickly nudged that card to
the side. “Don't worry, that one doesn't count.” She said with confidence, but
secretly chided herself for picking the wrong one. Running her hand across the
rows of cards, she finally found the one she wanted, so she closed her eyes and
breathed heavily. “The spirits guide my hand. Your quest shall be...” She flipped
over the card of Love. “A quest of love!”
“Love?” Belfast asked. “But where shall I go?”
“Wait now, why didn't the card of death count?” Dranden asked while
pointing at it.
“Dranden, please.” Pournel said, lifting his hand up once again for silence.
“Love shall greet you on your current quest.” Zelendra continued, ignoring
the interruption.
“So I should keep going to the Gate of the Deathstalker?”
“Gate of the Deathstalker?” Zelendra asked, leaning over to hear correctly.
“That's where he was going.” Dranden said. “Or didn't the spirits tell you
that?”
“What are you crazy or something?” Zelendra quickly rose to her feet,
nearly knocking over the table.
“That's exactly what I told him.” Pournel rose to his feet also, and pointed at
Belfast. “It's madness.”
“Why is everyone so scared? It's just ghost stories.” Belfast scrunched his
nose with annoyance.
“So you believe in talking to spirits, but you don't believe in evil shadow
creatures living in a cave?” Dranden asked, absolutely bewildered at the
inconsistency.
“The spirits are those who have moved on from this world, ancestors that
guide us.” Belfast explained. “Shadow monsters that live in a cave have no
grounding in reality.”
Zelendra slammed her fists on the table. “The gate of the Deathstalker
contains nothing but darkness and death. Why would you want to go there?
Why?”
“This girl knows what she's talking about, listen to her.” Pournel said with a
nod.
“What do the spirits say about it?” Belfast rose to his feet, feeling like he
was being ganged-up on. “That's all I care about.”
“I don't need to be a psychic to know that. They all say: Don't Go!” Zelendra
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put her hands on her hips to emphasize her seriousness.
“But what shall I do? I can't go back home, I'm an outcast, and my condition
will just get worse, I'm sure of it. I have no choice. I'm going.” Belfast turned to
leave, but stumbled over his chair by kicking it to the side and nearly falling over.
“See what I mean. I will cure myself!” He shouted before storming out of the
wagon in a fury.
90

Chapter 11
Finding Someone
Crowded and pressed up against each other, the tent was indeed at
maximum capacity with the four jammed inside. Rendle, whose snores
sounded like long resonating croaks, lied next to an anxious Belfast who
found it difficult to sleep. Dranden kept his shoes and socks on so as not to
suffocate anyone with an unsavory smell, like pickles smothered in week's old
mayonnaise. While Pournel got the best spot next to the entrance where a cool
breeze drifted.
Smoking his pipe for several hours, Pournel eventually put it away, pulled
out a comfy pillow from his satchel, and fell fast asleep.
How many items does he have in that bag? Belfast wondered, since he had
witnessed so many things retrieved from the little sack. The old man was
definitely a wizard, that much was certain, and although grateful for having
found the group at the time he did, Belfast couldn't help but feel a little
begrudging with how Pournel reacted to his quest. Should he turn away or keep
going? His thoughts were muddled with conflicting emotions, especially with all
that's happened in the long two years since that fateful Furpletromp game.
The fumbling had gotten so terrible that he nearly killed a co-worker by
rolling a heavy barrel over on top the terrified man. Belfast went from one job to
another, incident after incident, until everyone in the township knew of his blight.
Some were consolatory but still remained distant, while others added to the
mocking, giving him those rude nicknames. Women, a species he was so familiar
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with beforehand, became untrustworthy and cruel, and any smiles sent his way
were only outward for civility.
But it wasn't always bad, like when he caught Zelendra. Her body felt
disproportionate and baggy as if she wore too many clothes or something, but she
had a nice smile and almost seemed flirty.
If only she knew, then she wouldn't be so kind. With that final thought
lingering in his mind, Belfast faded to sleep.
Tumbling down a snow covered hill, Belfast rolled and rolled until finally
coming to a stop. Snow filled his mouth and ears, but he lifted himself up and
shook it away.
He was in the middle of a barren snowy area, which appeared to be near the
base of a mountain, but he wasn't sure since a thick fog limited vision to less than
a few hundred paces. To his left was a large black rock that jutted out of the cold
white landscape. Jagged in places while smooth in others, it's sharp tip went
upwards into the darkened sky like the end of a spear.
He felt a wound on his head as if he'd been been hit, but didn't know how or
with what. Disorientation and confusion stifled his senses, and a thought
grumbled deep within his mind that a woman was lost out here within the depths
of this frozen wilderness. He had to find her, to rescue her from certain death,
and the thought gripped his entire body with urgency.
But Belfast had no idea what was happening, and all his memories were
foggy and distant. He opened his mouth to shout her name, but did not know it.
He glared into the white abyss to see her face, but could not envision it. His guts
racked with pressure and his hands jittered with anxiety as his mind refused to
lend any clues, except that a woman was dying nearby and needed his help.
Digging into the snow with freezing fingers, Belfast scooped it away in a
mad frenzy. He needed to hurry or else she would be lost forever.
Rumbling the icy ground and shaking his chilled bones, a creature's
ferocious cry bellowed out far above the hillside. Large, powerful, and angry, the
beast remained hidden within the swirling fog but would soon be upon this place.
Belfast had to either abandon the search or die himself.
Clenching his fists in anger, he chose to ignore the deadly consequences so
he could try to save whoever was here. But as he swept aside more snow,
something suddenly stretched out and smacked Belfast across his nose.
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Waking up with a jolt of energy inside the tent, Rendle's foot had flopped
over and landed on top of Belfast's face, with a few toes entering his mouth.
Pushing it aside and spitting out the awful taste, Belfast groaned with having to
wake up in such a manner. But the sun was up and Pournel puffed on his pipe
near the tent's open flap.
Rendle looked over and mumbled his apologizes.
Zelendra poked her head into the tent. “Breakfast is ready! Get up sleepy
heads.”
The sizzle of bacon and the aroma of coffee soon followed her
announcement and the group hungrily exited the tent to be first in line. They
shared the meal with the rest of the Wonderling workers, who were less than
delighted about the group's presence. Their snippy attitudes may have been
caused by being hungover from the night before, and they may lighten up in the
afternoon to be capable of descent conversation, but Pournel insisted it was
important to leave as soon as they were done.
“To bad we can't stay,” Dranden pouted, “these sluggards may have some
decent stories.”
Overhearing the group's plans, Zelendra knew she didn't have much time to
create an excuse to travel with them. She grabbed a cloth to protect her hand,
retrieved a hot cup of coffee on top the stove, and went to their table. Rendle's
hand was spread out, so Zelendra casually sat next to him and placed the searing
hot cup on top of it.
“Ahhh!” Screeching with a high pitch yelp, Rendle jumped from his spot
and tried to comfort his scolded skin.
“Oh my! I'm sooo sorry.” Zelendra reached out for Rendle and forced him to
sit again. “Here, let me help with the pain.” She cast a quick pain numbing spell,
something mischievous priestess students did to fellow classmates before playing
a prank on them, and then examined Rendle's wound. “It's a nasty burn. It may
take me days to heal you.”
“We don't have days.” Pournel grunted. The wizard was sometimes a bit
grumpy in the morning, as Dranden had learned, but became more relaxed after
his first drink of the day; a task he was working on now. “We're already delayed
and must be going, wounds or not.”
“That's too bad.” Zelendra pouted, then perked up. “How about I travel with
you until he's healed, since I'm the one who caused this?”
“If you must. But no handouts. I'm short on supplies as it is. Bring whatever
you need with you.”
Leaping with excitement and joy, Zelendra pointed at Belfast. “You! Come
with me now.” Belfast glanced around confused, but complied as she forcefully
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pulled on his arm.
Rendle continued poking at his wound, which was still blistering and
popping with sores, while Zelendra led Belfast further into the back of the camp
where there was a storage wagon.
Flipping open some shades, the wagon was filled with an assortment of
costumes, large chests, and many racks of clothes. Her grip was firm but soft, and
she compelled Belfast to follow because of her jubilance.
“After I showed you to your tent last night, I came back here to sort through
any left over garments we have, since your friends said you lost everything on
the road to bandits.” She moved some items to the side and pulled out a trunk.
Opening it, she held up a few strange pieces of clothes; a poofy shirt with
feathers hanging off the neck and wrists; a hunter's vest with an assortment of
squirrel pelts strung together; a colorful glittery jacket with a mask that one
would wear to a festival; all of which Belfast curled his nose towards.
Laughing at his stubbornness to play along, Zelendra pushed away the trunk
and rolled out a long rack filled with more clothes, but these were more desirable
and practical.
“Here's the real attire.” Belfast said. “You were showing me such horrible
pieces.”
“Well, I have to show you the really bad stuff so the not so bad stuff seems
great.” Zelendra straightened out a white shirt and brushed away the dust. “All of
this was left behind by many audiences throughout the years, some repurposed
for use in the show, while others collected for a rainy day.”
“It was raining yesterday.”
“Rain is there to make the sunny days seem brighter. Now, take off your
robe.” Zelendra stood there looking at him, gawking even.
Belfast put his hand in the air and made a twirling motion, signaling for
Zelendra to turn around. She rolled her eyes and let out an exaggerated sigh, but
eventually spun away and stepped towards a desk shoved against the wall.
“There's also some pants on the rack for you.” Zelendra said as her hand
covertly knocked away some papers on the desk to uncover a small mirror. “I
didn't know what size you were so I had to estimate. I can always resize them if I
have to.” Gazing into the mirror, she moved her head back and forth just to get
the right angle to see his body.
He had turned away, but his back side was still amazing, more so than she
envisioned. Fully toned shoulders, round firm butt, and strong ripped legs;
Zelendra almost toppled over the desk in her stunned state, but caught herself in
time. Tilting away the mirror before he saw, she turned to face him as he finished
putting everything on.
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“They fit just fine.” Belfast stretched his arms and legs to check the
clothing's dexterity. “Thank you very much.”
“Anything for you.” Zelendra shook her head to correct herself, “I mean,
you're welcome, it's no big deal.”
“I think I've been treated more kindly in the past three days than in the past
two years combined.”
“I'm sorry.” Zelendra let out a short moan of sympathy. “Is it because of
your...condition?”
“I know that you and the others think I'm making it up, just like all the other
strangers I've ever met, but I'm telling you it's real. It just hasn't shown itself
because I haven't really tried to do anything yet.”
“Some things seem real in our minds, but they turn out to be illusions.”
Zelendra said, getting closer.
Out of all the other men that slipped through her fingers throughout the
years, Belfast seemed too good, and too handsome, to pass up, and how much
longer should she wait? Besides, it was useless debating the matter in her head
because her body had already made a decision. Belfast would be hers, all she had
to do was convince him of it.
“I've noticed there were three horses, but four of you.” Zelendra said.
“Yes, the academic and I are sharing a horse.”
“That can't do. I have an extra horse for you to borrow.”
“You'd do that for me?”
“The spirits are very strong around you, so it's the right thing to do.”
Zelendra gently touched his shoulder, caressing him with her fingertips.
“Besides, I have an extra horse and a man like you needs something nice to
properly ride.” Zelendra squinted her eyes at the words that slipped out
unexpectedly. The dirty part of her mind had been festering in the dark for too
long and was rapidly taking control, especially now that she was alone in his
presence. But it was good, she wanted to release the darkness and to feel his
flesh.
Thump, thump, thump!
Knocking rapidly at the door for only a moment, Dranden burst into the
wagon to look around. “There you are Belfast. We have to go. Hey! You got
some new clothes. Not bad. That's great that they fit.” Dranden glanced at
Zelendra. “You're coming too right?”
Sneering a little at the interruption, Zelendra nodded and smiled. “I have my
own horse. I'll be along shortly.”
Belfast pulled away from her, completely unaware of her inner turmoil.
“She's going to let me borrow a horse.” He said with a smile, walking to the
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wagon's exit.
“That's extremely kind of you.” Dranden tipped his head to Zelendra.
“Not a problem.” She realized once again what she looked like, with the
layers of rumpled ugly clothing, which is why Belfast remained oblivious to her
advance. But she would show him more of herself, and had the perfect outfit in
mind.
96

Chapter 12
Gate of the Deathstalker
Wanting to leave without anyone knowing, Zelendra packed several
large bags with all her stuff and told everyone they were medical
supplies. Pournel noticed the size of Zelendra's bags and quickly
figured out her intentions of leaving for good. He didn't say anything, but did
give her a long curious gaze. The old wizard did not easily recognize, nor have
the capacity to care about, young people pursuing each other for love. Magic
could do many things; extend one's life, make one appear perpetually young, and
sharpen the mind to an ultra focus. But the one thing magic could not give is
desire. And all Pournel desired was to discover and drink the best meads in all the
lands, the rest was mere passing fancies.
“We shall go westward, towards the Ash mountains.” Pournel pointed his
nose in the direction. “Hopefully we can reach the range sometime in the
afternoon.” His demeanor had lightened since the early morning breakfast, after
having sipped on a pouch of sweet brandy he kept close at hand.
Zelendra wore a crimson red shirtdress with an open back, which showed
just enough of her skin without revealing too much; flirty but not teasing, a
perfect match with the sunny but cool weather.
Just like many of her dresses, this one hadn't seen the light of day since
being at the Wonderlings and was a little tight here and there, reminding her to
put more time into training, which had become lax as of late. More lunges and
presses per day should get her body back into optimal shape in no time.
