The Saint Anne

A flying inn floated east on a cold wind. Chugging along, hundreds of feet over the ground, the balloon-tethered craft’s small, arquonite engines did little more than stabilize it against the spring gusts coming from the northwest. To the north, the forested foothills rose in dark waves, lapping against the snow-covered peaks of the Tintagels. To the south, a sea of grass stretched away into the distance.

The Saint Anne carried beneath it a two-story gondola that looked more like a house than a ship. The floating hostel had a small walkway that wrapped around the entire first floor. The second story had individual balconies and a gabled roof, complete with four stove pipe chimneys. Warm lantern light glowed from its many windows.

At the heart of The Saint Anne was a common room, where the twenty or so passengers could take their meals or otherwise while away their time. Far more spacious than the tiny cabins—or even the two luxury suites— the dining hall had rugs on the floors, a small, curved bar near the kitchen door, and paintings on the walls. Six dining booths provided semi-private spaces. A long, common table with polished wood benches took up the center, to accommodate those too late, or too numerous to reserve a booth.

There currently wafted a wonderful smell of baking bread and savory beef stew from the kitchen. At the bar, a tall, orokan woman, with long, graying hair held back in a braid, cleaned mugs while humming to herself. She had the full lips and pronounced lower canines of her people, but she wore the working-class dress and apron of a clanswoman from the cities.

Behind her, stooping at a copper tub full of warm dishwater, was a monster. The beastman was large. From the sprout of scruff on his chin to his goat-like legs and cloven hooves, he was covered in black, wiry hair. Dark horns curled around his head like a helm that sprouted from his scalp. He wore a heavy leather loin cloth and harness-like, boiled leather armor, but was currently also covered in an apron very similar to the woman. He also hummed to himself—a poor countermelody to the oroka.

A dark-haired, old durin in a simple shirt and pants sat in the corner. Cradling a bottle of whiskey, the dwarf stared into his glass with rheumy eyes, lost in a drunken stupor. Besides these three, a few other, simple travelers conversed, read, gamed, or sat quietly, minding their own affairs.

As the time for supper approached, a deep voice was heard speaking before its owner appeared from the stairs. “Help Chapawee with the serving if she needs it, then take your supper break.”

The man was tall and wide for a neran. He wore a conductor's coat and sported a drooping, red mustache.

“Yes sir, Mister Croanian.” From behind him, a much smaller woman answered. She wore the green, sleeveless coat of a Saint Anne employee and had the swept ears of a woodland syvani, but her accent was that of a common sailor.

Mister Croanian nodded and moved across the room, greeting a passenger or two but keeping an officious demeanor. Before he disappeared into the kitchen he gave a sour glance to the beastman, but only shook his head when the woman smiled and clucked disapprovingly at him.

Passengers now began to arrive in earnest. A group of Argosian traders, two more families, one neran and one durin, and a wealthy couple sporting the latest styles from Deoria, along with their young servant, all meandered in and took seats at the remaining booths. The hum of conversation grew louder.

The young syvani woman approached the bar and smiled at the oroka, “Good evening, Chapawee.”

Chapawee grinned back, her motherly brown eyes twinkling, “Good evening, Phil.”

“I’m to serve tonight.”

“So I heard.”

“Your stew smells amazing, as always,” Phil added.

The cook clucked approvingly, “Thank you. I’ll need to restock my spices when we get to Medyr. I’m running low on the good ones.”

While they conversed, more passengers arrived. A red-headed man in leather pants and a dark, racing jacket—complete with a myriad of buckles—sat at the middle table. Two women—one neran, and one syvani— sat across from him. The syvani was dressed in a blue silk blouse and gray wool skirt. She had long, blonde hair and dark, watchful eyes. The neran girl appeared younger and wore a large, bright, multicolored shirt reminiscent of a bard’s cloak, belted at the waist. Her hair was short and sandy blonde, her eyes large and blue.

Phil appeared at the table with a platter of crusty bread and soft butter. She smiled at the three travelers and said, “Compliments of the cook.”

They smiled and thanked her.

Two more travelers appeared at the threshold of the room, drawing curious looks. The cause was definitely more the ard-syvani than his wood elf companion. Dressed in flowing pink and purple floor-length robes, the androgynous elf had a bob-cut of equally violet hair. A scent of southern jasmine and rose surrounded him. His posture was that of a noble at court more than a traveler at supper.

Beside him was a studious syvani with a mane of brown hair and enormous, wire-framed spectacles that made his hazel eyes pop like an owl. Long, sylvan ears protruded like thorns from the mop of his hair. His druid mantle was well-worn, his simple tunic road-stained, and his belt festooned with pouches and woodland charms.

He leaned close to his colorful companion and whispered, “Quick, you draw their attention while I steal their beer money.”

The high-syvani raised a brow and answered straight-faced, but with a hint of levity, “Brother Sram, do please mind your manners.”

Feigning admonishment, the druid nodded sagely and walked to the center table while the purple-haired noble made a slower procession of the room, smiling serenely at the children when he caught them staring. He sat, carefully swinging his hemmed robes over the bench.

The wild-haired druid smiled at the other travelers, “Good evening,” he said warmly.

The others grinned and returned the greeting. They passed the bread plate toward the pair.

Another man entered the room. The severe-looking neran wore dark leather armor and a dueling saber in a silver scabbard at his waist. He had long black hair flowing from a receding hairline. His mustache and goatee were closely trimmed and a swordsman’s half-cape trailed from his shoulders.

Again, the room stared, but this time with concealed unease. The swordsman glared around for a moment, then headed to the bar. “My usual,” he commanded brusquely.

Chapawee blinked, smiled sweetly, and complied, pouring a Concordian red wine.

He took it and didn’t smile back.

The cook's assistant popped her head from the kitchen. Seeing this, and apparently glad for the distraction, Chapawee rang a small bell and Phil moved to help her serve supper.

________________________________________________________________

As Phil ferried out trays laden with earthenware plates and bowls, pots of steaming stew, and baskets of hot, fresh bread, the evening’s last, late arrival walked in from the front balcony. The neran monk was tall. He had a short fuzz of light brown hair and green, friendly eyes. His sleeveless linen shirt revealed a slight, fit build and a tattoo encircled his neck in a thin band of runes. Though he wore a sheathed shortsword at his waist, his smile was broad and relaxed.

The man in the racer’s jacket scooted over when the newcomer sat.

“Thank you, Mister Dornan.” the monk said softly.

The red-headed racer grimaced. “Mr. Dornan is my father. Call me Duke, or Don.”

“Alright, Duke,” the monk replied, “and you can call me Theo.” He turned his attention to the ladies on the other side of the table, “Ladies.”

The golden-haired syvani gave a quick smile and a careful nod. The colorful girl flashed a bright smile, “Master Theo,” she beamed. “I’m Danaka and this is... Alisa.”

The monk called Theo then turned and greeted the purple-haired noble and his rustic companion.

“Sir monk,” the ard-syvani replied, “A joy to sit with you on this pleasant eve.”

“Truly, and please, call me Theo.”

“I am Arin, and this is my companion and colleague, Sram.”

The druid’s greeting was a simple grin and a nod. He had already pulled a large, gilded tome from his robe and opened it to a crow feather bookmark, eschewing study for food, for the moment at least.

Theo indicated the book as he addressed the druid, “I haven’t been in your presence long, but every time I have, you are reading that book. What is it? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Arin sighed.

Sram smiled enthusiastically, “Are you familiar with astrology?” he asked.

Arin rolled his eyes, “Say yes, and run for your life,” the syvani interrupted, grinning, “It may be your only chance.”

The druid ignored his friend and pressed on, giving Theo no opportunity to answer one way or the other. “This is a book of great discoveries and interpretations; an exhaustive and nuanced study of celestial events that shape our very world. Within these pages are the answers to questions we haven’t yet learned to ask.”

The monk leaned in to get a better look at the pages, “Fascinating!”

Arin rolled his eyes, “Oh dear, you’ve stepped into the trap now.”

Sram’s grin remained, but he carefully shut the book as Phil placed a hot bowl of stew before him. To Theo, he said, “We will discuss this further. The stars can teach you a great many things.” He tucked the book back into his robes and stood, adding, “But right now, I’m going to get a drink. Does anyone else care for anything?”

Many at the table said yes, and handed the druid coin. He took their orders and made his way toward the bar.

Theo glanced back at Arin, who was carefully tucking a cloth napkin into his robe collar, “And what of you, Arin? What brings you to the far north?”

The syvani inspected his spoon, then turned his attention to Theo. “I am sent on a quest for further study, by my family,” He noticed others at the table were listening and spoke a bit louder, ”We travel to the Tower of High Sorcery near Kaergot, in Fom.”

Danaka tore at a piece of bread, seemingly more intent on the food than the noble elf. “So you’re a fancy wizard then?”

Arin raised a delicate brow, “Actually,” he said, “that’s the problem... I’m not.”

Theo cocked his head, “But your parents want you to be? Do you possess the gift?” he asked.

“Yes, and yes,” Arin answered.

Danaka frowned. “Do you DO magic, or not?” Her tone left little doubt she was bothered by something about the elf.

Arin seemed to consider the question. He didn’t appear to notice her angst. “I do not DO magic, so much as I AM magic, which is what concerns my family.”

The girl rolled her eyes and pursed her lips, “A sorcerer.”

Duke took up the questioning before she could say more. “Then why are you going to the Tower of High Wizardry?”

“Because my family wants me to. It’s my duty to obey.”