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Regardless of the slight imperfections, she felt attractive enough and tried
riding her horse in front of Belfast, hoping to catch a wandering glance, but he
just frowned and stared into the horizon at the approaching Ash mountains. After
spending the whole morning and mid-afternoon being ignored, she slowed her
pace and went behind the aspiring knight. If he won't look at her, she would look
at him.
Dranden busily picked at his teeth, trying to get rid of all the particles of
food from the large breakfast, which he swore he ate too much. The day was nice
and his head filled with images of the quest's completion, which were mostly
about his business doing better, but also images of Sophia the bar maid in his
embrace. He honestly didn't want to think about her on this trip, especially not as
often as he did, but he couldn't seem to help himself.
The imaginary act of cheating on his wife reminded Dranden of the
'Pipperwhip affliction' his father warned about many years ago when he was a
child. “Son, as you get older, the temptations of various women will beset you.”
Father said casually one day in the kitchen while slicing meat for the evening's
dinner. “It's a 'wondering heart affliction' us Pipperwhips have struggled with for
many generations. If you do chase after someone else, do everything in your
power to make sure your wife never finds out.” It was a sensitive subject that was
unprovoked, completely random, and never brought up again, that is, not until
Dranden's mother kicked his father out of the house for cheating. She mentioned
it for years afterward, cursing the act of cheating like it was a dangerous wild
animal that had ripped her family apart.
Shaking away the uncomfortable memories, Dranden looked upon his travel
companions to see what they were doing. May as well try to enjoy himself the
best he could by figuring out their sad circumstances that lead each one to be
here at this moment. But the wizard didn't offer much conversation and refused to
share his adventure stories, if he had any, and Rendle only ever talked about
amphibians; how can someone be so consumed by such a dull subject? Now
there were two new travelers but they seemed preoccupied with their own
problems. Zelendra obviously liked the handsome knight-in-training, but Belfast
had some serious personal issues, apart from his foolish beliefs in talking spirits
and fortune telling. And they were issues he did not want discuss in any form
whatsoever, besides a little bit during the fraudulent fortune reading. Zelendra,
who had suddenly changed appearances into someone beautiful, glanced at the
man more so than she did anything else, but Belfast ignored her as best he could
– though her red dress did catch the eye.
Dranden picked up the pace of his horse to ride alongside her, finally
deciding to spark up a conversation.
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“I noticed you talking to your horse earlier as you loaded your bags.” He
said.
“Yes,” Zelendra smiled, “I apologized to her for the weight of the bags, and
I promised to lighten the load once we come across the first township.”
“She seems quite fond of you, like you have an infinity with horses.”
“I grew up on my parent's horse ranch. We bred, raised, and trained them for
all sorts of purposes.” Zelendra stroked her horse's mane. “Her name is Starla
because of the white star shape on her forehead.”
“Beautiful chestnut coloring. Is she one that your family raised?”
“Unfortunately no, I had to leave all of them behind when I decided to
leave.” Zelendra said, glancing a few times at Belfast. “The one you're riding
Belfast, his name is Aruna, it's a Tundian word for sweet, because he really likes
sweet foods.”
Belfast grunted at first, then sighed with regret at his own stubbornness to
talk. But how could he? Zelendra looked like a different woman entirely. When
she had stumbled into his arms by slipping on the wagon stairs, her body was
lumpy, bloated, and lopsided – now she looked to be anything but those things.
No, not anything, she was gorgeous, and distracting. And he desperately wanted
to focus on his quest. The last thing he needed was a beautiful girl getting hurt
around him, and especially because of him.
“Thank you for letting me borrow Aruna.” He finally said. “I am truly
grateful for your generosity. The horse that I rode, the one taken by those bandits,
was named Turkley, because he was raised around a bunch of turkeys, and often
acted like he was one.”
“That's funny.” Zelendra laughed. “I love it when an animal thinks it's
something that it's not.”
“But who knows what those vile women have done to him.” Belfast said as
he drooped his head in sorrow. “I may never see him again, and he may never see
another turkey.”
“Don't worry.” Zelendra said. “You'll cure yourself, and then you can go
back and rescue him.”
“My horse's name is Coco.” Dranden said, wanting to lighten the mood. “I
guess because he's brown, I'm not sure since I borrowed him from my cousin-inlaw.”
Realizing that's all he could say on the matter, he looked over to Pournel for
some input. “Hey Pournel, what's your horse's name?”
“What?” Pournel asked, drifting in and out of thought.
“What's the name of your horse?”
“His name is Pix. Very gentle, but also shy.” Pournel went back to puffing
on his pipe.
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The wizard's horse was pure white, having a mane as curly as his master's
beard and long slender hooves that were quiet upon the road. In fact, Pix hardly
made a sound and traveled with a rational calmness totally distinct from the other
horses, as if he was well aware of his surroundings, even more aware than
Pournel.
Zelendra was the only one who noticed how Pix often glanced at the group,
his eyes shimmering with curiosity and gleaming with a hidden intelligence. She
knew many types of horses and their quirky personalities or oddities, but Pix
remained a mystery. He was a very special horse, that much was certain,
appearing to be a cross between a common lowlands variety and a high elven
aristocracy steed. Zelendra felt compelled to know more.
“How old is Pix?” She asked, thinking it may narrow down the possibilities.
“Just a regular horse age, whatever that is.” Pournel muttered, not wanting
to satiate her curiosity. “I don't really remember, but don't worry about such
matters.”
Zelendra pouted at Pournel's reluctance to share and wanted to ask more, but
a strange clawing sound came from one of her bags, like a feral animal trying to
escape. Alarmed at the noise, Zelendra carefully placed her hands on the straps
and yanked it open.
Muffles the cat jumped out and landed on Zelendra's lap, hissing with
displeasure. His back fur stood on end to show that he had enough of the tight,
dark space he had stuffed himself into back at the Wonderling camp.
“Muffles!” Zelendra cried out with happiness and surprise. “I didn't see you
all morning and wondered where you went.”
“A cat?” Dranden asked, watching as the frantic feline slowly calmed down.
“Is it yours?”
“Not really, no, he belongs to Mr Wonderling, and also, he's not a cat, he's a
lion under a transform spell to look like a cat.”
“Oh yes, I remember!” Dranden said. “There are harsh laws against lions in
performances in this part of the kingdom.”
“I don't suppose you'd let me leave without you.” Zelendra said, hugging the
cat into her chest. “The Wonderlings are going to be mad about this, but there's
no sense trying to argue with a lion.”
“Does the spell wear off?” Dranden asked. “Like, he's not going to suddenly
turn back into a lion, right?”
“They paid for an expensive spell, something that could pass the highway
inspections. But I imagine any spell would eventually wear off. I'm not sure
though.”
“Yes.” Pournel said, finally getting involved in the conversation. “Transform
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spells are never permanent. There are ways to force someone to stay transformed
over time, but eventually the body and soul rejects it. Even the most powerful
spells could only last up to a month, and after that it's up to the person, or
creature, to go back to being normal. But if they so choose, they can stay changed
the rest of their life. It is up to them to do so.”
“So I guess you want to stay a cat.” Zelendra said while stroking Muffle's
neck. “I can't imagine why. I'd rather be a powerful lion than a small helpless
pet.”
“Yes, I can't imagine why he wouldn't change either.” Dranden said as he
gazed upon the cat being pampered with Zelendra's abundant affection.
Rendle rode in the far back, preferring to keep himself away from the
distraction of small talk. He had a large book laid out on his lap and a blank piece
of parchment on top so he could jot down a romantic love serenade – the one he
would surprise Pearlith Manasby with at the DresMerden gathering. But the
words struggled against him and refused to be written. He needed to express deep
emotions without sounding like a buffoon or just another worthless degenerate.
One must be subtle and cunning when it comes to love, just as Rendle had been
with all the secret deeds he did for her throughout the years, and would continue
doing because a lover's work is never finished.
Zelendra looks good in the red dress, Rendle thought in passing, and
Pearlith also looks good in red. Maybe I can add that in somewhere? Finding a
source of inspiration, Rendle scribbled everything that crossed his mind, no
matter how crass or dreadful.
Continuing on their journey to the Deathstalker gate, every tittle of life that
surrounded them became increasingly dead. The grass in the fields was replaced
with gravel and splotchy dirt patches. The flowers that bloomed in plenty were
soon nowhere to be seen, and instead dry, withered sticks took their place.
The two ash mountains were in full view and a chill breeze blew from their
direction. The bottom half of the mountains were blanketed with thick dark
clouds that spiraled upwards for several thousand paces, while the mountain's ice
capped tops stuck out from the swirling darkness like white jagged teeth rising
out of blackened gums.
Standing upright at a split in the road was a tall dead tree defiant to decay.
The word 'Death' was carved into it's dry tarnished bark, along with an arrow
underneath that pointed towards the mountains.
Sensing again the uneasiness in the wizard, Belfast chose to ignore it this
time because he didn't want fear to win, something that would force him back
home to a declining lifestyle. But he also didn't want to suffer a horrible,
untimely demise.
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Stopping at the tree, Pournel turned to Belfast with somber eyes. “We could
ride with you a little more, closer to the gate, to see you off on your journey.”
Nodding with appreciation, Belfast led the group towards the mountains and
entered the swirling ash.
The further they went, the fiercer the wind and the darker the sun, which
was soon blotted out by billowing smoke plumes that rose from unknown
sources. A battle between many forces both light and dark, the wizard's words
echoed in Belfast's thoughts.
Having the hardest time out of everyone, Rendle coughed and choked but
continued on so he could stay with the group and not be left behind. The horses
also neighed with agitation, but followed their rider's commands and strutted
forward into the dark, cold abyss.
Within the ash, the infamous gate appeared and was more terrible than
Belfast could have imagined. Long metal poles twisted upward from the ground
like giant rusted spears. They were sharp on their ends and had rows of bones
strung around their base. Resting on top of several poles, was a massive skull
from an ancient beast, one that hasn't been seen alive for at least a millennium. It
was larger than all their horses combined twice over and it's long rough teeth
went downward till they pierced the ground, acting as a sift one must pass
through to continue forward.
“Into the mouth of the beast you shall go,” Pournel shouted over the
constant wind, “and in about half a day you'll find the entrance to the caverns.
Unless you've found sanity and changed your mind?”
Climbing down from his horse, Belfast trudged to the teeth of the beast and
tried to peer down the path and see the caverns. Nothing but swirling ash met his
gaze, which barely touched the ground before it swooped back into the air; as if
suspended by unnatural forces that did not wish to be seen or known.
A cold gust of wind poured over the group, chilling Belfast down to his core
and also clearing the area for a moment to reveal the stacks of dry bones littering
the place. What he thought were uneven rocks, were actually the remains of
humans, elves, orcs, goblins, and many other species lost to memory – all having
found a final resting place in this horrible graveyard.
Zelendra placed her hand on Belfast's shoulder, which caused him to
shudder nervously at the contact because she had dismounted and stepped closer
without being noticed. He was nervous because this place wasn't at all what he
imagined. He heard the stories, of course, including the one from his uncle, but
never envisioned something like this.
Just a simple stroll in and out, now appeared to be anything but that.
Previous explorers that treaded too far and were never heard from again,
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probably weren't gobbled-up by some monster, as is often told, they probably just
got lost within the swirling ash and died of starvation. A rather bleak and
unexciting end to their existence. Death was the only thing present in this place,
and it waited patiently for Belfast to enter it's dry open jaws.
He wouldn't normally be frightened of such a sight, but this seemed futile
because it involved no heroics whatsoever. There was no one to save, no one in
need of his help, and there was definitely nothing heroic about looking inside a
cavern. This was instead a mere stunt, like someone skipping over a lava pit
without being burned, or swimming across a dangerous strait during a storm.
How was a stunt supposed to help cure his stumbling affliction?
It was time for Belfast to take Zelendra's advice and forfeit his quest.
He allowed the warmth of her hand upon his shoulder to guide him back to
their horses. And as he mounted, the bitter sting of defeat jabbed at him like a
lance piercing his stomach.
Rendle's eyes were puffy, his nose dribbled with snot, and he coughed out
the ash in sporadic fits and spasms. “If no one's going in, could we please get out
of here!” He yelled at the others with a rough voice.
The group quickly exited the billows of smoke and ash ridden wind, which
made Belfast feel better, like he was now free from an oppressive burden;
shackles he had placed on himself. The horses were also grateful they were being
led out, and trotted quickly and gracefully.
Thinking about it, Belfast was pretty sure that his uncle didn't go up to the
gate, since he never mentioned it and because even he, with his highly
adventurous nature, would have turned back upon seeing the field of bones. The
spirits also advised against the quest as Zelendra said, so perhaps there was some
watchful entity turning Belfast away and guiding his steps.
“There's no shame in not going.” Pournel said as the group found their way
back to the tall dead tree. “Not even the most powerful wizards dare tread there.
You basically chose life rather than death. Surely you saw that with your own
eyes.”
Shedding a single tear and breathing a heavy sigh, Belfast hesitantly smiled
and forced himself to accept the wizard's sympathy.
Zelendra had thought all day what she would say to him, but most of her
words were either useless or possibly cruel. She didn't realize how much Belfast
had emotionally invested in this quest, but saw it now in his saddened face, and
she shared in his sadness.
“About your fumbling,” she said as serious and concerned as possible,
without a hint of sarcasm, “you said it goes away when you help someone, right?
Well, why can't you help Pournel, Dranden, and Rendle with their quest? Maybe
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start out with something smaller to see if it does help, then work your way up to
something more dangerous. If you do, I'll go along too, for fun. I need a change
of scenery.” She turned to Pournel. “What do you say? Got room for two more?”
Pournel stroked his beard and opined. “I could use someone skilled with a
weapon and a priestess to heal injuries. Sure, why not? We'll come across a small
forest by nightfall where you two can catch our dinner to prove your usefulness.
Either that or everyone goes to bed hungry.”
104

Chapter 13
Chasing Rabbits
Stuffed from eating the vegetables and fruit in the large garden next to the
mansion, Toble the goblin looked into the nearby woods and fields for
something meaty to catch. Normally he didn't eat vegetables, but having
been starved for so long, he would have gladly eaten his own hair and nail
clippings, which was far from desirous. Besides, the ample supply of garden food
was mostly decent tasting.
After surviving the elves in the forest, crawling through acres of mud for
several days, and traveling through a dense forest for weeks, this nice plot of
quiet land provided some much needed relief for the wary goblin. The only
problem was that there was a large mansion close by and the garden was
obviously tended to regularly, but Toble hadn't seen a soul since he got here,
which was nearly a week ago. There were other, smaller buildings in clusters
near the mansion, but he left them well alone – no sense in accidentally setting
off an alarm and arousing a sleeping owner.
Toble was obviously grateful for having food, a safe place to sleep, and
quiet time to reflect, but like all creatures that become comfortable, he wanted
more – and meat was definitely on his mind. The surrounding woods were quiet,
with the occasional bird that stayed well-outside a greedy goblin's reach. But he
also thought he had seen a rabbit hopping around on the west side of the
mansion. It could have been the hallucinations of a meat-starved mind, but Toble
needed to make sure.
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“Gonna catch me a rabbit, gonna cook me a stew.” Toble hummed to himself
as he strolled. “Gonna reach out and grab it, gonna squeeze till it's blue.”
Walking along a path near the western side of the mansion and searching for
any rabbit prints, Toble was blinded for a moment by the sun reflecting on the
many glass panels built into this side of the mansion's wall and partially it's roof.
Glass wasn't something Toble was used to seeing, mainly because it didn't mix
well with the clumsy manhandling for which orcs and goblins were well-known.
Though shiny and elegant, and even useful in battle, glass was fragile and
deadly once shattered, and goblins usually found themselves on the receiving end
of the pain. If goblins ever needed to see through something, they just cut a hole,
and maybe make a fancy sliding hatch for those inclined to build stuff.
Darting suddenly across the nearby field, a white streak hopped frantically
in a zig-zag pattern and Toble nearly drooled at the sight. It was a rabbit for sure,
and a big one too.
Grabbing his sharp stick, Toble chased and stabbed at the creature with
hungry recklessness. But it was too quick and almost seemed to anticipate the
blows, twisting it's body ever so slightly to dodge. Toble even thought he saw the
furry beast smirk, but it couldn't be, it was just a stupid rabbit.
Running and hopping in the fields and woods, they crossed over a small
stream and back around again through the garden and to the side of the mansion
with the glass panels.
Toble nearly collapsed from exhaustion, with shaky legs, heavy breath, and
buckets of sweat that drenched his mud stained clothes. He leaned against a tree
and looked for the rabbit, spotting it a only few paces away just sitting there,
gazing upwards with mocking eyes. If there was ever a moment that a rabbit
appeared amused, this was that moment.
Quietly reaching for a small rock stuffed between his belt, Toble tossed
away his sharp stick, since it was broken from stabbing at the ground too many
times, and believed he could surprise the rabbit by clonking it in the head right
between those big dumb eyes.
Dashing suddenly towards the goblin, the rabbit jumped up and struck
Toble's face with it's rough dirty foot, and launched itself over the tall hedges.
Stunned for a moment, Toble ripped past the branches, and saw the rabbit dart
into a hole in the side of the mansion; a crack within the foundation just under the
glass panels.
Holding firm his rock, Toble ran over and peered into the dark small hole,
but found no sign of the furry villain. Toble would have flung himself into the
wall, but the spot was too small for him to fit.
“Damn rabbit!” Toble cursed into the warm summer air, angry that he had
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lost such a simple creature. But movement from within the mansion, just past the
glass, caught the goblin's eye.
Inside looked like a type of greenery, having all sorts of various plants each
within their own section of dirt, ceramic pot, or pool of water. In the center was a
giant thick vine that was as big as a tree, and it went straight up to the ceiling
where it spread out and wrapped it's many vine limbs around everything. At the
far end, a vine held up a container of water which it used to pour into the soil of a
raised potted plant.
Toble never saw a plant move, so it was quite exciting to see, and a plant
watering other plants, tending to their every need – who would've thought!
Unfortunately, there was no sign of that sneaky creature and Toble supposed he
couldn't just break into the glass and take a better look inside, since the whole
wall may come down on top of him.
Stepping back to look at the entirety of the mansion, Toble never felt the
need to explore it, and had remained content to stay outside in the garden. But
now that the rabbit was in there, the mansion might contain many more rabbits –
a whole litter! Where there's one, there's bound to be dozens.
Toble's reflection on the glass revealed a large dirty paw mark on his
forehead, so he wiped it off and walked the perimeter to look for a way in. The
mansion was huge and built fancy like the elven castles Toble had seen in books,
but not exactly like those, having it's own uniqueness, where some of it seemed
to defy gravity.
Spotting an open balcony way up high, Toble stuck his fingertips into the
cracks of the wall's stones and slowly climbed up the side. Sneaking into the
mansion increased the risk of getting caught or setting off a trap, but having the
opportunity to eat some meat for dinner was well worth the risk. Also, there
definitely wasn't anyone home even though the house didn't appear abandoned; it
was as if the owner left for a holiday and the caretaker's were on an extended
break. But someone was bound to come back in a few days, at most, which
would give him plenty of time to catch plenty of rabbits.
Climbing the almost vertical wall was relatively easy because of his pointy
fingernails, but it wasn't climbing up that was the problem, it was climbing down
that caused serious issues. But Toble would either find another way out, or deal
with it later. He had a rabbit to catch and thinking about every detail of a plan
would slow him down.
Pulling himself over the ledge of the high balcony, Toble tiptoed to the
doorway and jiggled the handle. The old oak door was stained a dark red and had
knots that formed a frowning face, which peered at Toble as he creaked it open.
Stepping inside the room, Toble glanced at the rows of books that lined the
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walls from floor to ceiling and back to front; a vast array of reading material that
shocked the goblin at first. In the room's center was an oak writing desk, with
carved wooden eagle legs that had talons as long as Toble's nose. On top the desk
was a quill pen, an ink well, and an open book.
Briefly examining the written content, Toble sensed that it was recipes for
food, or maybe drinks, which listed ingredients he had no idea what they could
be. All the other shelved books probably contained the same type of material, or
they could be stories of adventures in far away places, during times long ago.
Toble had pilfered books here and there from hapless victims, but never
imagined there could be this many in one place. It must have taken several
lifetimes, and the robbing of many thousands of merchants, for the owner to have
gathered such a massive collection. The goblin was tempted to flip a few of them
open, but his stomach prevented him as it grumbled violently against his
curiosity, demanding a well roasted rabbit.
Scattered across the glossy beige tiled floor were faint rabbit prints,
indicating that the beast had definitely been here, though Toble couldn't tell how
long ago. They scampered underneath a closed door, and Toble carefully
followed.
The next room was filled with large vats, long glass cylinders, and spiraling
copper tubes, all part of a sophisticated distilling mechanism. Toble was
impressed because most orc and goblin alcohol rigs consisted of a simple bottle
over an open flame with two metal tubes sticking out of it; a design that often
exploded, but still used because the rewards of getting drunk outweighed the
risks. This particular distilling contraption, however, was made from the finest
materials, all fancy and shiny.
Along the walls were tall shelves that held many baskets, large and small,
filled with ingredients, and marked with labels of their content. Nothing was
there that a rabbit could want or eat, and Toble was still on the top floor of the
mansion, while the crack the rabbit darted into was near the bottom.
Spotting a staircase nearby, Toble prowled over and tip-toed down the
spiraling steps made of marble slabs. The handrails were brass, and each baluster
accented by a touch of silver which glinted in the soft sunlight that beamed down
from a large mosaic glass window. Even the crass goblin had to admit the
mansion looked nice and expensive, which was a good thing, since that meant
there would also be a lack of security. All the wealthy merchant caravans Toble
ever came across had a severe lack of guards, probably because they wanted to
horde gold rather than spend a single piece for protection. Their loss, his gain.
The next floor down was a workshop of some type, containing boxes and
baskets, made of metal, wood or grass, and a wide assortment of tools and
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strange objects. A few of them glowed with bright colors as if magical. Again,
nothing a rabbit would be interested in, nor a meat-hungry goblin. And besides,
all the stuff was so densely packed and convoluted, there was bound to be
something dangerous lurking in one of the many hidden corners. Toble certainly
wasn't dumb enough to stick his hand in any sort of sparkly basket or dark
shadow.
He continued descending the stairs to the bottom floor and found a room
filled with gadgets on rows and rows of shelves. Solid stone made up the floor
and walls, and the room appeared to be sunk more than halfway into the ground
like a basement. Across the top of the furthest wall was a thin strip of window
paneling, but Toble couldn't see out of it, since he was too low from the stairs and
was at a bad angle. However, the room looked to be close to where the crack was
on the side of the mansion. If he had to guess, the greenery with the giant vine
was somewhere to the left of here.
A shadow shot across the room for only a moment, but caught Toble's eye.
“Rabbit!” Toble blurted out. He didn't see what it really was, but the shadow
was definitely shaped like a rabbit.
Leaping from the staircase, Toble peered, sniffed, and even cupped his
hands around his ears to listen for any signs of the sneaky critter.
It couldn't have just vanished again, Toble thought with disappointment
since the room looked sealed.
Voices of people suddenly echoed from the garden area, which sounded
casual enough that they were probably the owners, and they were coming this
way.
Toble panicked, and darted his eyes around the room once more for an exit,
but found none. He could go back the way he came, all the way up the stairs,
because climbing down the side of the mansion would take a while. And if he had
to jump, the fall could possibly kill him. The voices spoke in the common tongue
and there seemed to be five of them as they traveled through the garden.
“Good heavens.” An older man's voice cried out, which bellowed into the
basement. “All of my vegetables! Eaten!”
“Here's a few with some gnaw marks.” Another man said, his voice seeming
average, similar to the many travelers Toble had looted and stuck with his daggers.
“It better not be rabbit teeth marks,” The old man grunted with anger. “I'll
transform Henry into a mouse for this.”
Transform? Oh no, it must be a wizard, Toble shivered. He had broken into a
wizard's mansion and had eaten most of the veggies in his garden. That would
explain why the architecture was so unusual, held up by magic no doubt. This
was bad, really bad.
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Needing to find a place to hide, Toble frantically inspected all the containers
on the shelves to find an empty one big enough to hold him.
“Let me see the vegetable.” The old man's voice continued. “No, no, these
aren't Henry's teeth marks, or teeth from any rabbit. No, these are something else,
something with crooked, malformed, and slightly rotten teeth.”
“Sounds like a goblin.” A woman said, snarling with contempt and disgust.
“I hate goblins, they nearly ate some frogs to extinction.” A younger man
said with such a meek voice that Toble could barely hear.
“If there's a goblin, we must tread carefully.” The fourth man said, his voice
pleasant and commanding, with a hint of compassion for the members of his
group. “They sometimes carry a communicable disease that'll spread with just
one bite.”
Cursing under his breath, Toble slammed down the lid to the final basket in
frustration. All the stupid containers were packed with tools, scrap metal, nuts
and bolts, or little mechanical doodads that Toble could only guess at their
purpose. There was nowhere to hide and all was lost.
He would certainly be chopped into small bits and used as an ingredient in
some magical concoction, or his nose and ears sliced off as a means to cast a
spell. He sighed out in defeat and looked upward with a forlorn gaze, but spotted
a winged metal contraption that hung from the ceiling up high.
A mechobird! He remembered seeing something similar while in the first
group of bandits he was in, because he helped a nasty mean goblin gadgetzer
work on them. They flew like birds in order to drop bombs on enemy
encampments, softening them up before the full scale invasion. The design of
this mechobird had elements of goblin gadget-making, but this one was much
nicer and the parts were clean and shiny. It looked to have an empty sitting
compartment in it's middle big enough for a human, so definitely big enough for
a goblin.
He heard the group mumble amongst themselves as they all walked around
the house and to the side of the basement wall.
“There's a concealed sliding door here I use often.” The older man
instructed. “It's more convenient than the front door, especially if I'm dirty from
tending my garden.”
Panicking, Toble scrambled up a stack of baskets and jumped as hard as he
could to the mechobird. He barely caught the wing's edge by his finger tips,
which rocked in the air as he reached for the driver's compartment, but was able
to steady himself enough to not fall off.
The secret sliding door in the wall cracked open and sunlight entered the
basement, casting shadows of the people as they entered. Toble successfully
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pulled himself into the driver's compartment, which had a soft leather chair,
many small buttons, several long levers, and two pedals. There was a small hole
on the bottom, a place where a bolt should be but was missing, and Toble peered
out of it to inspect the group as they entered.
“See here!” The wizard said, stepping further into the basement. “Footprints
in the dust.”
“I don't see anything.” A small young man, who wore some strange looking
hat and clothes, said in his weak nasal voice.
“Are you sure you see footprints?” The one dressed like a commoner asked.
“There's barely any dust on the ground, or anywhere.”