The gathered strangers pondered his answer for a moment. Some took the opportunity to begin eating.

Theo wiped his mouth with his napkin and turned toward the women. “And you two, where are you headed?”

The syvani woman turned her dark eyes on the monk. “I imagine the same place as you,” she said evenly, “since we’re aboard the same vessel.”

Danaka cleared her throat and smiled. “We’re traveling to Kaergot to visit relatives, actually.”

“Are you sisters?”

“Friends. Traveling companions,” the young woman explained.

Theo nodded. “Very wise. It’s good to have a friend at your back when far from home.” He smiled and took another bite.

After finishing the service, Phil set her own plate down at last. She was close enough to listen, but not intrude. She smiled at Chapawee across the room and pointed toward an extra heaping plate beside her. The cook acknowledged her with a nod.

________________________________________________________________

At the bar, the beastman finished cleaning the pots. “Can I do anything else for you?” he asked Chapawee in a surprisingly smooth, if strangely accented voice.

The cook wiped her hands and smiled, “Yes, Maula, you can stop working and go eat your food.” Her plains accent was also strong, but her tone was gentle, “Phil has made you a plate, and I know for a fact you haven’t eaten since supper last. How you can eat so little but be so big is a mystery to The Makers.”

Maula wiped his big hands on a dish rag and looked at the ground. “If you insist.”

“I do.”

Sram stepped up to the bar, beside the surly swordsman. He ordered a round of drinks for the table. Chapawee watched Maula lumber away, hooves clicking, then took the druid’s coin and began pouring.

The swordsman wrinkled his nose as Maula walked away. “That thing stinks,” he said. ‘Why you let him work near the food is the real mystery.”

Chapawee kept a neutral expression. Sram took a long drink of his ale, then said, “He does have a powerful scent, but I find it reminds me of the wild. Besides, everyone has a quality or two that others find off-putting.” he looked at the swordsman pointedly, “Wouldn’t you agree?”

The man sneered and stopped watching Maula, oblivious to the slight. He looked at the druid instead, taking in the wood elf’s wild hair, his druid mantle, and his crescent moon necklace. “Are you of the Wicalic Orders, druid?” he asked.

Sram shrugged. “I suppose I am, according to my grandfather.”

The man’s eyes brightened. “Of high station? Have you much influence in the Circles of Light and Shadow?”

The druid grinned. “Alas, I am a simple follower of the Wave and the Wood. I try to stay out of grand politics and kingdom doings.”

Halfway through his response, the swordsman seemed to lose interest. His eyes drifted back to his drink. Sram watched as he was casually dismissed. He grinned and shook his head, then gathered the drinks for the table and headed back.

As he arrived at the table, Theo was in the process of asking Maula what brought him to The Saint Anne.

The beastman hunched over his meal and shrugged his boulder-like shoulders. “I am from the north. I thought I would spend some time on the plains... but...” he trailed off, giving another shrug.

Arin dabbed a bit of perfume on his neck. “You are trulla, yes? Is your home in the mountains?” he asked.

The trulla looked across the table at the sorcerer, perhaps surprised to hear his people’s name from a foreigner’s lips. “Aye, I am trulla. My home was originally in the mountains, but I lived for years in the far northern moors, beyond the mountains.”

“Beyond?” Danaka said, “There are namer folk that live beyond the mountains?”

“Norns,” Duke said darkly.

The name drew looks from the syvani around the table, and from Maula.

The trulla said, “Aye, the black ones, but also strong settlers and outcasts, some who were once slaves of the black ones.”

“Why would anyone choose to live such a life?” Arin asked with no trace of sarcasm.

Danaka nearly choked, “Choo— Are you bloody serious?! That’s aDORable! You— I... I can’t!” she stammered, unable to get the words out.

Most of the others were taken aback by the innocent question as well. Only Sram seemed unphased by his companions' naivety. “My friend has led a good, but sheltered life,’ the druid said, patting Arin’s forearm affectionately.

For his part, Arin seemed a little put off by the attention.

In an attempt to change the subject, Duke asked, “Can you conjure any spells?”

Happy to accept the out, Arin smiled and said, “Well, yes,” and whispered a few words of power. From his opened palm, a dazzling, tiny sphere of radiance appeared, casting tiny shards of light, like a slow-motion explosion.

There was a moment of awe around the table before the conjuration began emitting small farting noises and a faint whiff of rotten eggs.

The gathered travelers laughed and Danaka grinned smugly. Arin’s look of mild confusion was as funny as the sounds and smells. Even Alisa giggled before catching herself.

“I’m... sorry. That’s the first time that’s happened,” the sorcerer said, studying the spell effect.

This just caused more laughter from the group.

________________________________________________________________

At a nearby booth, the servant was topping his master’s wine when the magical farts began. Distracted by the scene, he accidentally spilled the chilled wine into his lord’s lap. The string of cursing that followed drew the group’s attention. When they looked up, the angry lord was standing and dabbing at his pants. His wife was doing her best to pretend nothing was wrong, and the servant was nearly in tears.

The scene ended with the Lord demanding his servant follow him and storming off to his room. The poor young man did as he was bid, like a prisoner to the gallows. Those at the center table watched the events in silence, along with everyone else in the room.

An angry frown replaced Danaka’s mirth as she watched them go. “I think I need a breath of fresh air,” she said quietly.

Theo looked at the girl and took her measure. “Perhaps I’ll accompany you,” he said, wiping his hands and standing.

Danaka eyed him back for a moment, then shrugged and said, “Suit yourself.”

The two strolled toward the hall where the lord and his servant had exited. At the turn for the suites, Danaka ducked into the short hall and headed for their door. Theo frowned but followed.

Standing before the oak door, they could hear muffled voices from inside. Danaka leaned close and placed her ear against the wood. What she heard was the Lord giving his servant an even more thorough dressing down than he had gotten in public.

After a minute of this, she shook her head and leaned away.

“What’s going on in there?” Theo whispered.

“Poor kid’s really taking a tongue lashing, but I don’t think he’s in any danger,” she whispered back.

“What would you have done if he was?”

Danaka looked up at the tall monk. “I don’t know.”

He nodded, satisfied with the answer. “Shall we get a bit of fresh air and head back?”

She nodded and they left the hallway.

________________________________________________________________

When they returned, the others had gotten more drinks. Phil had slid a bit closer to the group. The syvani aeronaut was in the middle of explaining the drunk durin, O’Hairty’s story in a quiet voice.

“... so he’s an employee of The Saint Anne, and has been for as long as anyone can remember.”

“What does he do?” Alisa asked.

“He’s the engineer and handyman,” Phil said, “Or so we’re told, though I’ve yet to see him fix anything.”

Arin eyed the old durin slumped in his chair in the corner. “And does he always have a bottle?”

“Most always,” Phil replied. “Mr. Croanian told us to let him be. He never bosses him, or gives him orders like he does to the rest of us.”

“Interesting—”

Whatever Arin was about to say was interrupted by the upstairs door shutting, and a new pair of men appearing at the top. They were both neran. The man coming down first was far shorter than the one behind. He had a bright thatch of golden hair but for a rather pronounced bald spot. His cheeks were round and covered in a similar whiskery muttonchop and beard. He was pudgy and wore the rumpled suit of a traveling merchant. Most prevalent was a pair of bulky, stock-style manacles that held his wrists together before him.

The man behind was tall with long features and calloused hands. He had gray stubble and grayer eyes and wore the coat and cloak of an imperial warden. A shard pistol hung at his hip, along with a footman’s flail and dagger.

As they walked down the stairs, the prisoner smiled and nodded to those who made eye contact. The warden surveyed the room with careful eyes. He quickly saw all the booths were taken. The party at the middle table watched as he made toward them, where the only seats remained.

The warden motioned for his prisoner to sit, but the little man instead performed a perfunctory bow and looked at Sram. “Excuse me, guid sur. Wid ye mynd if mah jailor 'n' ah share this table wi' ye?”

The druid—already several cups in—smiled amiably and offered the end of the table with the wave of a hand.

The warden looked impatient with his prisoner’s etiquette, but said, “Thank you,” in a slight highland accent, then added, “Don’t you bother these guid people, ye’ hear?” to the happy man in the manacles, who only smiled in response.

The drunk O’Hairty momentarily forgotten, everyone nodded, smiled, or made polite greetings. Arin ignored the prisoner, and Alisa remained quiet and watchful. The warden’s manners were also subdued. He responded with simple nods and seemed to analyze each of the travelers in turn. There were a good two paces of bench between himself and Maula when he sat down.

The prisoner made himself comfortable, somehow managing to wiggle until he was no longer sitting on his coattails. He lasted about ten seconds before going against the warden’s wishes.

“Th' name is Shamus,” he said enthusiastically, in a melodious highland bur, “'n' this braw upstanding jimmy is Warden Skahl, mah protector 'n' keeper... Fur th' the noo at least.” He winked conspiratorially, not hiding the gesture in the least.

As the unspoken voice of the gathered strangers, Theo replied, “Hello, Shamus, Warden. Uh, glad you could join us.”

Chapawee appeared with a tankard of ale for Warden Skahl and a smaller one for Shamus. Phil set them up with stew and bread.

Shamus thanked both women enthusiastically and tucked his napkin. After taking a large drink of ale, he grabbed up his spoon and—careful of his shackles—took his first bite.

“Ohhhhh! That. Is. Magic!” he groaned and looked at the cook, smiling like a cat in the cream.

Chapawee smiled and took the praise with a slight bow, then took the empty cups and left.