“I'm sure of it. A wizard's perception is far superior.” Staring at the floor, the
wizard turned sharply, as if following a trail of prints, but viciously bumped into
the smaller young man, which knocked him flat to the floor. “Sorry Rendle, I
didn't see you there. Are you alright?”
“Don't worry, I'm fine.” Rendle said as he slowly picked himself up.
“Even though I haven't been here for some time, it appears to me that
someone has disturbed this place and it's not Henry, though I see his paw prints
here also.”
“How is this place so clean?” The commoner gazed curiously at the ground.
“Since you said you haven't been here in a while.”
“I have a groundskeeper named Marfus.”
“Could it be his footprints?” The tall dark haired man asked with his strong
voice.
“Highly unlikely, because Marfus is a plant, a giant vine to be exact. So he
leaves no footprints. See, here he is now.”
Pointing to a crack in the wall, a vine snaked through and held at it's end a
duster and pan. Starting in the corner, it began to sweep, but the wizard shooed
the plant away, not wanting the evidence to be destroyed. He then went through
the room and followed the trail.
“It appears the prints go down the stairs, around the base of the cabinets,
across this stack of baskets, then up...” The wizard fell silent and gazed at the
mechobird.
Toble backed away from the peep hole and looked around for a weapon. It
was only a matter of moments, maybe less, before he was discovered, and he
certainly wasn't going down without a fight, even against a wizard. Finding
nothing at all, he leaned backwards in defeat, knowing that he was sure to be
executed on the spot, or even worse, since death would be desirable compared to
what wizards can do to those who offend them. Leaning back too far, Toble
pressed against one of the pedals, and the mechobird tilted to the right.
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“Look, it moved!” The commoner shouted. “Is something in there?”
Hopping into the driver's seat, Toble tried to remember everything the one
grumpy gadgetzer goblin said about using one of these; “Get away from it you
imbecile”, and “Don't touch another knob or I'll get one of the orc bosses to cut
your fingers off one by one”, were the only memories that came to mind. Now
that he thought about it, Toble wasn't taught a single thing about these things, but
that didn't matter, how hard could it be? If one goblin could do it, then so could
he.
Slamming his fists into the buttons and pulling up and down on the levers,
the mechobird sputtered and revved up like the growl of an angry beast. He
gripped the control stick and kicked at the pedals, launching the plane forward.
He quickly adjusted the steering stick and pointed the mechobird's nose at the
slim glass panels on top the wall.
Anticipating the impact and fearing all the broken shards of glass, Toble
closed his eyes and grit his teeth, but the plane suddenly jerked backwards,
because the rope used to suspend it to the ceiling was still attached. The plane
pulled hard to the right and spun in a circle, coming over just on top of the heads
of the people who quickly ducked and took cover. “Watch out!” Toble heard one
of them yell as he passed by. “He's coming back around again, cut the rope to
make him crash!”
A moment later, as he spun back around, the rope snapped and the plane
dropped it's nose to face the ground. Pulling upwards as hard as he could on the
steering stick, Toble managed to straighten the mechobird towards the glass
panels once again. A small glimmer of hope passed through his mind. Yes! I can
make it and live!
But it was not meant to be.
Red lights flashed in front of Toble's smiling face, quickly sucking the hope
right out of his little soul. He didn't know what the lights meant, but it was
colored red, just like his blood, which was about to be splattered all over the
place. He preferred to have his blood remain on the inside of his body, but he no
longer had a choice.
Closing his eyes, the mechobird sputtered and grinded to a sudden halt, and
the spinning blade at it's front jammed. The whole thing slammed into the hard
stone floor, taking only a moment to crash and break to pieces. Toble popped out
of it's metal casing, like a hard shell cracking away to reveal the little green nut
inside.
The group surrounded the goblin before he could shake off the concussive
blows, and pointed their various weapons at him: a staff, a sword, a fist, a book,
and a wand.
112

Chapter 14
Painful News
Peering down into the basement from on top the stairs in the lobby,
Zelendra crossed her arms in protest and scowled at the sight of Pournel
interrogating the goblin. He's obviously going easy on the horrible little
creature, Zelendra thought since there wasn't enough sounds of agony coming
from their direction. In fact, there wasn't any sounds at all except the quiet
mumbling of the two talking to each other.
She had stepped away from the kitchen, and was all the way across the
lobby area – a beautiful entrance to this large mansion. She abandoned the array
of cheeses, sliced meats, and bread rolls Pournel had made Marfus set out, just so
she could catch a glimpse of the wonderful torture of the foul little pest.
Disappointment was all that was happening; bitter disappointment.
“Why don't we just kill it already?” She asked aloud to no one in particular
and scrunched her nose. “Who cares why it's here, goblins are nothing but
trouble.”
“He needs to see if it's alone or not.” Dranden answered while chewing a
bread roll and peering out from the kitchen. “If theres more around here, we have
to exterminate them too.”
“I understand that but,” Zelendra rolled her eyes, “can't he just cast a spell to
read it's mind or something? It's been too long and I don't feel comfortable with
that thing still alive.”
“Here, have some more cheese.” Belfast said, walking up to her and
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extending a platter he carried with him. “It'll ease your mind.”
“Thanks, but I'm full. I'm surprised I ate anything knowing that thing
crawled around here, leaving it's germs everywhere. Though the food was
delicious.”
“It practically ate itself.” Dranden said, stuffing himself with more. “For the
goblin, Pournel assured us the food was left untouched, except for the garden, of
course. I trust his judgement of what to do, which I'm sure is to dispose of the
foul pest.”
Pournel turned away from the goblin and stepped upon the stairs to come
up. Zelendra quickly moved away from the door and towards the kitchen, to
make it seem like she wasn't spying, just as the wizard entered the lobby area
with a joyful expression.
“This goblin travels alone, thank goodness.” The wizard smiled. “In fact he
is entirely alone.”
“What do you mean?” Dranden asked, finally leaving the kitchen to join
them.
“Goblins typically form familial bonds with whatever group they are raised
by. Through extraneous circumstances, this particular goblin has not formed any
cohesive bonding to any group. This means he will make a wonderful workshop
helper.”
“Wonderful workshop helper?” Zelendra widened her eyes in horror.
“Yes, I've decided to take him under my wing.”
“What? No!” Zelendra and Dranden both shouted. A piece of bread dropped
from Dranden's mouth, which he promptly picked up off the floor.
“Don't worry you two.” Pournel said with a smirk. “I've cast a spell that will
prevent him from attacking any of you.” Turning to the stairs, Pournel curled his
fingers in an inviting way. “Come on out. Everyone, meet Toble.”
Relunctantly, and with wide eyes, Toble paced into the lobby and stared at
the group with a frown. He awkwardly lifted his hand to wave, but set it back
down again, thinking it was best not to act too friendly. Zelendra's mouth gaped
open with disbelief and her face stayed motionless with bewilderment.
“Toble, huh?” Belfast said with a calm, ambivalent voice while chewing on
some cheese. “Does it mean something?”
“Glad you mentioned that.” Pournel nodded. “Goblin names are interesting
and very much based on day to day life. Lifetimes ago, during the Orc invasion
of the eastern kingdoms, a group of peaceful mages provided medical aid to both
sides, since they wanted to remain neutral in the conflict – a very noble act. But
the goblins and orcs had to learn the common words for the body parts they
needed healed or else they would bleed out. Since then, those common words
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have infiltrated their language. Toble's name is two words combined; 'toe' and
'bool'. Toe must refer to his missing big toe, a distinguishing feature of his.”
“When I was young,” Toble's high pitched goblin-voice pierced the air as he
explained, “I stood too close to a shaman's cutting board. A knife fell down and
sliced it clean off.” Toble reached down and patted his left toe stub in
recollection.
“Yes, and the word 'bool', I believe, is the goblin word for 'many tongues'.”
Pournel stroked his beard in thought.
“So he has many tongues.” Zelendra stuck her tongue out in disgust.
Toble stuck his tongue out to mimic her and looked down at the dark purple
slimy thing. “Na, I haf unly un' tunguuh.”
“It actually means that he's multilingual.” Pournel explained. “You see, it's
rather complicated to go into, but goblins are unique ethereal creatures that are
very susceptible to nature's randomness, causing them to have a variety of odd
quirks, so to speak. Toble's quirk is having the ability to learn and decipher
languages at a remarkable pace.”
“You're not seriously considering taking it along?” Dranden asked.
“No, I'm not considering it.” Pournel said with a twinkle in his eye. “I've
already decided and will do just that.”
“But it's a goblin.” Zelendra protested. “A gross, disgusting, smelly, rotting,
gooey, evil goblin.”
“They are not evil,” Pournel said defensively, “not inherently if that's what
you mean. Wizards for the longest time used to prefer goblins as workshop
helpers because of their peculiar nature, but orcs and sorcerers also use them,
twisting them for war or some other maniacal purpose, so they've gotten a pretty
bad reputation.”
“But, don't they eat humans?” Dranden asked.
“They eat all manner of food, and besides, humans have eaten other humans,
so that's no excuse to discount all goblins.”
“Has this goblin eaten humans?” Zelendra asked.
“Well...” Pournel moved his eyes across the room. “Ask him yourself.”
The group turned to Toble who stood there closing his eyes as if it made him
invisible. Opening up and seeing the group staring at him, Toble slouched over
and trembled slightly.
“Toble,” Belfast asked, “have you ever eaten a human?”
Gulping loudly, Toble quivered with his answer. “The orcs usually got all
the meat, I only got the spare parts.”
“That's it! I refuse to travel with this – thing.” Zelendra said, pointing
accusingly at Toble.
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“Let's be reasonable.” Pournel said in defense.
“We definitely have to be reasonable.” Dranden shouted, throwing his arms
in the air and pacing back and forth. “What if we wake up with our heads bitten
off?”
“Assuming one can wake up without a head,” Pournel said, “it would be
ghastly.”
“Or some other part of us missing, you know what I mean.”
“I understand your concern,” Pournel said, trying to calm the two down,
“but Toble was merely hungry.”
“Yes, hungry.” Toble stared at them with wide, fearful eyes. “I usually got a
foot, and maybe a hand sometimes.”
“If we keep him well fed, there shouldn't be any problems.” Pournel tried
assuring everyone.
“Shouldn't be any problems?” Zelendra's face grimaced.
“It's because he doesn't have a last name yet.” Pournel said.
“I don't know what that means.” Zelendra crossed her arms in frustration.
“It's what I was saying before, about having familial relations. Goblins,
proper goblins that is, are in tight knit societies scattered throughout the world;
jungles, deserts, the arctic. They all have last names based on these locations or
based on the name of the clan to which they belong. If they have a last name,
they have formed bonds with kin that remain until death. Toble has no last name,
so he is not bound to any group or location.”
“So he's like an orphan.” Belfast said.
“And worse than an orphan, he is a leaf that has fallen far from the tree,
taken by harsh winds out of his control; a withered and dried remnant of his true
nature.”
Toble grimaced at the description of himself, but remained silent.
“But, still it's not...” Zelendra couldn't finish as Pournel interrupted her by
lifting his hand.
“I feel that he could be valuable in this quest,” the wizard said, “and though
it would pain me to see any of you leave, none of you are forced to come along.
Except for you Dranden, since you made a promise to your town.” Pournel
glanced around and squinted his eyes. “And also Rendle, where is he by the
way?”
“He's still in the laboratory,” Dranden said, “testing the bark sample.”
“Yes, that's right. I should check his progress.” Pournel briskly left the room.
“I should probably also check.” Dranden said, giving a dreary sigh. “Maybe
I can change his mind about the goblin. Though he is usually very stubborn.”
Zelendra stormed away from the lobby and into the kitchen, and found a
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stool near the kitchen counter to slam her butt into. She busily mumbled to
herself about a variety of options, just as Belfast pulled up another stool next to
her and sat down. He leaned into the counter and sighed heavily at her bad mood.
“What do you think?” Zelendra said. “There's a nice city a few days south, I
could go there and set up shop. You should come with me, I'm sure there's plenty
of people you could help.”
“You spoke with the spirits and they said to help with this quest. I feel it to
be the right choice.”
“But that thing, uggh.” Zelendra frowned and sagged her shoulders, then put
her head into her arms on the counter.
Belfast remained silent, contemplating what to say, but Zelendra raised her
head and continued.
“Do you remember me talking about my parent's horse ranch?” She asked.
“Of course.”
“When I was a young girl I had a horse named Turiel, who had a beautiful
white coat and a long flowing silver mane that I would braid, but...” Zelendra
frowned as tears formed. “One spring morning, I opened the stable door – all the
blood and bones and hooves. A despicable pack of goblins ate him, along with
many others. It was horrible. The vile creatures were all fattened and fast asleep
on top a pile of hay.” Zelendra sobbed.
“I'm sorry to hear that.” Belfast rested his hand on Zelendra's shoulder.
“You're very fond of horses, as am I, but you have a connection with them it
seems, so it must have been difficult. I'm going to trust the wizard's judgement in
this case. I think being around him, and you, has given me a sense of hope.
Traveling with a goblin isn't something I enjoy or want, but sometimes you have
to take the bad with the good.”
Zelendra turned her head and gazed at Belfast, whose blue eyes glistened
with hidden affection. The room's walls spun and expanded outward, and a
warmness rolled over her body and tingled her toes. Her stomach fluttered and
felt like it floated, and her chest shivered with sensitivity. She puckered her moist
lips and slowly leaned forward, wanting to to press into Belfast and feel his
embrace despite the oblivious gaze upon his face.
Bursting suddenly into the kitchen, Rendle shook his head and frowned with
bitter disdain. Pournel followed closely behind and wore the same unhappy
expression along with a trace of disappointment.