After another bite, Shamus said, “Weel! guid fairn, guid ale, th' potential o' freish friends. Wi' a few minor exceptions, this is whit ah ca' a perfect even’n! ” he indicated his manacles with a slight shake.

Arin pursed his lips, “Perfect? Are you not a criminal?” he asked.

“Ah said thare wur exceptions.”

Danaka leaned in from down the table and raised a brow, “Mr. Shamus, What did you do?”

Alisa ‘tsked’ her friend and whispered, “Don’t be rude.”

“Och, it's na kinch, lassy. Ah don’t mynd answering. 'twas nothin’ wicked, only an unfortunate accident.” He winked at the warden this time, “Ye see, i’m a merchant o' seendle 'n' arcane goods, 'n' an artificer o' mair than passing skill.” The warden frowned at this, but didn’t interrupt,”Ah made a potion fur a jimmy in Fom, bit it parntly didn’t wirk. As it turns oot, mah artificing licenses wur fair out-of-date. Ah left toun afore whisperins o' th' incident hud reached me. Th' guid warden 'ere had tae track me doon 'n' gimme th' ill news. Noo i’m headed back tae hae a word wi' th' brehons 'n' magistrates tae sort it a' oot.”

“You made a bad potion?” Sram asked, “and the wardens came to get you?”

“The man was brother to the duke of Neued,” Warden Skahl said, “and he died.”

Shamus had the grace to shake his head in sadness. “As ah said, an unfortunate accident.”

“So you are a murderer,” Arin said.

“I believe they call it manslaughter in the courts,” Theo said.

Shamus pointed a finger at the monk in agreement, “Aye, unintentional manslaughter! A point ah hope is nae lost on the magistrates of Neued.”

Duke looked at the warden and saw the man give an infinitesimal shake of his head.

“What’s your take on this?” Phil asked the warden.

He looked at the woman, apparently unphased by his two tankards, “Ah don’t care if he’s guilty or not. I’m paid tae do a job, that’s all,” he said.

________________________________________________________________

As the evening progressed, they found Shamus and the warden to be good company. Despite his criminal status, the unlicensed artificer proved a friendly fellow. When Arin brought out his Gluais board to teach Theo how to play, Shamus surprised them by being versed in the syvani game himself. When Sram bought several rounds of Argosian brandy, Shamus wormed his way into sharing a few toasts, and even the warden had a glass or two.

As the night ended, the two men returned to their room upstairs, with Shamus wishing them all a pleasant evening.

“'n' mind! whin i’ve explained masell tae th' magistrate, aaaaand renewed mah imperial licensing, a'm waantin' tae extend a twenty five percent discount tae a' o' ye, shuid we ever cross paths again!”

“Oh good,” Arin said, “and there’s a chance your merchandise might even work.”

The artificer only smiled and tapped his nose, pointing at the pink and purple syvani, “A seendle 'n' unfortunate mistake, guid sur elf, nary tae be repeated. Ye’ve ma wuird.”

They helped Phil clean up the last of the glasses and bowls and said goodnight to Maula, whose aloofness had never gone away, but had softened. Wandering off to their individual rooms and beds, some druids were helped more than others, having tested the limits of their alcoholic tolerances.

Outside, the spring stormwinds picked up, moving The Saint Anne faster along her course.

________________________________________________________________

Untethered

BRRBRUUMMMMM!

Alisa woke from a dream to the sound of a muffled explosion. Rolling free of her blankets, she slipped her boots on and threw her cloak over her nightgown. Stepping into the darkened hall, she cocked her head and—as her masters would say—examined, her senses.

After a few seconds without any indications, she chose a direction and headed for the common room. A single lantern remained lit and hooded, hanging from the central pillar. Her syvani eyes had no problem with the gloom. When Maula sat up from the pile of blankets near the kitchen door, she moved toward him.

“Did you hear the explosion?” she whispered.

“Something woke me. I couldn’t tell what.” the trulla reached for the ax beneath his blankets.

It sounded like an explosion to me. I was going to check upstairs.”

“I’ll come with you.”

The two moved up the steps, one light of foot, the other heavy of hoof. At the top, they stopped again, and Alisa listened but received no clues.

Maula said, “I’ll wake Chapawee. She can help us.”

“Alright, hurry.”

The trulla moved to the cook’s door and gave a gentle knock. A few seconds later, Chapawee came to the door in her nightgown, a candle in her hand and her long hair loose around her shoulders.

“Maula, what is it?”

“We heard an explosion, but couldn’t tell where it came from...”

The cook rubbed her eye and squinted into the hallway, “If there was an explosion, it would likely be in the pyrom converter for the balloon or the engine room. Since I didn’t hear anything, I’m betting the engine room!” She was awake now, and filled with urgency, “You and the girl go check on the engine room, I’ll wake the conductor.”

She noticed Maula’s ax and nodded her approval, then she looked at her hand, where it rested on the doorframe. “There’s something different in the ship. The vibrations have changed.”

Alisa approached them, “What does that mean?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

Without further urging, the two ran down the stairs and headed for the hatch to the hold, and the engine room. There were a few other muffled voices from passengers in their cabins.

They hurried down the hatch stairs and through the Employee Access Only door to the engine room. Upon stepping in, they could immediately see the source of the explosion. A jagged hole four feet across in the oak floorboards whistled with the passing wind. A dark iron chain swung above the hole, attached to an iron frame.

“That’s not good,” Maula said.

“No, it’s not,” Alisa replied, “...What was there?”

The trulla looked blankly at the hole for a moment, then had a thought, “Keelstone!” he said, lifting a finger in the air.

The syvani looked at him, things clicking in her methodical mind. You mean the thing that was keeping us on course?”

“Yeah.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

________________________________________________________________

Danaka had joined Maula and Alisa in the engine room, as the syvani did a thorough investigation of the damage. She was kneeling close to the hole, examining the iron fittings and plates that were twisted in the blast. The wind was fierce near the breach.

“You see here, and here,” Alisa pointed to scorch marks and stains on the wood. Some sort of alchemical reaction did this, maybe pyrom, maybe some other substance, but not magic, and not from outside. This was done by someone onboard.”

Danaka’s short hair whipped around her scalp. “We need to tell Mr. Croanian,” she said.

Her friend nodded.

Ten fingers later, The Saint Anne was lively with worried guests in nightclothes. Conductor Croanian had dressed and taken charge of his crew. He gathered the news and assessed their situation. He balled his fists in anxious worry and looked out the one large window at the moonlit, rushing terrain beneath them: trees, a sea of them, and far closer than they were before.

He turned to Danaka and Alisa. Phil stood nearby, awaiting orders. Croanian said, “And your sure it was sabotage from within? Absolutely sure?”

Alisa looked the conductor in the eyes, “Yes,” she said.

Mr. Croanian swallowed. “Well, they’ve doomed us I’m afraid-” Phil gave him a harsh look and he lowered his voice, “-I’m sorry, but its true. Without the keelstone, we’ve left the line and are drifting over the forest, toward the mountains, and we’re losing altitude. Either we crash into the trees or into the mountains. At our current speed, either will destroy her.”

Most of the travelers from the middle table had put on some semblance of clothing and gathered nearby, listening to the predictions. Of them all, Duke, the warden, and Shamus were the only ones not present. Sram was holding his head in his hands, feeling the effects of last night’s binge. Theo and Arin were busy trying to calm some of the other passengers, who had overheard the conductor’s dire predictions.

Sram grabbed one of Mr. Croanian’s meaty arms and squeezed until he looked at him. “How do we keep from crashing? Can we use the engines to slow down?”

“No. At this speed,” the conductor replied, “the best we can do is stabilize our spin and keep the balloon pointed with the wind. If we turn sideways in this gale, we’ll snap the lines.”

Arin stepped in, using Maula for support. “We need to secure the passengers, reassure them. Gather them all in one location.”

“Who’s missing?” Theo asked.

A quick look around the room and Danaka said, “The warden and Shamus!”

“Duke!” Maula said.

“I’m here,” the arcanic racer said, leaning near the door. His lean torso was bare but for his leather pants. His red hair was spiky and rumpled.

As soon as Shamus’s name was mentioned as one of the missing, Alisa’s eyes narrowed.

Mr. Croanian saw the look and said, “Phil, take some of these people and go check on the warden.”

She nodded and moved.

At the warden’s door, Arin, Danaka, and Maula watched as Phil knocked. When no one answered, she knocked again, this time adding, “Warden Skahl! Are you in there?”

There was no answer from the warden, but a more muffled voice could be heard saying, “Helloo! Hellooo! Ach! What’s goin’ on oot there? Can someone ken me?” Shamus’s voice sounded like it came from behind another door. The artificer sounded anxious and frightened.

Danaka looked down at the door and asked Phil, “Can you pick it?”

“Maybe,” the aeronaut said, “but I’ll probably just use the key instead.” She reached for a small ring of keys on her belt and sorted through them. Danaka rolled her eyes. Shamus kept yelling varying versions of the same thing.

Phil opened the door. They carefully entered. The small room was an extra cabin used for official visitors and guests of the workers. Lying on the bed was Warden Skahl, either very unconscious, or dead. He still wore his clothes from last night, minus his jacket and boots. His pistol lay holstered on the nightstand. His armor, flail, and dagger were stacked in the corner of the room.

“This is intolerable!” Shamus continued. His voice echoed from behind a second, locked door, “What’s goin’ on? Weer is Skahl? He wilna answer me!”

Arin moved up beside the unmoving warden and placed the back of his hand near the man’s mouth, the other on his chest. “He’s alive,” he whispered, “just unconscious.”

Phil stepped up to the inner door and started to unlock it, but Arin stopped her.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m letting him out,” she answered.

“That might not be a good idea,” the high elf said.

“I agree,” Alisa said, “He is a criminal, and we don’t know what happened here.”

“But the ship is going to crash...”

“WHAT?” Shamus’s voice held a new note of panic, “What’s wrong wi’ the ship? Hello! Where’s Skahl?”

The others shared a look over the warden’s slumbering form. Arin gave the man a light slap to the cheek with no response. “Phil, can you get me some spice from the kitchen? Something with a kick?” the elf asked.

The aeronaut sighed, but nodded and hurried away.

Maula leaned up next to Shamus’s door and said, “Don’t worry in there, we’ll figure things out soon.”

“Figure things oot? Figure WHAT oo?”

“Shush up now, Phil’s back with the spice.”

The artificer’s grumbling grew indistinct. Phil handed a small jar to Arin, who took a pinch and crushed it up between his fingers. He then sprinkled it under the warden’s nose. A moment later, Skahl snorted and sneezed coming up with surprising quickness. He reached for a holster that wasn’t there and rolled off the bed. “Wh- what, who- What’s going on?” He sneezed again, eyes wide.

“Easy now,” Arin soothed, holding a hand up, “We found you unconscious. You wouldn’t wake.”

“Unconscious? How? Why?” Skahl’s eyes shifted to the inner door, “The prisoner!”

Maula was doing his best to look unthreatening. He looked at the door directly behind him, “Oh he’s still in there, ain’t ya’ Shamus?” he gave the door a rap with his hairy knuckles.

“What? Aye! I’m here! Warden? Is tha you?”

The warden grabbed his pistol and his flail and stepped up to the door. “Step back from the door and assume the position!” He said to Shamus, “I’m in no mood for your shenanigans.”

He waited a few seconds then told Phil to unlock the door. She did and pushed it open. Inside the tiny room, Shamus stood against the far wall, his manacled hands held out before him. He wore a nightcap and a nightshirt. His skinny legs were bare. The bed next to him was rumpled and unmade.

“Warden, what’s going on?” he asked, eyes fearful, “Is the ship crashin?”

“Crashing?!” Skahl looked from Shamus to Phil.

The young aeronaut winced, then nodded her head in affirmation. “We have to get to the common room, quickly.”

In a few terse sentences, the group explained what was happening. Both men took the news as one would expect, with worry and fear. Alisa watched Shamus carefully, gauging his reaction. The warden told Shamus to grab his clothes while he quickly slipped on his own boots, armor, and jacket. He managed it all while keeping the pistol mostly on his bounty.

Shamus looked down at his naked legs. “Uh, warden, can- can I put my troosers on?”

Skahl huffed, then relented. A finger later, they were headed down the stairs, the warden’s big hand on Shamus’s shoulder, the rest trailing behind them.

________________________________________________________________

They learned upon arriving, that the others had been busy. It turned out there had been one other group missing. Theo explained how the noble couple and their retainer had been barricaded into their rooms, fearful of a pirate attack. The monk had finally persuaded them of the truth of the situation, and they recently joined the rest of the passengers. The lord carried a blanket-wrapped bundle and a loaded shard pistol, seemingly more concerned with it than his wife.

Also in their absence, Sram had tried to help Mr. Croanian with a plan to slow The Saint Anne before she hit the ground. They had readied all the vessel’s extra anchor chains in preparation for a drag maneuver and were prepared to begin.

“Oh, last thing!” Theo said, “Croanian tried to use the crystal comms to send a distress call to Medyr, but the crystals weren’t functioning.”

“More sabotage.” Alisa made it a statement more than a question.

“No time to investigate, we’re only fifty above the trees and the moon’s about to slip behind the mountains,” he said. “We have to throw the anchors while we can still make out a clearing in the dark.  Gather whatever you need and find something to brace yourself against!”

They nodded and ran to do as he said. Maula, Phil, and Sram helped with the anchors while Danaka and Alisa quickly finished dressing. The women decided to wedge themselves into a narrow closet in Danaka’s cabin, stuffing extra blankets around them to absorb the crash.

Arin spent his time situating the other passengers and aiding in keeping them calm. The family with the young children was panicking, running here and there without any idea where they would end up. The sorcerer gathered them and brought them to a narrow alcove by the kitchen, where they could all squeeze together and best protect the young ones.

“Try to stay calm,” he said, using his gentlest and most soothing voice, “I promise you, this is the best spot on the ship for surviving this crash. Hold tight to one another and you’ll be safe.”

Calmed by his words, the father and mother nodded and gathered their children close, thanking the syvani and praying to Nedra for protection as he left them.

Nearby and unseen, the haughty swordsman from the night before was watching everything. He was no longer so self-assured and cocky. A damp sweat covered his forehead and cheeks and he was breathing heavily.

When Arin left, he hurried over to the family’s spot and grabbed the mother by the arm. “You lot get out! This is my spot!” he growled. When the father made to resist, the swordsman pulled a dagger and held it menacingly. The children began crying and the father relented.

Alerted by the renewed crying, Arin and Theo both saw what was happening at the same time. Theo’s eyes filled with anger and a growl escaped his lips. He started to make his way toward them. Arin also frowned but was much closer.

He turned and summoned up a voice he seldom used, “SIR! I INSIST YOU UNHAND THEM AT ONCE!” The forceful words seemed out of place coming from the soft-looking elf.

They caused the swordsman to turn and look, but his face quickly hardened. “FECK OFF, Sharp! You’re not in charge here!”

The racism barely phased the sorcerer, but the time it took the man to yell it gave Arin ample time to formulate another response. Muttering a short, arcane phrase, he shot his hand forward and focused on his target.

A second later, the man slumped forward and crashed to the ground. Theo arrived a moment after and found him snoring softly, his cheek pressed into the hardwood floor. The monk looked across the room at Arin, who shrugged and indicated the sleeping man.

“Handle him gently and he won’t wake for some time.”

Theo grinned and picked up the swordsman quickly enough, placing him gently on the center tabletop, completely exposed. “Let the Lord of Luck deal with you,” he whispered.

The father gave Arin another grateful look as the sorcerer returned and helped them get back into their spot. Outside, on the balconies, the crew and those helping prepared to throw their anchors.

Duke stepped out of his cabin, still wearing just his pants, still unkempt, and looked around. A panicked hush had fallen over the room, everyone either quiet or softly praying... or snoring. The racer shook his head, “Fuck this,” he mumbled, turned, and went back to bed.

Mr. Croanian cried, “NOW! NOW! NOW!” and the world exploded.

________________________________________________________________

Wreck and Ruin

Those brave few who manned the anchors heard the conductor’s cry and threw the heavy grapnels over the railing. As low as they were, it only took a few seconds for the first hook to connect with the tops of an oak. The rattle of unwinding chains was still loud when the ship shuddered and lurched. The chain popped like a shot from a slag rifle as it broke, but others snapped the topmost branches as they trailed through the canopy. The balloon tilted forward like a drunkard tripping along, trying to keep her feet. Many inside screamed as the vessel swung like a pendulum.

A second chain caught on something substantial and the ship nosed into the trees. The scrape of hundred-year-old oaks along the hull sounded like dragon’s claws. The young aeronaut at the chain was swept from his feet as it snapped. His head hit the rail with a meaty thud and he disappeared over the side without a cry. At Maula’s chain, the trulla used his prodigious strength to ride out the bucking ship. Tree limbs whipped past and he lunged into the nearest door, careening off the frame and sliding across the floor.

The remaining anchors reached the ground and began to work in earnest to slow the zeppelin as it passed through a lighter patch of forest. This put the whole ship at a constant forty-five degree angle. Several passengers cried out anew as they were thrown from their places and dashed against walls and furniture. Mr. Croanian was catapulted forward, out the front doors and across the entrance balcony. Sram watched as the conductor bowled into the railing and got tangled there, unconscious or dead from the impact.

At its reduced speed, the Saint Anne might have had a chance. The hull had been breached in several places, but the ship was beginning to right itself. If the stress hadn’t weakened the tethering lines, the balloon may have allowed for a terrifying, but stable descent. Such was not to be.

With a new POP, the first major line snapped. Situated at the bow, the cable’s nearest neighbors only took up the extra weight for a few moments before snapping in turn. With each new break, the remaining lines lasted even less time. Without the bowlines to keep the vessel up, the nose quickly fell until it connected with the ground.

The Saint Anne rolled forward, snapping the remaining stern lines and tumbling through the trees in ungraceful cartwheels. The balloon, free of its burden, rose quickly back into the dark skies, racing toward the distant mountains. Inside, the world of the passengers became a bloody kaleidoscope of screams, crunches and thuds.

When the ship finally stopped, an ugly scar of broken trees, churned earth and debris lay behind it, stretching into the darkness. Much of the main hull and lower floor of the inn had stayed relatively together. The second story had either sheared off or collapsed into the floor below. The balcony had been almost completely torn away, along with any sign of Mr. Croanian and the others manning the anchors.

From the wreckage near the kitchens, the glow of flames could just be seen. Weeping was heard, along with pain-filled moans and wracking coughs. The cold wind continued to blow over the broken bones of The Saint Anne. The waxing moon slid in and out of the clouds.

Twice in the tossing and turning of the ship, the small closet door where Danika and Alisa hid had crashed open and slammed shut. On the second opening, Danika had lost her grip on her friend and been flung out into the narrow cabin. Though she had taken a few lumps and bruises, when the vessel finally came to rest she found herself miraculously free of serious wounds.