“I don't know what happened.” Rendle shrieked.
“What do you mean you don't know?” Pournel asked as he rolled his eyes.
“I know this isn't your area of expertise, but I expected more from a fifth year
academic.”
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“I'm sorry.”
“What happened?” Belfast turned away from Zelendra and faced the
commotion.
“Rendle destroyed the sample.” Dranden answered as he entered the kitchen
just behind the two.
“It erupted in flames.” Pournel grunted, putting his hands in the air and
expanding his fingers like an explosion. “Poof, gone.”
“I don't understand, I followed my notes exactly.” Rendle went to the table
where Zelendra and Belfast were, and slammed his fist down, which only made a
tap.
“Your notes are obviously flawed.” Pournel scowled as he took out a flask
concealed in his robe and drank heavily from it.
“Does this mean we have to retrieve another sample?” Dranden asked. His
spine shivered with remembered dread of the forest.
“Tanor Grisvernus provided me with an adequate analysis, but I wanted a
more thorough job with my own equipment, which was one of the reasons I
brought Rendle along, a decision I am increasingly regretting.”
“Perhaps I should leave.” Rendle moaned, dropping his face into his hands.
“I have no business being here anyway. I'm terrible at botany.”
Pournel rolled his head in sympathetic annoyance, put the flask away in his
robe, and staggered over to Rendle. “I'm not that mad, in fact, if it makes you feel
better, I thought something like this would happen, which is why I kept some of
the sample.”
“That's great.” Rendle perked up. “I could try again.”
“No, no, I don't think so. You're not getting anywhere near it.” Pournel
moved away and went to a chair against the wall to sit down. “The university's
analysis has given me enough information to determine what spell was used and
the appropriate remedy.”
“What's the spell?” Dranden asked.
“It's a low-level necromancy spell; a few simple-minded ethereal spirits that
grew in size. They suck the life-force out of anything they possess, but I've never
seen them this big before, nor able to move trees the way that they did, which is a
curious thing, though the university's analysis seems accurate. The remedy is to
cut the source of the infection with a runic blade, preferably an axe in this case.”
“Seems easy enough.” Dranden said, brightening up with the thought that
the quest would soon be over and he could go back home. Although on second
thought, adventures like this rarely happen and it would be a shame for it to end
early. Dranden did want some excitement to happen, just not too much.
“It would appear easy enough,” Pournel continued, “but there's not a magic
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axe like it nearby and it would take half a year to gather the appropriate resources
to forge a new one. No, we have to travel far, far to the Northeast, to a smaller
kingdom called Tallamoor. From there we'll travel to a mountain range where
there's an ancient vault that contains the axe we need.”
Toble, listening from the lobby, furrowed his already wrinkly green brow
and thought about the quest Bur had given him; 'far to the east' – or was it west?
– 'through the mountains and up some steps', or something like that. Toble
couldn't remember because it had been a while and the elves convinced him that
the orcs were only trying to get rid of him, but doubt still remained. Maybe Bur
spoke of an actual magical weapon, and was also trying to banish him at the same
time? Either way, Toble would keep his eyes and ears open during this trip.
“Tallamoor?” Zelendra said. “I've heard of it, surrounded by treacherous,
mostly impassable terrain. It's going to take months to travel there.”
“True.” Pournel said with a nod, which shook his bushy eyebrows. “That's
why we will use a fast method of travel to get there, but first we shall rest here
for today and leave tomorrow. I'll prepare a feast for tonight, so none of you
should eat too much beforehand. My home is welcome to you all. You may go
into any room and have a look at all my stuff, just try not to snoop around too
much. There is magic here that may be harmful. I don't want any of you to lose a
limb reaching into some dark corner, or become trapped within endless maze-like
chambers. In fact, it's probably best not to touch anything and not to go into any
room except the ones I've already shown you. Just to be safe.”
119

Chapter 15
Close Call
Heeding pournel's vague words of warning about his mansion, everyone
went their separate ways. Zelendra went down to the stables to tend the
horses, Rendle went up to the study hoping that inspiration for his love
sonnet would strike, and Belfast went outside so he could contemplate. Dranden,
however, searched for something to do and wondered if he could help the wizard.
Pournel had opened all the cabinets in his kitchen and was orchestrating
Marfus, and the plant's many vine-limbs, to gather the utensils, plates, and bowls
necessary for the feast. The wizard mumbled to himself and shook his head back
and forth, attempting to sort through many different thoughts, until Dranden
suddenly tapped the busy wizard on the shoulder.
“Ahhh!” Pournel shrieked, almost tossing away the cup of brandy in his
startled hands.
“Sorry,” Dranden said, helping to steady the wizard's tilted cup, “I didn't
mean to scare you.”
“It's alright Dranden.” Pournel furrowed his wrinkly brow. “I don't know
why I'm on edge, I guess it may have to do with the untimely destruction of half
the bark sample. Did you need something?”
“I feel like I've been rather useless so far and would like to put my abilities
to good use, showcase my skills.” Dranden flexed his fingers as if preparing them
for work.
“What did you have in mind?”
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“Well, I believe every saddle should represent their owner, that the seat they
ride upon defines who they are. Which brings me to your saddle, as it seems a bit
crooked, lumpy, and old.”
Pournel raised his bushy eye brows a tad.
“Not to say that this represents you, no, not at all, I'm saying that it bothers
me that it does not represent you.” Dranden said, making a full recovery.
“Now that you mention it, my saddle is a bit lumpy. I can't remember the
last time I got a new one or had it fixed.”
“I've looked around your workshop, and I believe all the necessary tools and
supplies are there to make it ten times better.”
“Ten times.” Pournel's eyes widened.
“More or less ten times.” Dranden tilted his hands back and forth like a
scale. “Do I have your permission?'
“I suppose I'll let you, since it'll help you feel less useless.”
“Thank you.” Dranden smiled.
“You're welcome. Anything to help.” Pournel went back to guiding Marfus'
vines to make the feast, while Dranden scampered away to the workshop.
Softly humming a tune, Zelendra combed all the horse's long manes, laid out
some fruit for them to munch on, and refreshed their bedding. Checking on their
hooves and shoes was next, and then maybe a leisure ride around the surrounding
garden. The group had passed by all the different fruit and nut trees too quickly
when they first arrived, having no time to inspect any of them. There was such a
large variety that she was bound to find something interesting and new –
especially in a wizard's garden. Maybe she could take a few seeds back home
with her, wherever home would be after this quest was over, and if pursuing
Belfast ever worked out.
She had tried following the handsome man when they all dispersed, but he
moved silently and quickly, almost like he was avoiding her. But not just her, he
was avoiding everyone, probably needing time to contemplate alone. Zelendra
understood that everyone had a certain favorite activity they use to unwind, but
he didn't have to be so secretive about it.
Muffles purred and stretched himself out on the grass to take another nap
before running off to find a bird to hunt. Zelendra giggled at the cat's laziness and
went back to the horses.
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C LOS E CALL
Moving within the shadows of the many tall bushes that ran along the
garden was Rendle, who slowly crept around. He was spying on Zelendra as she
cared for the horses. No, not spying, he shook his head to correct the thought. He
was merely observing the half-elf in her natural habitat, exactly in the manner a
good academic would do for any other creature, despite what others think.
He had left the wizard's study because being surrounded with an abundance
of material about alcoholic beverages was not inspiring any romantic feelings for
his sonnet. He spotted her down below from the balcony and remembered being
motivated by her red dress, so he thought perhaps gazing at her some more would
do the trick.
Zelendra certainly had many curves that caught the eye, and was taller than
Pearlith, but the half-pointy ears and dark blue hair was too exotic for Rendle's
tastes.
That could be it! He thought. An exotic look that only Peralith possesses.
Excited from getting a new idea, Rendle accidentally stepped sideways on a rock
and fell down.
Lifting himself off the ground and brushing off the dirt, he looked around to
see if he was spotted, but Zelendra was already walking towards him.
“Hi Rendle.” She said while waving, but without a smile.
“Hi.” Rendle muttered under his breath, glancing at the approaching
Tundian with wide eyes. Did she see him spying? Was she mad because of him?
Did she misinterpret his observing the wrong way? Will she tell the others? Many
questions filled his mind, all of them paralyzing and electrifying.
“Hi Rendle.” She said again, trying to elicit a response from the frozen
academic. “Are you taking a walk?”
Rendle held out his hand, stuck out his thumb in no particular direction, and
unhinged his mouth, but didn't make a sound because his voice had abandoned
him.
“Can't blame you,” she continued, “it's such a nice looking garden, I thought
I'd go for a ride.”
“Yes.” Rendle finally blurted out, struggling to maintain a calm demeanor.
“I was just walking, around here, trying to think of my sonnet.” He bit his tongue
at the words.
“Sonnet? Why are you writing a sonnet? You don't seem like the poet type,
nor a song writer.” Zelendra suddenly gasped and widened her eyes. “It's for a
girl!” She clasped her hands together and inhaled with a squeal. “Ooooh, that's so
sweet! Who is she? Is she at the university? A student? Teacher? Is she pretty?
Does she like you? Tell me everything!”
Rendle's head wobbled a little as he rolled his eyes across the horizon, trying
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to think of a way out. “Well, she's a student, and – um – I'm struggling with
saying something nice about her, which is what my sonnet is about; about my
feelings for her, the deep emotions that I feel, for her.”
“Do you want my advice?”
“Sure.” Rendle said, happy that he didn't have to describe his whole
predicament.
“Don't say something about her physical appearance. And what I mean is
that, it's a very risky thing to do. Many women may have a slight problem with
something about themselves, and if she doesn't already know you very well, she
may think that you mentioning her physical parts, especially as the first thing you
notice, may be seen as creepy, or even an insult.”
“Really?” Rendle furrowed his brow in confusion. “So I shouldn't tell her
she's beautiful?”
“Not really, not unless you two are already close. You see, for myself, there
were certain physical parts of me that I hid, while I worked with the
Wonderlings, and if anyone mentioned these parts of me, saying that they like
them, or whatever, I didn't like that type of attention. I usually avoided them
afterwards.”
“What should I do?”
“You need to find something the other's don't see. Every guy is attracted to
pretty hair, a nice smile, big breasts, so that's not going to impress her if you
admit to it. Instead, tell her something the other guys don't see, something she
may not see herself.”
Rendle stood silent for a moment in thought. “I'm not sure what?”
“If you truly love the girl, then you should know what's attracting you to her.
Is she goofy, is she smart, what's her favorite activities, what is she passionate
about? And you should also be what she wants. If she's into music, then be a
musician, if she's into intellectuals, then try to be that, or if she's into sports, be
athletic.”
Rendle's spirit sunk with each word because he was none of those things,
especially not athletic. And his sonnet, so far, was filled with praise for Pearlith's
attractiveness; how she looked great in red, that her smile vanquished a gloom
day, and her curly hair was as smooth and shiny like a frog's backside struck with
moonlight.
Damn those Furpletromp players that were always talking to her! If
Zelendra is right, and there's no reason to think she's lying, then Pearlith may
already love someone else, that her heart belonged to another, which may include
one of those stupid players. But Rendle had made sure this wasn't so, with all
those sleepless nights outside in the cold or rain, watching her dormitory window
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from afar to make sure she was safe, and also to make sure no one else was
wooing her. If he had suspected anything, anything at all, he would have sped up
his process and make every effort to approach her more quickly. But since there
appeared to be no one, he became comfortable taking his time. Perhaps there was
something he missed; sideways glances, secret smiles, or love notes passed
between her and someone else.
“Hey?” Zelendra waved her hand in the air to catch Rendle's attention. “Are
you alright? I kind of lost you there.”
“What? Oh sorry.” Rendle rubbed his sweaty forehead and panted with
short, erratic breaths.
“I asked if you ever loved someone before or if she's your first?”
“I have to go.” Rendle darted away towards the mansion but turned for a
moment to Zelendra. “Thank you, however, it was helpful.”
Watching the highly anxious academic clamor back into the mansion,
Zelendra strolled to the stable and sighed with pity. “Poor guy, probably only
likes the pretty ones. Hopefully she doesn't hurt him too much.”
Lining up hammers, mallets, leather bits, padding, and wire, all on top a work
bench, Dranden looked with fondness upon the assortment of items he needed to
fashion the new saddle. Crafting has always been in the family, but with each
generation it had slightly altered to something else due to market forces.
Pipperwhip the first whittled, and carved intricate clocks and watches, but the
necromancer Neezlemek put an end to that. Then his son crafted walking sticks,
as they came into fashion for a time since everyone had to have one, as a way to
display their own unique personality. But they fell out of popularity because it
made people appear too old, hobbling around on sticks of wood.
The next son in the family was a weapon smith, because a combative sport
named Death Cage became immensely popular. Many weapons needed fixing
after each match, which created a booming industry and caused the Pipperwhips
to be on their way back to the top, or at least somewhere in the middle.
Unfortunately the sport was outlawed because of the gruesome injuries sustained
by the participants and sometimes the audience.
The next son, Dranden's father, hammered designs on anything, so that rich
people could display their family emblems on plates, silverware, shoes, and even
toilet seats. But having your name printed on everything made it almost
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impossible to resell the item, so this too eventually lost it's general appeal.
And then finally there was Dranden Pipperwhip the fifth who had a talent
for leather working.
Everyone used horses, or at least some sort of living creature, for travel and
Dranden was sure this would never fall out of fashion. Especially since the only
other kind of travel were these fancy new 'rolling-box contraptions' – which were
only ever seen in big cities. Dranden heard about them from passing travelers at
the bar, but knew from their description that they would never become popular.