She gently rubbed her shin and climbed to her feet on the uneven floor. The closet was now buried under two heavy ceiling beams. She scrambled toward it and called out, “Ash, are you alright?”

There was a moment of silence, then Alisa pushed a wadded blanket out of her face, “Y-yeah!” she stammered, “Dani, open the door! I can’t breathe in here!”

Dani looked at the beams and gave them a shove, but nothing moved. “I can’t,” she answered, “There’s stuff blocking the door!”

“Dani. Open. The. Door!” the trapped woman’s voice had grown somewhat tense.

Danika winced at her friend’s tone. She brought her face as close to the door as possible and said, “Ash, stay calm. I’m gonna get help. You understand? I’m not leaving you. I’m getting help.”

Her friend didn’t respond, but Danika didn’t wait long either. Climbing through a hole in the ceiling, she looked around for help. Nearby, in the moonlight, she saw a hand reaching skyward from between broken timbers.

A voice called, “Someone! Help!”

It took her a beat to recognize the druid’s voice. She picked her way to him through the debris. Sram had a nasty bruise across his jaw, and one of the lenses in his oversized spectacles was cracked. His booted foot appeared firmly stuck beneath a dislodged booth from the dining hall.

“Are you alright?” she asked, reaching down a hand.

“Yes, it’s just—my foot is wedged. I can’t free it.”

“Hmm, I—I can’t reach it from here, but I can try to yank you free,” she said.

Behind her, anxious noises were starting to come from Alisa’s closet. Sram heard them and nodded, attempting to relax his leg. Danika grasped the druid’s forearm with both hands and pulled. Sram stifled a moan, then his foot popped free.

“Thank you!” he said, and groaned, rubbing feeling back into his foot and wiggling his toes inside his boot. “Let’s see about your friend.”

By the time they returned, Alisa had found a crowbar in her pack and was busy prying the planks in the door free. With the other’s help, she was soon scrambling out of her prison, eyes. She seemed wholly unconcerned with the new splinters in her hands.

From their perch on the broken ship, they saw the nobleman and his servant carrying the limp body of his wife into the undergrowth. One of the Durin traders followed them with a torch. Another searched the wreckage.

The warden pulled Shamus out of the debris and marched him toward the other survivors. Skahl had a severe limp, but held his shard pistol to his prisoner’s back, apparently taking no chances. Shamus looked dazed and walked unsteadily. His manacles were still in place.

Meanwhile, Arin lay crumpled in what was left of the bar. The sorcerer must have momentarily lost consciousness but woke when they heard the sound of crying nearby. With awareness also came pain, flooding through their shoulder. They managed to turn their head enough to see an open wound gushing blood. They held back a shudder.

The crying was coming from one of the children they were helping when the ship crashed. They focused on it instead of the wound, using their starlight vision to find the family still tucked in their safe place, still clasping one another—still alive. Arin managed a smile.

With the smile, a look of peace fell over their face. The sorcerer seemed to sink into it. A moment later, they levered themself into a sitting position and reexamined the wound. The blood seemed to be slowing. They might still die from it, but not immediately.

“Hu, Hunh, A—Ariiiiii....n”

The voice was barely a whisper and came from the other side of the destroyed bar. Arin crawled closer and saw Phil’s leg protruding from under the heavy oak slab. They carefully lay next to it, until they could see the aeronaut’s face beneath. She had been flattened and obviously couldn’t breathe.

Arin didn’t waste time with words. They reached a hand in and lay their smooth fingers against Phil’s arm, whispering an arcane phrase and releasing a bit of power. The warmth moved from their fingers to Phil’s already cooling flesh. She twitched and her eyes flared.

Arin braced their legs against the slab and pushed. The sound wasn’t pleasant as the heavy bartop slid off Phil’s chest, but the audible intake of breath gave them hope. The aeronaut’s next words were even better.

“Th—thank you,” she whispered. Even the simple words seemed to cause her great pain.

Arin put a hand on the young woman’s cheek, “Don’t speak. I think your ribs are broken.” They looked around and noticed the family had crawled free of the wreckage and into the woods, “Stay here a moment, lay still. I’m going to see if I can find someone to help.”

“Wa—wait!” Phil whispered urgently, “Th—the Lord is hiding something! He knows something!” She gasped and clutched her ribs.

Arin nodded and shushed her gently. “We’ll get to the bottom of it. I promise.”

Phil managed a careful nod and Arin crawled away.

Maula stood up from the undergrowth and looked at the wreck before him. The trulla had been thrown fifty paces or so from the ship, ejected from the portside doors, and sent on his own tumbling course through the trees. His stance spoke volumes of his pain, though his bearded jaw was set in stubborn defiance.

He looked down at his right arm, somehow clutching his witchwood ax, and noted the branch transfixing his forearm. He snorted and pulled the broken limb free, letting the pain feed his anger. He took one step, then another toward the wreckage and the men and women crawling from it.

“THIS MAN IS IN NEED OF ASSISTANCE!! ATTENTION! THIS MAN IS IN NEED OF IMMEDIATE ASSISTANCE!”

The ship’s cog, Crank, was standing just clear of the wreckage, holding Duke Dornan’s limp body in his arms, shouting into the night.

Maula stepped up his pace, noticing Sram, Alisa, and Danika had also heard the automaton’s cry. The druid was limping toward the downed racer too. They converged in moments.

Sram told Crank to put Duke down, then leaned over him, clutching his crescent moon emblem and whispering, “Ùine airson a bhith beò, gun a bhith a 'bàsachadh.”

A soft green glow accompanied the druid’s words. It seemed to pulse in rhythm with Duke’s fluttering heartbeat, steadying it. Sram looked up at Maula and said, “Go. Help the others. I’ll be along in a moment.”

Maula nodded. The cog also turned and headed back into the wreckage, following its geas to search for other survivors.

On his way, Maula caught sight of the Lord and his retainer. The two had somehow gotten ahold of a functional lantern and the servant was holding it over the nobleman’s wife, who lay bleeding on the ground. Maula watched as the man reached into a box and pulled out a potion of some kind.

He put it to the woman’s lips and raised her head, forcing her to drink. A moment later, she gasped, then sighed, never truly waking, but a healthy glow infused her skin.

“Hey! You got more of that stuff?” Maula growled, stepping into the lantern light.

The servant started and turned to block the trulla, fear plain in his eyes. “Y-You, You stop right there!”  One sleeve of his tunic was ripped away. His arm and shoulder were crisscrossed with deep gashes, but he seemed determined to guard his lord and lady.

The lord turned to face them but remained hunched over his box protectively. He put a hand inside.

Maula dwarfed the young man and he raised his ax menacingly. “Look, kid, I don’t wanna’ kill you, buuuut.....”

“You heard the lad!” the noble said. Be off, or you’ll regret it!”

From the wreckage, Arin cried, “I FOUND THE MONK!”

The announcement drew everyone’s attention, including Maula’s. When they looked, they could see that several small fires were growing among the ruins of the ship. The durin traders were using cloaks and blankets to battle the largest of them.

Maula turned back to the noble and said, “I’ll be back,” then went to help his new friends.

How Arin spotted Theo’s body was anyone’s guess. The monk was buried deep, covered by a fallen wall, and trapped out of arm’s reach. As they gathered around the spot where the sorcerer pointed, Alisa brought her trusty crowbar to bear again. She managed to wedge the bar into the opening and spread it enough for Sram to slide in. Like before, he gave Theo a surge of druidic healing.

The man’s heartbeat was nearly extinguished. It took all Sram could manage to reestablish the monk’s life force. Maula pulled them both free and carried Theo’s battered body to the spot where the other survivors were gathered.

As he did, the winds picked up and the fires with them. A surge of flames drew a scream from Phil, who had painfully crawled to a high point in the wreckage in an attempt to flee the fire. With practiced dexterity, Alisa made it to the injured aeronaut in moments.

She looked down at Phil, then at the nearby, growing flames. “This is going to be uncomfortable,” she said.

Phil nodded and was scooped up by her savior, stifling a cry. Together, they limped away from the growing inferno and out of the ruins.

Back with the survivors, Maula set Theo down and stomped toward the nobleman once more. Seeing him coming, the lord produced a black wand and pointed it. “I will kill you, beastman!” he said, “Do not come nearer!”

Maula had his ax in hand and only slowed for a moment, then growled, and lunged. The noble was quick and whispered a trigger word under his breath as he attempted to dodge aside. A searing flame caught the trulla in the chest at the same time Maula’s ax cut a gash across the noble’s torso.

Both men stumbled back, but Maula’s wound proved the more deadly. As he hit the ground, Arin was there to half-catch him.

Shamus argued briefly with the Warden, then knelt next to Maula. “I can help, I have healing skills.” Arin nodded and the artificer went to work. It was hard to see what he did, but in a few moments, Maula was breathing again, but still unconscious.

Others gathered around the noble and saw to his wound. The servant lad stood over the box, guarding it. The arguments on who was to blame were already flying when the warden put up a hand, “ENOUGH!” he boomed, “We have plenty to worry about without infighting!”

The voices died away.

The fires began to spread in earnest. Despite the danger, Sram and Duke—the latter nursing a broken arm—roused themselves to one more feat of heroics. They climbed into the burning wreckage to save the engineer, O’Hairty, who only roused from his stupor after the druid crammed some nettleweed powder in his nose.

The survivors pulled further back into the woods, away from the fire. Thankfully, the trees and underbrush were all damp from the spring rains. They watched the Saint Anne burn while injuries were bandaged.

After a half candle, they made a sweep of the area. A few bodies were found, including Mr. Croanian, and one more survivor was added to the group. Chapawee was found unconscious, draped over a fallen tree. Though they were all exhausted and wounded, those that were able, dug six shallow graves for the deceased using broken boards and anchor tines. A silent prayer was said in the dark by Sram, dedicating nine dead or lost souls to the Well and Wheel.

While Sram spoke, Danika stood next to the lord’s servant and whispered, “I’m glad you survived.”

The young man looked up from the box he was guarding and gave a tentative smile, “I—I’m glad you and your friend survived as well,” he answered.

Danika stepped closer. “I’m Danika.”

“Alfonso,” he replied.

“You know, you don’t have to live with that kind of abuse.”

Alfonso frowned and looked at his employer, standing near the graves. The man was healed of his injuries, thanks to another potion. “My Lord is not so terrible. He’s done a lot for me.”

Danika looked at the young man, full of sympathy, “Like what?”

While she asked, a slender arm reached from the shadows behind them and opened the box. A few moments later, it was gone.

“He’s training me. One day, I’ll be his major domo, possibly more.”

Danika’s smile flattened out. “Hmm,” she said, “Well, if it ever gets to be too much, you let me know.”

The young man smiled awkwardly and nodded, then checked the box on the ground. Danika returned to the graveside.

Another half candle passed. The last of the wounds were bandaged and the conscious survivors were just contemplating sleep when the Warden and Shamus joined a small group that were discussing their next moves. Sram, Arin, Alisa and Theo were whispering.

The monk’s head was wrapped in bandages from one of the trader’s healing bags. “I don’t think we should stay here,” he said.

“Agreed,” Warden Skahl said, “We need to go south.”

“In the morning?” Danika asked.

“No. Now. The crash fire will draw every creature in the forest,” The Warden looked out into the night, “We’ve already waited too long.”

“But, the wounded..” Arin said.

"We've all done what we can for the wounded. Those that can walk will walk, those that can't we must carry. If we stay here, we all die."

Shamus leaned in, manacles first, "If you take these off, I can do more for the wounded—"

"—No!" Skahl was adamant and no one argued in Shamus's favor, though a few gave him sympathetic looks.

The little man leaned back, dejected.

It wasn't a popular decision, but the survivors recognized the sense in setting out right away. After building several make-shift stretchers and torches, and gathering their few possessions, twenty-one survivors moved in the general direction Sram assured them was south.  They walked along an animal trail, chopping away undergrowth with knives and swords when necessary—which was often. The going was slow.

After a candle they stopped near a forest stream for a rest. While water was distributed, those with keen eyes kept watch on the woods. Alisa spotted a small, suspicious shape in the deep shadows of an oak. She motioned for the Warden to follow her and drew her rapier.

When they got there, the shape was gone. The Warden examined the ground with his torch, and pointed out a print in the leafy mud, “Kudra,” he whispered, drawing his pistol.

Alisa tensed. “Just one?” she asked.

“Never.”

________________________________________________________________

No Rest Til' Daylight

Despite the Warden’s predictions, there was no immediate attack and no additional signs of their stalkers. The group of survivors moved on with their eyes peeled. After a candle of trudging through the dark forest, they stopped on a narrow part of the trail to rest.

Sram was ahead of the group, watching for dangers when danger found him. An arrow flashed out of the darkness and embedded itself in his leather cuirass. He cursed involuntarily and took shelter behind a nearby tree. He reached for the arrow and found it had dug an inch into his side, only inches from his unarmored armpit. He whispered a druidic prayer and starry lights danced across his skin.

“Sram! You alright?” Theo called.

“Yes,” he answered. He looked at the arrow. “Our kudra sniper is back.”

The syvani’s statement elicited a worried murmuring from the survivors. Warden Skahl and Theo tried to calm them while searching the forest. After a few fingers without a follow-up attack, the more mobile of the group huddled for a quick meeting.

“It’s a delaying tactic,” Skahl said. “They’re trying to pin us down, make us too nervous to progress.”

“For what purpose?” Danika asked.

“Waiting for reinforcements. This is probably a scouting party.”

Maula looked back at the wounded in their litters, especially Chapawee. “Then we need to go, quickly.”

After a quick round of nods and they were telling everyone to get up and get ready. No one argued.

They were hit again just before their next rest. This time the arrow was aimed at Arin, but missed by a hair, digging into a tree beside him. Maula growled and dropped Chapawee’s litter, unslinging his ax and loping off into the undergrowth in the direction of the shooter. Theo and Alisa gave chase as well, but the steep rock embankment proved too difficult for the monk to traverse with his broken arm.

By the time Alisa made it to the top, the Trulla was already sprinting ahead, his hooves having made short work of the stone cliff. Maula caught sight of the kudra and readied his hatchet. He let the ax fly. There was a meaty THOCK as it found its mark. In another few moments, he and Alissa were standing over the dead sniper.

The kudra’s tanned face and long ears were painted with mud, in vertical stripes. Its pointed teeth were bared in a rictus grin. Besides a short, recurve bow and a quiver of ten arrows, the small, wiry knockfar only had a crude cuirass of boiled leather and an arm ring of beaten copper.

Maula pulled his ax free and wiped it free of blood. “Take the bow and the arrows. We might need them.”

Alisa nodded and they returned to the party.

They continued through the rest of the night. No other kudra attacked them, nor were they accosted by any other woodland threats. Just before dawn, when the survivors were well and truly exhausted, they found a stream and refilled their skins and pots. Soon after that, they came to the first actual clearing the group had come upon all night.

It seemed an ideal spot to stop for a long rest.

________________________________________________________________

As the gray, predawn light washed away the stars, the group of survivors set about making camp. This mainly consisted of tending to the wounded, rationing out what little food they had, and finding good spots of ground to call their beds. The pure exhaustion meant that many simply skipped eating and went straight to sleep, huddled together for what little warmth they could manage.

Maula and Theo made two small fires for the wounded. Warden Skahl, Shamus, the syvani travelers, and Duke all sat together afterward, discussing their options.

“Food is going to be a problem, soon,” the Warden said.

“I can do some hunting,” Maula said, “Set some snares.”

“It will take time,” Sram added, “to hunt, to dress the game, for snares to work.”

“It will also take Sram and me some time to work Healings on the wounded,” Arin said.

Shamus leaned forward. “I can help with that."

“No,” Skahl said.

Arin looked at Sram, then Shamus, who frowned, then finally the warden. “So, we spend a day here, and another night, we heal the wounded, hunt for food, maybe find our bearings?”

WWWRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAW!

A distant roaring sound echoed over the forest. Even those sleeping came awake with wide eyes. Those discussing their plans came to their feet, hands on weapons if they had them. The sound was followed by the distant beat of wings, growing closer.

“Get everyone beneath the trees!” Theo ordered.

They scrambled to comply. Those who were mobile enough did it on their own. Others helped the wounded. In a few, heart-pounding moments the survivors were pressed low in the undergrowth, protected by the canopy of the oaks, breathing heavily.

WHOOSH, WHOOSH, whoosh, hoosh, oosh, oosh

The beat of wings dwindled slowly. Somewhere to the east, a sound like flame taken to a dry bonfire erupted, then silence returned.

The warmth of the spring sun might have been tempting, but the survivors stayed beneath the trees that day, and the campfires were extinguished.

________________________________________________________________

Before long the animals of the forest began making noise again. The survivors took some comfort that whatever made the noise had left their part of the woods behind. The leaders of the group gathered and decided on their plans for the day. 

Sram And Phil decided they would climb the nearby ridge. They hoped from the height, they could better discern their way south and avoid any dangers. 

Maula, Alissa, and Danica decided to hunt for game near the clearing. Because of the Kudra, they didn't want to go too far, but bellies were already rumbling amongst the survivors. 

Arin and Duke stayed behind and continued to look after the injured. The sorcerer hadn’t been doing it long when Cathal MacDonag approached. The nobleman looked particularly frail. His white silk shirt was stained and his overcoat had several snags in the weave. The man’s face was dirty and a shadow of dark beard covered his cheeks where his goatee stopped.

Arin looked up from arranging clean strips of cloth, wary, but curious. “Lord MacDonag, how may I help you?”

The man rubbed his hands together and gave a nod of greeting. “Master Arin, I come in hopes that you can aid my wife,” he answered. His normally arrogant demeanor was gone.

Arin finished his task. The syvani was far from pristine themself, but they sighed and stood, gathering their bag. “Lead the way,” they said kindly.

Cathal MacDonag’s answering sigh was deep. He led the sorcerer to the place where his wife was resting. Despite the potion she had been given, her wound had begun to weep again, and she had a fever. “Can you heal her?”

“Do you have any more of your potions?” Arin asked.

The nobleman frowned and stifled an angry retort. “I had several. All but one has gone missing. I’m quite sure there’s a thief in our midst,” he said hotly.

Arin shook his head, dismissing the revelation and examining the woman’s wound more closely. “Let’s see what can be done, shall we?”

With the aid of the nobleman’s last potion, his wife was soon sleeping peacefully, her wound mended. Cathal thanked Arin again.

The sorcerer smiled, “We are all in this together, Lord MacDonag, right?”

The man looked contrite, then nodded. Arin then moved among the survivors, checking on the wounded. His magic was nearly spent, but he did what he could with makeshift bandages and boiled water. When Shamus approached him, he looked up, warily.