Who would want to roll around in a metal box when they could ride on top an
elegant and sophisticated creature?
“Hmm.” Dranden hummed to himself, thinking that he still needed a few
more components for the saddle.
Walking back into the storage room, he searched once again, corner to
corner, for any remaining material. There were only a few baskets and boxes
unchecked, along with strange glowing glass containers that shined many
different colors. He had picked the place clean, but he still wanted a little extra so
he could finish the saddle with true Pipperwhip flare, his signature style of zeal
and pizzazz – something loyal customers had come to expect.
Dranden could see it now, his name and handiwork, displayed prominently
on a wizard's saddle, a person who travels the world many times over meeting
countless different people, including kings and queens. It could only be good
publicity. This trip may have already been worth it and he could fake an injury to
be sent back home, but there's no fun in that. He may as well play it out to the
end because what's the worse that could happen?
Catching his eye on a top shelf was a glittery basket, woven with a wicker
that shimmered red and gold in the light. Taking it and setting it upon the floor,
Dranden wondered what could be inside. Maybe there was something that
sparkled, a powder he could use as a finishing touch? Removing the round lid,
Dranden stared into a pit of darkness, like a black smoke that was formless and
void of being, but not lifeless, because it gazed back up at him with a cold
malevolent hunger.
Snapping out of the opening, a thin black tentacle flopped around and tried
to grab hold of anything nearby. Dranden shrieked with panic and pressed the lid
down on the basket with all his strength. The tentacle convulsed with pain and
quickly recoiled back into the darkness.
“That should be it!” Dranden proclaimed as he immediately placed the
basket back on the shelf with trembling hands, having the grave suspicion he
narrowly escaped some horrible demise. “I think I've collected enough materials.
Nope, no more snooping for me. I should take the wizard's advice more carefully
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next time, and thank goodness there will be a next time.”
Turning back to his equipment, Dranden saw Pournel standing in the corner
of the room, motionless and silent.
“Pournel! Oh my, you scared me. I'm sorry, I opened one of your baskets,
and well, let's just say that I survived. Don't worry, I won't open another one. Not
in this life.”
Pournel simply stood there, gazing at him. Dranden looked about himself
and wondered how the wizard got into the corner of the room, especially without
making a sound. He was a wizard after all, so using magic was the obvious
answer, but why would he use magic to avoid Dranden's detection?
“Pournel? Are you alright?”
Brewsworth continued to stand there, without movement or sound, his eyes
stern but eerily vacant. A shiver rippled down Dranden's spine, telling him that
maybe, just maybe, he had finally irked the wizard too much.
“You're not mad about the basket are you, I'm sorry about that, it won't
happen again. You did say we could look around your house.”
Looking more upon the figure of Pournel, Dranden noticed that he was stiff,
his skin had a subtle plastic sheen to it, and his eyes never blinked. Dranden
stepped closer and closer, which made these differences more visible, until
finally realizing it was a life-sized doll remarkably similar to the wizard.
Poking at it with his fingers, Dranden giggled at his foolishness and
wondered what it was used for, perhaps like a scarecrow or something. He also
wondered how he didn't spot it before since he went around the room almost
twice over.
At the base of the doll, tucked underneath the robe, was a box with a springaction
lid that had flung wide open, and the thin metal skeleton of the figure
stuck out of it.
“The whole doll folds into this little box?” Dranden mumbled to himself. “I
must have triggered it somehow when I passed by. Oh well, off to work!”
With the strange gaze of the doll's glass eyes upon him, Dranden set to work
on the saddle, fully determined to have it ready by tomorrow morning.
“Whoa Starla.” Zelendra commanded her horse to come to a stop near a cluster
of flowering cherry trees.
Looking into her basket filled with nuts and berries, some of which she had
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never seen before, Zelendra wondered about eating them all or saving some for
planting. She popped a few tart berries in her mouth and chewed with glee. Her
tongue salivated for more but she had to resist, or else spoil dinner.
Having gone around the whole garden and grove, which expanded for
several acres, she was now back near the stables that overlooked the mansion.
The architecture was erratic and spontaneous, like different styles were built on
top of each other, or added later, resembling the disjointed and confused thoughts
of an old drunk; but it all worked together somehow.
There were several smaller buildings around the mansion as well, including
the stables, but most of them were unassuming and likely only storage sheds
packed with equipment to take care of such a massive property.
One building, with a smooth dome roof, was off to the side, and black
smoke billowed from it's chimney. Zelendra wondered who could be in there;
Pournel was making dinner, Rendle was trying to write a sonnet, Dranden was
making a saddle, and the goblin was probably torturing some small helpless
animal somewhere – only Belfast was unaccounted for so it had to be him.
Approaching the open door, light from a fire flickered against the wood
grain and Zelendra turned the corner to enter. The building was for smithing and
had a wide furnace within it's rounded wall. Belfast sat upon a stone bench with
his sword laid on his lap as he polished the blade. He looked up upon hearing her
footsteps and tried to hide a smile, then focused on the sword again.
“Hi Zelendra.” He said. “Have you been exploring the area?”
“I have, and I've discovered at least two new berries, and one new nut
variety.”
“This place is rather spectacular, out of all the things the wizard's discovered
in the world, he's brought back the best of it.”
“Yes, except people,” Zelendra squinted her eyes, “there doesn't seem to be
anyone else around, like, at all.”
“True, it feels isolated, which might be why he's not here often, as he said.”
“Is this what you do to take the edge off?” Zelendra smirked. “Polish your
sword?”
“This sword is a family heirloom, passed down through countless
generations. I'm lucky to have it, though technically I shouldn't.”
“So you stole it.” Zelendra shook her head in disappointment. “From your
own family no less.”
“Not steal, borrow. I'm in line to inherent the sword, so I simply gave myself
early access.”
“Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Belfast smiled and began rubbing the cross-guard, which had a deep purple
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gem in the center.
“So, what's special about it? Seems like just a sword to me, though it is
beautiful.”
“I'm not entirely sure. The legend I was told is that this sword was forged in
the lava pits of the dark god Ortaxxus, and my great ancestor fought on the front
lines against the evil forces. The rebel leader at the time was knocked off his
horse, and nearly slain, but my ancestor saved him. After the battle, the leader
presented the sword as a token of appreciation. Supposedly the sword has a
hidden power where if the right person wields it, the purple crystal opens up to
make him faster and stronger. Or maybe there's nothing special about it, and it's
just a part of my family's history, a relic with sentimental value.”
“That's quite a history with the sword, if it's true. You talk of the old times,
with the dark gods. My people don't really teach much about that, they prefer to
look to the future and how to prosper with peace and trade.”
“The old, dark times are to remind us of where we came from, and a
cautious tale to never go back.”
“I know, that's why myself and many others studied the old texts away from
our teachers.” Zelendra pondered for a moment. “In fact, a lot of what I learned
was outside of what they wanted.”
“So, why did you leave?” Belfast asked, his gaze not leaving his sword.
“What?”
“You've never mentioned it, but it's very obvious that you ran away from
home, probably under unpleasant circumstances.”
“Wow, I guess I'm an open book.” Zelendra sighed and paced to the bench.
“My people believe in fate, and that the oracles can see this fate, and what they
see determines your whole life. It's stupid, unfair, and probably corrupt.”
“Do you believe in fate?”
“I do, somewhat, as long I agree with it.” Zelendra plopped down next to
him, then touched the very hilt of his sword with the edge of her fingertips.
“So you left because you disagreed with their decision.” Belfast stopped
polishing to glance at her hand, and then her face.
“Absolutely. What they wanted for my life, was not at all what I wanted.”
“What do you want?”
Staring into his eyes, her countenance melted like a candle underneath a
flaming ball of fire, her skin warmed with blood that boiled within, and her heart
raced with lustful intentions. She agonized with anticipation towards their
inevitable embrace as their lips came closer and closer.
Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!
The ground trembled slightly at the sudden noise, and Zelendra jumped to
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her feet with clenched fists and legs poised for battle.
“What the...” She scowled.
Standing at the doorway, a large white rabbit glared at the two with it's black
eyes. It had beat the ground with it's long paw to get their attention. Turning it's
head back and forth, it motioned towards the direction of the mansion and
indicated for them to follow.
“It must be the rabbit Pournel mentioned, Henry. I think he's telling us to go
to the mansion. Maybe dinner is ready?”
The rabbit thumped a few more times at Belfast to indicate that he was
correct, and then bolted away like it was being chased for dinner, disappearing
within the dust kicked up by it's long feet.
On top the long dining room table was a large roasted duck surrounded by a
wealth of buttered biscuits, steamed vegetables, mashed potatoes, and a variety of
dipping sauces. Garlic, rosemary, and lemon permeated the air, which filled their
nostrils and tempted them to gorge themselves with gastronomic pleasure.
Each took a seat along the sides, while Pournel and the rabbit Henry took a
place at the two ends. Toble was unseen, but still close in the other room, having
been placed there by Pournel who thought it best so as not to upset the others. A
few pitchers, colored either red or white, stood between the piles of food and
contained wine or other spirits.
“Use only the white pitchers,” Pournel said as he poured himself a large
glass, “because the red ones contain a very potent alcohol drink, something from
my own personal stash.”
“Really?” Zelendra snatched up a red pitcher and mixed just a small amount
into her water. “You tried warning us about your house, but as far as I can tell,
this place is completely safe.”
“Totally safe.” Dranden said, putting his hand to his mouth to softy bite his
thumb so as to not give away his brush with death.
They gorged on the food and sank their teeth into a little of everything.
Dranden didn't hold back and arguably ate the most out of all of them, while
Belfast stuck mostly to the meat and perhaps devoured half the goose alone.
Zelendra had only one plate, collecting an assortment of the veggies and baked
fruit. While Rendle took a few biscuits and a leg piece, of which he couldn't
finish, and kept to drinking juices and nibbling fruit wedges.
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“So, what's with the rabbit?” Zelendra asked, glancing with curiosity at the
rabbit as it munched on an assortment of raw vegetables already laid out and
separate from the feast.
“His name is Henry, and he was formerly a human – a friend that I
transformed.” Pournel said. “Some wish to be something different than what they
were born as, feeling that the body they were given by chance was a mistake.”
“Is it just like what you said about transform spells, that Henry can change
back at any time?” Dranden asked.
“Of course. But Henry has been a rabbit now for longer than he was a
human, so I don't think he could function correctly anymore if he changed back,
which is fine because this is the form he most wants to be in.”
“If there was ever a form I could take, I'd be a horse.” Zelendra said with a
hiccup, sipping down the last of her drink. “But no, I think I'm good with being
Tundian. We're like, awesome, you know?”
“Tundian is a mix between humans and elves, right?” Belfast asked.
“Yes, sort of.” Zelendra nodded with wobbling eyes. “That's what I'm told at
least. When the ancient high elves were still around, some of them boinked it
with some humans, which resulted in us half breeds.” Zelendra set her empty
glass down, being extra careful not to drop it or set it on something, and looked
for the red pitcher again.
Pournel snatched up the pitcher before she could reach for it, jiggled it a
little, and then shrugged. “Sorry, looks like it's fresh out.”
“What?” Zelendra's head titled. “You've had like – a hundred drinks just
today – and I've had only one. I can't be drunk, can I?” She turned to the others
and squinted. “I feel drunk, though. I must be blinking a lot because I do that –
the lights, they get so bright.” Zelendra closed her eyes and dazed off for a
moment.
“Pournel did warn us about the red pitchers.” Dranden said, glad that he had
second thoughts about drinking tonight.
“Maybe some dessert before I have to sleep.” Zelendra snapped awake again
from her drowsiness.
At the command of Pournel, Marfus' vines snaked down from a hole in the
ceiling and carried glass bowls filled with the evening's dessert.
“Desert is your choice of pudding.” Pournel said, pointing to each one in
turn. “Strawberry, dragonfruit, chocolate, or vanilla.
“Strawberry.” Zelendra smiled. “My favorite, sweet and tart.”
“Dragonfruit.” Dranden cheered. “Sounds exotic, different than the usual.”
“Chocolate.” Belfast nodded. “Always reliable, never fails.”
“Vanilla.” Rendle mumbled. “Actually never mind, I can't eat anymore or I'll
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pop.”
“Your mansion is beautiful, but also very – strange.” Belfast said, scooping
up some pudding. “The rooms go this way and that, and some rooms seem bigger
than they should be, or hallways that stretch in peculiar ways.”
“It's rather disorganized and befuddling isn't it?” Pournel nodded in
agreement. “Starting off as a simple single room house, I kept adding and
modifying it to whatever I needed at the time. But building with magic has it's
quirks, and it could very well make the inside of a room or hallway much larger
than the outside of it.”
“There's so mu' stuff 'ere!” Dranden tried saying, muffled from all the
pudding shoveled into his mouth, but then he swallowed for manner's sake. “All
collected from around the world. I can see why it took you so long to get back to
my town. You travel to so many different places, one small town in this big world
would be easy to miss – for generations! I'm not sure if I would like to ride my
horse that much, very tough on the back.”
“About that,” Belfast said, turning to Pournel, “you mentioned we would
use some form of fast travel for our trip tomorrow. What were you talking about?
Like giant birds or something?”
“We will use a portal to travel to a distant land.” Pournel said.
“A portal? That sounds interesting, maybe a little dangerous.” Dranden said
with concern, but his eyes couldn't be bothered to leave his bowl of delicious
pudding.