The criminal looked as scruffy as ever. Each patch of uncombed, wild blonde hair was pointing in a different direction. He waved a hand in his heavy-looking manacles. “Eh, awright master Arin. Kin ah sit?”

Arin finished rolling a fresh batch of torn cloth and nodded.

Shamus sat on a fallen tree and stretched his short legs, resting his manacles on his ample stomach. He didn’t speak at first.

Arin said, “Those manacles look heavy. Are they chafing your wrists?”

The arcanist smiled, “Ach, these? Na. Weel, ainlie metaphorically ah suppose. ”

The sorcerer nodded.

Shamus looked across the camp at the wounded. “Ye'v dane wonders wi' th' injured.”

“I wish I could do more.”

“Aye. Ah ken th' feeling.” The potion maker glanced at Warden Skahl, who was cleaning his weapons on the edge of the camp, near the two men’s bedrolls.

Arin studied the little man intently. “What do you want, Mister Shamus?”

“Ainlie tae help. Ah cuid brew up some healing draughts if ah hud mah Art.”

“The warden seems to think you wouldn’t.”

“Mister Skahl thinks he haes me figured,” Shamus said, smiling and shaking his head, “Bit he doesn’t pure ken me at a'.” He looked at the ground. “A'm feelin' guilty, huvin th' power tae help thae folk, bit nae bein' able tae.”

When Arin turned, Skahl was looking their way, mild interest on his face. The sorcerer held the man’s gaze for a moment, then returned to his work. Without looking at Shamus, Arin said, “I want to believe you, Mister Shamus,” he looked at the man, “I just can’t tell if that’s your doing, or mine.”

Shamus wiggled his fingers, indicating the manacles. “Na magic 'ere,” he said.

“And will your potions work?”

“Bah! ah tellt ye, 'twas an honest mistake. Ah pure hae a reliable history.”

Arin held his gaze, then said, “I’ll have a word with the warden. No promises.”

The arcanist smiled, “You’re a guid’n, Master Elf.”

________________________________________________________________

Alissa moved quietly through the ferns, carefully keeping her bow from moving the branches as she advanced on the boar. Behind and to her left, Danika did the same, only without a bow. Much further back, Maula watched from behind a fallen tree.

The pig had small, curling tusks and a bristly hide. It wasn’t a monster and probably hadn’t seen more than two or three winters. It rooted in the loam beneath a spreading oak, searching out acorns. The animal was unaware of the hunters upwind from it but occasionally raised its head anyway, searching for dangers.

When it did, the hunters stopped, motionless. They resumed when its head went down again. It appeared the young male was alone. Alissa stopped at a hundred paces and drew back, sighting down the shaft and softly exhaling.

THRUMP

The arrow barely arced before plunging into the boar’s side. It squealed and spun, stumbling in the dirt before righting itself. Several grunts and squeals answered from the other side of the tree as its hidden family raced away into the forest gloom.

Danika let out a tiny, “Yessss!” and the pig oriented on the sound. Though its life was leaking out into the leaves, it grunted and started its charge.

Alissa had another arrow knocked before it made it halfway to her friend. This time she quick fired and the arrow took the pig in the hindquarter, but it still didn’t fall.

Danika had stopped celebrating but didn’t run. The boar seemed larger and larger the closer it got. She drew herself upright and called on her Gift, eyes wide and staring.

“COME PIG! DIE AT MY FEET AND SAVE US THE WALKING!”

The taunt was laced with power and the fates listened. The boar stumbled ten feet from her and crashed to the ground at five. Before Alissa could fire again, or Maula could reach them, the beast was dead.

“That was... impressive,” Alissa said.

“Aye,” Maula added, “Worthy of a warrior.”

Danika took a moment to collect herself and answer, but when she did, she was smiling her standard, confident grin. “All part of the plan. I told you I’m an excellent hunter.”

It took a keen eye to see the young bard's hands were trembling.

“Right,” Alissa said, “Well, at least you didn’t scare it away before I could shoot it.” She aimed the words at Maula, who frowned.

After the boar, the three hunters took a small doe. On their return trip, they found Maula’s snares had taken two fat hares for the cookpot. The big trulla held the heavy end of a carrying pole with the deer, the two hares on his belt, and the boar draped over his shoulders.

________________________________________________________________

“Warden.”

Arin approached the man in the early afternoon. The Warden looked up from polishing his armor and gave a nod of greeting, “Arin.”

“I wonder if I could have a word with you?”

“Does it concern whatever you and my bounty were talking about earlier today?”

“You’re very observant, yes.”

“I can’t release him,” Skahl said.

Arin lifted the hem of their violet robes—kept clean and whole through magic—and sat across from the Warden. “I’m hoping I can change your mind.”

Skahl shook his head, “I don’t see it as likely.”

“I understand the man is a criminal, but he is also a healer, and I believe that to be more important in our current circumstance.”

Skahl gave a short bark of laughter, “You remember what he’s accused of, right?”

“I do, but I also know a percentage chance of magical healing is better than nothing, and we’re desperate.”

“Master Arin, do you know how much a warden pulls in monthly?”

The syvani looked as if they didn’t even know what Skahl was asking, let alone what a warden earned. It was enough to make the Warden laugh again, then say, “I don’t take a wage from the Empire for what I do. My only source of income is the bounties I’m able to bring in. If I let Shamus go, and he splits, I won't eat next month.”

“So it’s a matter of money?”

Now Skahl looked a bit uncomfortable. “I care about right and wrong, but aye, coin counts for a lot too.”

Arin nodded, seeming to be on firmer ground. “How much?”

Skahl didn’t pretend to not understand the question. “Five hundred.”

“Rhis?”

“Gold, Aye.”

The sorcerer considered for a moment and then came to a decision. Arin looked at the Warden earnestly. “I don’t have the coin on me, but my family is more than good for it. If you will take a note of debt, it will be fulfilled at any Imperial bank.”

Skahl squinted, gauging the syvani before him. “It’s worth that much to you?” he asked.

Arin again looked perplexed, but quickly nodded.

“Deal.” The Warden stuck his hand out, and Arin gripped it, trying to match the style of the other rough types they had encountered on their travels. Skahl seemed pleased with his effort.

________________________________________________________________

Both Sram and Phil and the three hunters came back at nearly the same time in the afternoon. Maula came into camp, loaded with the carcasses, and proudly announced, “The hunters have returned. Dinner is served!” to everyone within earshot. Alissa and Danika rolled their eyes behind his back. Several of the survivors surrounded him quickly, eager to help prepare the meat.

Sram and Phil joined Arin at the shaded edge of the trees. The sorcerer watched Shamus, free of his bonds, as the arcanist set up a make-shift lab with what few pots, cups and pans the survivors had carried from the wreckage.

“I see the criminal is free,” Sram said.

Shamus tsked, “Alleged criminal!” he quipped, smiling at Phil.

“Yes,” Arin answered, “I bought his freedom from the Warden.”

Phil smiled. “Good.”

Shamus grinned back at her.

Sram examined the potion maker’s setup. “And what are we making?”

“Healing draughts,” Shamus answered, “That is, if someone’s willing tae hulp me gather th' necessary ingredients.”

“I’ll help,” Alissa said, joining the discussion.

As Shamus made a list for her, Sram and Phil explained what they had learned from their survey of the terrain.

“The trail south splits into two valleys,” Phil said. “The western valley looks like it might get swampy. The eastern route seems better.”

“Did you see any sign of what flew over this morning?” Duke asked.

They both shook their head. Sram said, “No trace. We can hope it’s long gone.”

There was nothing really to add, so no one tried.

Shamus finished giving Alissa his list and said, “Ah spied maist o' thae plants 'n' mushrooms oan oor hike lest nicht. It shouldn’t tak' ye lang.”

Sram watched Maula and Danika as they helped the Dane family prepare the meat and chop the wild onions and mushrooms he and Phil had collected off the ridge. The durin children were giggling and climbing on the trulla’s back.

“It’s nice to see people warming up to him,” the druid said to Arin, who looked and nodded.

“The food will go far in restoring their spirits. If we can cure Chapawee and Theo we can make some good time tomorrow.”

Shamus stoked the small fire under his pans and then wiped his hands on his shirt. “My potions should be ready tomorrow,” he said.

Arin was surprised, “That quick?”

“Well, yes, though they won’t be as powerful as some I’ve made. You should be able to use them as a catalyst for your spellwork.”

“Very good,” the sorcerer said. Sram agreed.

________________________________________________________________

Alissa backtracked their trail, searching for Shamus’s ingredients. He was a good listmaker, and she found herself surprised at how exact his memory was. The bits of lichen and moss, the patches of mushrooms, and the plants and flowers were all almost exactly where he said they would be.

It took her a candle or so to collect everything. Her last chore was to fill the waterskins from the creek. She moved quietly as she approached the water, and thus noticed the voices before they noticed her.

Two, in particular, came to her keen ears through the ferns and scrub oak near the water. They spoke common Imperial and sounded like kingdom folk. She immediately crouched and stepped into the deeper foliage, listening for any clue that she had been spotted.

It sounded like a man and a woman, and they were talking in quiet tones, but not whispering. She edged a little closer until only a wall of willow grass separated her from them. Her hand rested on her rapier’s hilt as she listened in.

“—can’t say for sure,” the woman said, “but it seems like at least a dozen, and they have wounded, or sick.”

The man’s voice was a deeper baritone, and it carried better. “It doesn’t make any sense. Who are they, and why haven’t the knock found them?”