“A portal is a fold in the fabric of space and time that connects one place
with another.” Pournel explained in a casual, but instructive tone, though the
words were lost on the others. “It is a secret form of travel that wizards use to
move across the world in an instant.”
“Secret?” Belfast wrinkled his forehead. “Then why are you revealing it to
us?”
“Right, that reminds me, you shouldn't tell anyone about these portals.
Instead, just tell people that we used giant birds, or underground tunnel worms.
Anything else will do.”
“What?” Zelendra asked, lifting her wobbling head from her strawberry
pudding. “Why though, why is it secret? Portals that instantly zap you
somewhere, it's amazing, I mean, that sounds wonderful.”
“Wonderful, you say?” Pournel raised his bushy eyebrows. “If people knew
of this then they would use it for everyday travel. Going to the market, going to
work, going to see relatives, all of it would be as simple as opening a door and
stepping a few paces. This seems wonderful at first, but it cuts out the entire
journey, the experience of hardship to get somewhere. And it wouldn't stop there.
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People would demand that businesses deliver goods to their homes directly, to
push packages right into their living rooms, so they need not even walk out their
door at all. Then portals will be set up right next to a chair, so one only has to
reach into it to retrieve something from their pantry, or basement, or wherever.
All interactions between neighbors will dwindle to nothing, people would rarely
leave their house or even their seat, and they would become increasingly lazy to
the point that fatness would be an epidemic among the youth, and an entire
generation would see an early grave.”
“Well then...” Zelendra went back to finish her dessert, “I won't tell
anyone.”
“We must use the portal this time, because where we have to go will take
many months normally. And also, Dranden, it is true, they can be dangerous.
Don't worry though, us wizards have improved on previous models after testing
on many unfortunate creatures, so none of you have anything to worry about, I
think. One can never be absolutely certain about such things. Unexpected things
have been known to occur; limbs ending up on the wrong place, or the whole
body turned inside out. We must be off to bed at once, it will be an early morning
tomorrow. Pleasant dreams to all.”
133

Chapter 16
Tallamoor
Deep within pournel's lower level basement and nestled within a narrow
dirt tunnel, the secret portal spiraled a fluorescent blue and shimmered
a purple haze. The group stood alongside their horses in the early
morning, with Dranden at the lead. He stretched out his limbs in an attempt to
ready himself for crossing over, while Pournel lined up behind him and examined
the brand new saddle.
“It looks nice.” The wizard said as he rubbed his hand across the white
leather. “Far nicer than my older one, even when it was new. Thank you.”
“It's my pleasure.” Dranden smiled. “It's white to match the coloring of Pix.
Hopefully it shall serve you well for many years, decades even.”
“I see you took the liberty of putting your name across the front of it.”
“That's just harmless company branding, so people know where it came
from. I hope you don't mind. I stamped your name on the back so no one thinks
your name is 'Pipperwhip Saddles'. I can remove it if you want.”
“That won't be necessary, my butt will be covering it most of the time.”
Pournel turned to the others. “We should be off, there's a whole day of traveling
to do. Hopefully all of you got plenty of rest.”
Everyone was bright and alert except for Zelendra, being the most
disheveled, with droopy eyes, matted down hair, and an expression of pain for
the splitting headache. She pushed her face into her saddle, wishing it was a soft
pillow in a warm bed.
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“There's a spell I learned as a priestess,” she mumbled softly, “that can get
alcohol out of the system quickly, but I'm too tired to remember it now.”
Belfast had loaned her a portion of his coffee during breakfast, but it didn't
help, it only made her more aware of her agony. Muffles the cat wasn't anywhere
to be found, having dashed out of the bedroom at night to prowl the large estate.
Though Zelendra was thankful for the cat's absence because she couldn't possibly
care for him this morning.
“Here's the portal.” Pournel announced, as if it wasn't obvious enough. “We
can go through one at a time, leading our horses, and enter the house of Baroof
Pennyshoe, a friend of mine, who is also a fellow wizard.”
“Is it painless?” Dranden asked while peering with wonderment at the
spiraling blue light.
“It should be, mostly.” Pournel said, squinting his eyes a little. “I could send
the goblin through first, to see if it's safe.”
Toble stood next to the miniature donkey named Tidbit, a steed that Pournel
had loaned him for the trip. He shuddered at the words, twisted the leather reigns,
and awkwardly looked around, hoping that it was only a suggestion. Though
Toble would understand if they made him do it since they were more valuable
than himself. It also wouldn't be the first time he was used as an expendable test
subject. The scars along his left leg and lower back still haunted him in dreams.
Old wounds from relentless slathering of the latest orc ointment firetar. “Tell me
how much this hurts.” He was once gruffed at, right before a cruel orc shaman
slung a bucketful of the horrible stuff. Toble's screaming allowed the shaman to
gauge how much he should adjust the formula.
“No, no.” Dranden shook his head. “If you say it's safe then I believe it. I'll
go first.”
Swallowing his doubt, Dranden stepped into the tunnel and pulled along his
horse, of which Coco also seemed to share some dread by whinnying a little and
stomping his hooves. The blue light became transparent in places, until Dranden
saw the other side, which was another basement. The others soon followed and
gathered themselves underneath a wooden basement door wrapped with a chain
and lock.
“That was it?” Dranden asked as he watched Pournel go to the lock with a
key in hand. “I thought moving through a portal would be more dramatic. Like
falling through a tunnel, or being stretched and warped, then put back together
again. That was basically like – walking from one room to another.”
“Normally a portal doesn't even have the blue and purple lights to it.”
Pournel said, unlocking the chain and tossing it to the side. “Us wizards had to
add all that extra stuff just to display to others that it's there. We could make you
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stretch and warp if you like?”
“No, no. I think I can live with my disappointment.” Dranden said. “Simple
is better.”
“We thought so too.” Pournel swung open the basement door, and led
everyone out.
The humble home of Baroof Pennyshoe was much smaller than Pournel's
mansion, being one large circle instead of an array of rooms interconnected with
hallways. Here, every room was visible to every other room; the dining hall was
across from the bedroom, the study was across from the food pantry, and the
laboratory was across from the bath. It all existed together within a large sphere
and upon three stories, accessible by wooden steps that were scattered
throughout.
“Baroof has always had trouble remembering where he put things or the
items he owns,” Pournel said, glancing around, “like a living embodiment of the
expression; out of sight, out of mind. He has built his house to combat that, so
nothing is ever out of sight.”
Pointing to the entrance door, Pournel led them out and down a winding
pathway to a main road. Looking back, the house had a giant bulbous shape, like
an onion, and it sat on top a hill near a stretch of green pastures that contained
many fruit trees and flowering plants.
“Do all wizards have such vast gardens?” Belfast asked.
“Not all, but it does help pass the time.” Brewsworth answered. “Let us ride
swiftly, we should make it to the capital city Vallea by midday.”
Named after the large river that ran through most of it, the Tallamoor
kingdom was shut off from the rest of the world by the sharp jagged mountains
that encompassed all sides of the land. Legends speak that an ancient dark god
once ruled these lands, and the god pulled up the very rocks from the ground as a
deterrent to keep intruders from invading. This created a natural barrier of mostly
impassible terrain where each mountain was rough and deadly, and littered with
pools of acid that would suddenly surge from the ground to instantly dissolve any
unfortunate victim in it's path. This forced modern day travelers to choose one of
only three routes; the eastern, southern, and western highways.
“When the dark god Tallam was struck dead,” Pournel said instructively,
talking over the clomping of their horse's hooves, “the locals believe his
venomous blood streamed all across the mountain tops, existing to this day as
bright green pools of bubbling acid. Luckily we avoided having to travel through
the southern pass and skipped over many hardships. Now the road is easy, with
only a few bumps here and there. Unfortunately, the western highway cannot be
used because an invading orc force has occupied it for over a year now.”
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Kicking at their horses, they rode at a quickened pace across rolling hills
that undulated up and down like a vast green ocean stuck in time. Every time
they strode over the pinnacle of a hill, farms appeared in the distance. They had
crops of wheat and barley, fruits and vegetables, or pastures for animals to graze
upon.
Dranden slowly remembered learning about this place from a long lost
school lesson as a boy; that the lands were incredibly fertile, able to grow ten
times the amount of food than normal. The only problem was how remote this
part of the world was, that siphoning those resources was made extremely
difficult by the terrain. Also, the people here were very protective of their lands,
controlling exactly what could be used and what was off limits. “Regulating
everything down to the very blades of grass”, as his school teacher put it.
Dranden overheard at the bar that merchants were the primary travelers to
this remote kingdom, and also the very rich who wanted an exotic vacation to
brag to their friends. The land was considered by them “untouched by the perils
of modern life” and that it still contained the charm of ancient magic when it was
boundless and free, but also fraught with hidden danger and an unsettling,
unquenchable darkness.
“I think I remember hearing about Tallamoor fertilizer,” Dranden said to the
others, still trotting along at a brisk pace, “especially when I was at the height of
desperation with fixing my lawn. But it was far too expensive and was only
traded in my kingdom's capital city by less than savory groups of people.”
“It's expensive because it's highly regulated.” Belfast nodded in recollection.
“I'm familiar with it because the farms near my home town use it to boost their
crops. But the unscrupulous can use it for warfare rather than growing food.”
“This place must be very remote,” Dranden continued, “ because I can't ever
remember meeting anyone who came from here, or even someone who simply
traveled here. I was never any good with maps or geography. How far north are
we?”
“We are very far north from where we were.” Zelendra answered, feeling
better from earlier. She quietly fixed up her appearance as they rode. “It's a good
thing we used the portal or we would have spent the rest of the year trying to get
here and trying to leave.”
After the midday sun crossed overhead, the landscape around them
dramatically shifted from rolling green hills, to jagged rocks that jutted from the
ground. The sharp rocks went up several stories high and spread out across the
length of many fields. Their path, which was made from beaten dirt, shifted into
gravel and large stones. These were remnants that had fallen from the heights
constantly surrounding and towering above them.
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“Let's slow our pace to give our horses a break.” Pournel said, reacting to
the treacherous rocky terrain popping up. “Past here should lead to another dirt
path, which leads straight to Vallea.”
Continuing on, they followed Pournel through the rocky maze, and the
change in pace was nice – giving more opportunity for conversation.
“How do you like your saddle?” Dranden asked, noticing how the wizard
slumped over.
“It's very nice.” Pournel perked up for a moment at the question, only to nod
off again. “I feel so relaxed in it. I may even take a nap.”
Dranden sensed that now was the best time to get any sort of information
out of the wizard, who had been so tight lipped about everything the whole trip.
Dranden was desperate for at least a few answers to his many questions, but he
knew that if Pournel suspected anything, the conversation would end with 'none
of your concern' or, 'there was a lot that happened that's of no consequence' or, 'I
can't quite recall, ask me again later' or even the dreaded, 'don't worry about
such matters'. The wizard obviously knew far more than he let on, and had a
stockpile of experiences that vastly eclipsed everyone else's combined; villains
vanquished, landscapes explored, lovers conquered, and friends lost. Dranden
wanted to hear it all, but he had to start with the smaller stuff and work his way
up.
“Hey Pournel.” Dranden said, grunting a little to clear his throat. “There's
been something on my mind, since we went into Deathfall forest.”
“What is it?” Pournel took a final gulp from his flask and placed it in his
satchel.
“You had mentioned something about a 'wizards code'. I just wanted to
know more about it.”
“Yes, the code is a set of rules wizards are required to follow. One rule is
that a wizard must make some effort to make it known to others that they are a
wizard, before using magic, even defensively. This is to offer the perpetrator a
chance to make things right or to surrender. Most of us wear pointy hats to
convey our wizardry. Another rule is to never use magic to make someone
wealthy.”
“Wait? You can make someone wealthy?” Dranden's eyes widened.
“It would make sense.” Belfast said. “I can imagine a wizard could turn lead
into gold.”
“Not only that,” Pournel added, “but also any activity that would otherwise
lead to making someone rich. Such as excavating a mountain for it's minerals,
using fire spells to endlessly heat a furnace for a steel factory, or many other
things.”
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Dranden thought about the portal, and how, if used exclusively, he could
make a fortune selling Tallamoor fertilizer. Hauling sacks full of that stuff on the
backs of mules day and night through that portal – he could probably afford his
own kingdom in only a decade's time.
“This doesn't mean, however,” Pournel continued, “that I cannot use magic
to help a small village grow some crops to prevent them from starving. It would
be a crime not to give aid. I just can't help someone get rich on an individual
basis.”
“Of course not, I can see the wisdom behind it.” Dranden said, shaking
away his fantasy.
“The next rule is closely related, which is to never advantage one nation
over another, militarily or otherwise.”
“That one seems obvious.” Dranden said. “Maybe even a simple extension
of the previous rule.”
“Seems simple, but it's hard to gauge,” Pournel's head teetered with
tiredness, “because the mere presence of a wizard can often times advantage a
place, even if it's only to boost morale. Some of us, in history, have intentionally
joined a losing side, so as to give the appearance that even though a wizard is on
your side, does not mean you'll win. This happened so often, unfortunately, the
expression was made, 'never go to battle in the presence of a wizard', because it
would almost assure your loss.”
“I never heard that expression.” Dranden said.
“It's an old one, fell out of use a long time ago, ever since most human
kingdoms stopped warring with each other. The next rule is to never make
someone fall in love by use of magical persuasion.”
“You can make someone fall in love!” Dranden brightened with a smile.
“Mind manipulation is a tricky thing.” Pournel sighed at Dranden's
enthusiasm. “One could, in theory, create, distort, or erase memories, increase
hormones, read thoughts, give prized treasures as gifts, and even change one's
appearance; all in the effort to elicit the feeling of love in someone. But can
magic actually force someone to fall in love, as it is commonly experienced?
Some believe love is a sacred emotion, wrapped within the boundaries of the
very soul, and cannot be tampered with; perhaps redirected for a short time, even
calloused over, but certainly not changed.”
“What do you believe?” Zelendra asked.
“I try not to worry about such matters.” Pournel grumbled. “Let's keep
going, only a short while until we reach the road again.”
Damn it Zelendra! Dranden silently cursed, knowing that her question just
lost Pournel's interest once again. It was too personal, it had to be, that's why the
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wizard closed up, or perhaps Pournel really didn't care about such things. Either
way, Dranden suspected with near certainty that Pournel brought along Zelendra
and Belfast just to redirect conversation away from himself. Dranden had asked
far too many questions while in Deathfall forest and while on the road to the
university. Rendle didn't count as a diversion because he hardly made a peep,
always having his nose buried in some book. The other two, however, seemed to
have no interest in the wizard's secrets, and it drove Dranden crazy. How can one
not be interested in so many life experiences?
“What do you believe about love?” Zelendra asked again, but this time to
Belfast.
Belfast's mood had greatly improved since the Deathstalker gate and even
since last night. He smiled and hummed songs, and his countenance seemed aloft
with the hope of a happier future, and he even took more notice of Zelendra's
affection.
Tilting back his head, he smirked at the question. “Love is indeed sacred,
and strange; a root of happiness for many, but a burden for some.”
“Have you ever loved?” Zelendra said, hoping to finally crack open Belfast's
hardened exterior.
“I suppose there's been a few women whom I liked and enjoyed their
company, but not anything as deep as love.” Belfast became more contemplative
as he dwelled on the question, but soon continued. “The way my parents
described it when they met, was that they were carried away by some benevolent
guiding force, that they each held sway over the other in a magical way.”
“Tell me more!” Zelendra giggled. “Tell me how Belfast Tilwyrst was
made.”
“I could only imagine the components.” Dranden said. “Three parts muscle,
two parts looks, with a dash of ruggedness and a sprinkle of charm.”
“That would be close to the formula, as my father's side is part of the royal
guard, going back many generations.” Belfast flexed his arms. “Big, brutish, and
tough, they were forged on the battlegrounds of the old world. My mother's side,
however, is filled with entertainers and showmen; people of the stage, similar to
the Wonderlings Zelendra was with, but they have their productions in the city at
a permanent residence.”
“So you're a cross between big muscle heads and good looking classy
types.” Zelendra laughed.
“You can say that.” Belfast laughed with her.
“Please go on,” she purred, “tell me how they met.”
“They tell me it was at an after show party, a production my mother had a
role in as the friend to the main character, the one who ends up killing everyone.”
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“Sounds gory.” Zelendra raised an eye brow.
“What can I say,” Belfast shrugged, “the city-types like gruesome stories.
What are your beliefs about love?”
“I suppose it's sacred, not really sure, but certainly feels like it is.”
Zelendra's eyes drifted with thought. “I want to be ensnared by love, trapped by
it's whims, and a slave to it's desires. I've been close, but haven't yet achieved it
with anyone, for some reason or another. My heart pulls at me, guiding me with
it's invisible strings. I'm able to resist, if I have to, but there's no fun in that.”
“Indeed there's not.” Belfast smiled. “Tell me how your parents met.”
As the others talked, Toble fidgeted in his saddle on top Tidbit the miniature
donkey and couldn't help but glare with trepidation at the many walls of rock.
This place reminded him of the Hallowed Steps, though different because of the
green bushes scattered everywhere. But that only made it deadlier since there
were plenty more hiding spots for an ambush.
Toble was never good at detecting enemy forces, or friendly ones for that
matter, since his senses weren't as sharp as other bandits. This was something
didn't want to tell the wizard, so he could appear more useful than he really was
and to be spared from a fate far worse than being brought halfway across the
world in some quest for an axe.
The others in the group kept their distance, fearing a goblin's
unpredictability, and Toble enjoyed the isolation since he couldn't participate in
the conversation anyway. Overhearing the common language words like 'love'
and 'affection', he didn't know the equivalent goblinese word without asking for a
description, and that wasn't going to happen anytime soon. He may as well
silently follow wherever the careless humans wanted to go, no matter how
dangerous or strange. As long as they didn't make a pelt out of him, Toble would
remain content.
“Maybe we took a wrong turn.” Dranden said with unease, after the
conversation had dwindled to a contemplative silence. “It seems we've lost the
beaten path underfoot a while ago, and the terrain has become more desolate.”
“I've also noticed,” Belfast said, tilting his head toward the wary goblin,
“that Toble's been getting more and more excited ever since we entered this
area.”
Toble was indeed excited, darting his eyes towards all the various shadows,
twitching his floppy ears at every sound, and pointing his long nose at every
rustling bush or falling twig.
“The little scoundrel has gotten more agitated.” Dranden nodded with
agreement. He turned towards Toble to shout. “Do you spot anything?”
“I see nothing.” Toble croaked, which was more true than he wanted to
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admit. “But this place, good for ambush.”
“Should we go back?” Dranden asked. “What do you think Pournel?”
There was no answer from the wizard besides snoring.
“Is he sleeping?” Zelendra asked.
Riding up next to Pournel and nudging him on the shoulder, Belfast
frowned. “The wizard is fast asleep.” He shook the wizard some more, but it had
no effect.
“I suppose it was from the heavier-than-usual drinking this morning.”
Dranden said, lifting his fingers in the air to count. “He usually has about four or
five, but today it was about eight. The last time he fell asleep like this was the
day we met Zelendra.”
“That's right.” Belfast perked up with a faint smile. “A roaring thunderstorm
just barely roused him to action, so I doubt we could do anything now.”
“Yes, and including how comfortable that saddle I made for him is, anything
short of the ground rupturing in a cataclysmic earthquake won't stir him.”
“Really?” Belfast furrowed his brow. “Are your saddles that comfortable?
I'll have to try them.”
“Well, more or less that comfortable, and I'm including the alcohol.”
“Should we stop and wait for him to wake?” Zelendra asked.
“Pournel's horse, Pix, seems to know where he's going.” Belfast said with
confidence. “He's probably taken this path many times.”
“How about we put it to a vote.” Dranden said, slapping his hands together.
“I say we go back. Safety is a priority. I don't want to be without at least some
firepower.”
Dranden thought he saw Belfast give a sideways glance of disapproval, but
he couldn't help but feel exposed and vulnerable, especially since it was Pournel
who saved him from the tree stump in Deathfall. Belfast was entirely untested
and had admitted to being dangerously clumsy, so even if he proved to be only a
wall of meat that stood between Dranden and certain death, the knight-intraining's
help could backfire disastrously. Dranden didn't want to take that kind
of risk, especially not when it came to his life and limb.
“We should go back.” Zelendra nodded in agreement. “Pournel mentioned
that orcs occupied the western highway, and we are in the western part of the
kingdom so it's not a leap to say orcs could be hiding here.”
“I agree with Zelendra.” Rendle mumbled. “Orcs may be green like frogs,
but they're not the same at all.”
“Well, that's three for going back.” Dranden said. “So let's all...”
“I think we should keep moving forward.” Belfast interrupted, looking into
the walls of rock ahead of them. “I sense no ambush here, definitely not from
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orcs, those big lumbering beasts – you can smell them at least five Furpletromp
fields away.”
“I changed my mind, let's keep going.” Zelendra said. “You're right about
the orc smell because I can certainly smell the goblin from here. And Pix seems
smart, he probably knows the way and isn't bothered.”
“I changed my mind too,” Rendle mumbled, “I don't want to be on the road
for longer than I have to.”
“The perils of democracy.” Dranden said with an exasperated gasp. “The
vote has aggressively swung against me.”
“I don't want to force anyone to go, regardless of a vote.” Belfast said. “So if
you want to go back, we can.”
“No, no. I'm the one who called for a vote in the first place. I don't want to
renege my own words. Onward we go!”
The ridges increased in height and tightened as they traveled further down
the treacherous path. The large rocks dwarfed the group and leaned over them
like malformed golems that watched with hardened eyes.
Pebbles abruptly tumbled down from above and scattered onto the pathway,
sending up a trickling clatter and echoing several times all around. The horses
stalled and neighed in agitation, but Zelendra set her hand upon Starla's reddishbrown
neck to calm her.
“Probably just a small animal skipping around.” Belfast said, glancing
upward with an ambivalent calmness. He nudged his horse, Aruna, forward and
invited the others to follow.
Toble bit his crooked green lip and wondered how Belfast could be sure that
it was a small animal. This place, though lush with plants, had a strange lack of
critters, and that could only mean one thing – they were all eaten. But by whom
or what?
The answer crept in the back of Toble's little mind – orcs – but he dared not
utter the word, for the others might believe he summoned them if they were
indeed lurking in the shadows. He already did his job and told them this looked
like a good place for an ambush, so there's nothing more he could do. They didn't
even let him participate in the vote, and there's four of them!
What would they have done if there was a tie? Even Toble knew there
couldn't be a vote with an even number of people. In fact, split votes were the
most likely cause for bandit camps to be torn in two.
Pix suddenly stalled and neighed in panic, catching the others off guard in
their brief moment of silent contemplation.
Leaping out from their hiding spots and onto the narrow pathway, orcs and
goblins hollered their own unique battle shout and flashed an assortment of
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weapons. Some twirled spears, others juggled daggers, and a few swung maces
half their size with ease.
The horses whined with anxiety at the ambush, and huddled together
instinctively.
“Orcs!” Dranden yelped. “Orcs and goblins are all around! What do we do?”
“Why haven't they attacked yet?” Zelendra held tight her staff, waiting for
the grungy bandits to lunge forward.
“They see the wizard.” Toble squealed. He grabbed at where his daggers
would be, around his waist, but remembered that they were taken.
“No!” Rendle cried. His book had fallen out of his hands and onto the rocks
below, a place he could'n't reach, and he feared it would be lost forever. “We need
to wake Pournel.”
“Shhhhh.” Dranden hushed the tearful academic. “Don't speak too loud, they
don't know that he's asleep. If they did, we would already be diced up and put
into soup.”
“Soup? Do orcs make soup?” Zelendra asked. “I thought they simply eat
whatever they kill, right there on the spot.”
“They make soup.” Toble nodded.
“They are closing in.” Dranden said with trembling lips. “We need to do
something fast.”
“I've got an idea.” Belfast stroked his soft black beard. “Toble, can you talk
to them?”
“Of course.” Toble answered.
“You're not planning on sending him to negotiate, are you?” Zelendra
grabbed Belfast's arm. “I don't think that's a good idea, he'll sell us out the first
chance he gets.”
“Do you speak orc?” Belfast's asked, getting a frown from Zelendra.
“No,” she answered, “but maybe we should at least try speaking to them
ourselves, rather than send the goblin.”
“Orcs will kill you once you get within twenty paces.” Dranden's face
cringed with despair. “They are notorious for not talking to humans, even making
it a matter of pride.”
“True.” Toble nodded. “Orcs don't talk to humans, or elves, or Tundians,
or...”
“But they'll talk to a goblin?” Belfast leaned in closer to Toble, who
shrugged his small shoulders with unease.
“Sometimes.”
“We'll have to risk it.” Belfast commanded. “Talk to them, tell them they
stand toe-to-toe with a wizard.”
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Reluctantly dismounting and stepping forward with his hands extended
overhead to show he was unarmed, Toble paced over to the biggest orc in front.
“The goblin better not mess this up.” Dranden said as sweat dripped into his
eyes.
“Wake up, we need you!” Rendle whimpered, attempting to nudge Pournel
awake.
“It's no use, he's in a deep slumber.” Dranden said sharply. “I only thought
of helping out by making that confounded saddle so perfect, but now, I have
doomed us all.”
Toble and the orc grunted and snarled, with both waving their arms
antagonistically at each other and at the group, but especially at the wizard.
“I think they're deciding which one of us to eat first.” Dranden said with fear
stifling his senses and trembling his skin. “Maybe they'll start with our toes then
work their way up.”
“Perhaps if we run?” Rendle mumbled with quivering lips.
“Useless!” Dranden retorted. “They'll chase us down just for sport.”
“All hope is not lost.” Belfast said. “I have another idea.”
Toble strode back to the group and kicked his feet against the rocks out of
frustration. “They want to eat us.” He shrieked.
“I knew it!” Dranden cried. “Doomed to be breakfast.”
“But they're afraid of the wizard.” Toble continued. “It seems they've come
across another wizard recently and that was a horrible experience for them.”
“Probably Pournel's friend, Baroof Pennyshoe.” Belfast smirked. “Since
they're afraid, will they let us pass?”
“No, the big one thinks the wizard is asleep,” Toble said, “so he's gonna give
us a little while to conjure a spell.”
“Tell the orc that the wizard has put a spell on us all, to make us
poisonousness so we cannot be eaten. And since we carry no treasures or
anything of value, they may as well let us pass.” Belfast smiled. “Also, say that
the wizard is not sleeping, but he is in a deep trance within the shadow realm, and
can conjure an army of ravenous wolves in an instant if any of us are harmed.”
Toble let out a heavy sigh and reluctantly went back to the orc to begin
grunting again.
“Not a bad lie.” Dranden said, regaining some of his composure. “Let's hope
it works.”
Suddenly becoming angry, the big orc smacked Toble across the head and
knocked him to the ground. Lifting his large battle axe in the air, the green brute
shouted commands at the others to swarm the group and capture them with nets.
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