A third voice joined in, another man, “They will soon enough, or something worse. They’re leaving sign a blind ogre could follow.”

Alissa carefully crawled forward and parted the grass stalks, peeking down on the creek bank. There she saw six nerans gathered, four men, and two women. They looked like hunters. Most carried longbows and forester’s blades, though one big bald man sported an aged, but functional-looking slag rifle.

By their packs, it appeared they had been very successful. They had field-dressed meat, pelts, and hides aplenty. Altogether, Alissa thought they looked like a capable group.

The first woman had long dark hair and a forest green cloak. She spoke again to a man with a doeskin mantle and full beard. “Well, whoever they are, they’re traveling slow. We’re bound to catch up before long, assuming they stay their course.”

“Alright, let's head out. We’ll know more when we reach the meadow.”

The group began hefting their packs and readying to depart.

Alissa took her cue and slipped away first, taking the empty waterskins with her. She practically sprinted up the trail, doing her best to run silently and fast.

When she appeared in camp, several survivors noted her speed and expression and followed her to Arin and the others. She gave a quick, thorough report on what she had seen and heard. She ended with, “They’ll likely be here in minutes.”

Thus warned, all but those armed with weapons or spells scurried toward the base of the ridge and hunkered behind a group of boulders. Skahl, Alissa, and Phil hid in positions flanking the trail where the strangers were likely to appear. Minutes later, they heard a man shout from the woods to the north.

“Hello the camp! May we approach?”

Arin and Sram stood and peered into the shadows beneath the trees. They could just make out two men and one woman, bows in hand, but without arrows knocked. They wore no packs.

“Aye,” Sram yelled back.

The three entered the clearing. The man with the beard walked ahead of the large man with the rifle and the dark-haired woman. They surveyed the camp set under the edge of the trees.

Beard spoke. “We are hunters. We mean you no harm.”

Maula and Danika watched the woods. Theo stepped forward, his wrapped arm in its sling. “We are the survivors of an airship crash. My name is Thelonious. We have no wish to harm anyone.”

The hunter gave one more look around, then nodded. “I am called Volker,” he indicated his companions, “this is DK, and Jinny.” the big man and the woman nodded their greetings.

“You are welcome to share our fire and our food,” Theo said. “We have meat and stew cooking.”

Volker said, “We need to grab our packs from the trail. We have some food to share as well.”

Sram smiled, “You might as well call your friends in too.”

Volker returned the smile and nodded, “One can never be too careful. I will if you will,” he said.

The big man with the rifle never smiled but seemed to relax.

Once the other woman and two men joined them, Alissa, Skahl, and Phil came in as well. Soon the rest of the survivors stepped out of hiding and went back to preparing the food. They still watched the strangers warily.

The hunters observed their numbers and general state with concern, especially the children and the wounded. “How long have you been out here?” Volker asked.

“Our ship crashed last night,” Sram answered. “Those of us that survived hiked through the night, until we found this place and decided to rest and heal the remaining wounded.”

The hunter looked more carefully at Sram in the evening light, noting the silver crescent of his order. “You are a druid?”

Sram smiled and nodded. “My name is Sram.”

As if it were an invitation, Arin and the others gave their names as well. The three remaining hunters introduced themselves as Samanda, Ned, and Feredy. Alissa accepted three plump partridges from Samanda and handed them to Alfonso for preparation.

The hunter called DK stepped up to Maula, still frowning. “You were on the ship too?” he asked in a voice to match his size.

The trulla—of a height with the man—grinned, “I was.”

DK’s brow furrowed. “Why?”

Maula shrugged, “To see a bit of the world.”

DK continued to ponder and frown, then said, “Weird.”

As the evening deepened, the hunters and survivors sat and shared a meal. Volker explained that they were from a village on the fringe of the wood to the south called Streatham. When asked if they had encountered any difficulties since the crash, Arin told them about the kudra they had killed and the flying creature that had startled them that morning.

Volker shared a look with Samanda at the mention of the kudra. “I wondered whether the knock tribes had discovered you. Frankly, I’m amazed you haven’t been attacked again, though it might be they are pillaging the wreck first,” he surmised. “As for the winged creature, we heard it too.”

“Do you know what it was?” Danika asked.

“No, but I can’t imagine anything good.” The hunter glanced up, as if it might even now be flying above them, then looked back at Sram. “So, what are your plans?” he asked.

Sram glanced up too. “Before your arrival, we had planned to keep moving south until we reached the forest’s edge, then look for a village or town on the Delekian border.” He looked at Arin and the others, then went on, “Now I suppose it depends on if we can convince you to help us.”

Volker nodded as if he had expected the question. “I won’t lie, without our help, it seems unlikely your group will make it unscathed, if at all. Even with it, things could get rough.”

“And so?” Arin asked.

“We have problems of our own,” Volker went on, “Our village is depending on this meat and these pelts to see us through rough times—”

“Cursed times more like,” Samanda said.

“—Aye, cursed times.”

“How do you mean?” Duke asked.

The hunters looked at one another. Samanda gave Volker a questioning look, “He’s a druid, he could help us?”

Volker thought it through, then looked at Sram, “Perhaps she’s right. Perhaps we can help each other.”

Sram looked interested, and the others as well. “Tell me how I can help.”

Volker took a sip from a flask, then began.

“Streatham is a lumber-cutting village. It’s our livelihood, but since last fall, we haven’t brought in any significant lumber. Many of our men have gone missing, and others are attacked if they enter the east woods.”

“By what?” Theo asked.

“Strange plant-like creatures, and the beasts of the forest. We lost the logging camp, then a rescue party. Since then, we haven’t ventured there.”

“Have you sent for Imperial help?” Duke asked.

“Aye, the Mayor has, but the wheel turns slow for border villages. We might get some help soon, but how much and how effective is anyone’s guess.”

“Well,” Sram said, carefully cleaning his glasses, “I’m more than willing to help you out, but I cannot leave these people, so...”

“Aye, so we will guide you to Streatham, where your survivors will be at least safer than out here,” Volker finished.

With a deal made, the group of hunters finished eating, then moved to the base of the ridge, a good fifty yards from the survivor’s camp. They set up a small camp of their own, well hidden, but within sight. Samanda explained they didn’t want to be sitting ducks if the kudra showed up.

Shamus continued to work his crude alchemy over the fire as the rest of the survivors prepared for sleep. Like before, the syvani and trulla divided themselves into watches with the neran members of the party. The night sky threatened rain, but the clouds relented and the night was cold and dry. Whether by luck, or blessings, nothing attacked them through the long dark candles.

________________________________________________________________

Something Winged

During the dawn hours, Arin and Theo took the last watch. Around them, the survivors were still and huddled beneath cloaks and blankets, trying to stay warm. From their seat near the banked fire Arin could just make the smoke from the hunter’s camp near the ridge.

With barely a warning, there was a loud WHOOSH of rushing air followed by the THUMP of a large body alighting in the center of camp. When the two sentries looked, they saw a magnificent looking drake, standing on its hind legs, wings furled close, golden eyes staring imperiously.

The creature’s scales were somewhat shadowed by the trees, but they still managed to glint a bronze-gold as they caught the first light of the sun. As the sleepers began to stir, the young wyrm unfurled its wings and stood even taller, lashing its tail and exhaling a breath of warm, coppery air. Its chin was festooned with gold feathered hair.

Arin and Theo were stunned. Caught in a semi-crouch, fearful to move, they watched as the drake’s chest swelled and it glanced over the gathered survivors. Those who had fully woken huddled together, paralyzed with fear.

Danika was one of those who woke up the quickest. She rolled to her bare feet and put out a hand in supplication to the dragon. “B-be welcome, Great Shagoran,” she said, only slightly trembling.

At her greeting, the shagoran’s head dove close to the bard, one foreleg touching the grass. It faced her from mere inches away, staring with those golden eyes. The bloody meat smell of its breath engulfed her. Unable to hold its stare, Danika backed away.

Across the meadow, Volker and his companions were approaching with bows and rifles. Arin saw this and turned toward them. He motioned for them to remain back. The drake spun and took in the new threat. It saw Maula with ax in hand and snarled, bringing a whimper from the Dane children.

Maula lowered his weapon.

The creature watched, then extended a single, sharp claw, drawing a five-foot circle in the mud and grass.

“Ma-jick,” it said in a growling voice.

“”W-what does it mean?” Theo asked.

Arin watched the dragon, but he answered, “It wants our magical items, our arcana.” He looked at the noble, Cathal, who had his wand held at the ready. He then looked for Shamus, but found the potion-maker was missing from his bedroll.

The creature looked at Cathal’s wand. Noting its interest the nobleman pointed it at the dragon.

“Don’t you dare,” Theo said through gritted teeth.

Arin followed the threat with a calmer request. “Give the shagoran the wand, Lord MacDonag.”

“No,” the man practically pouted.

Maula adjusted his grip on his ax.

“Please don’t be foolish,” Alissa said, crouching beside Danika.

The noble scowled. “Foolish would be to surrender our weapons so it can kill us,” he said.

“If she wanted to,” Sram said, “She would have already.”

Arin noted the druid’s words and studied the drake, wondering how he knew its sex—her sex. The sorcerer didn’t consider it for long. “Cathal, you must see that Master Sram is right. This noble shagoran chose to wake us and give us the opportunity to avoid violence. It would not have done so if its intent was to kill us all along.”

Arin couldn’t be sure, but they thought the drake looked pleased to be called noble.

Cathal held out a few moments more, but eventually conceded, lowering the wand and tossing it into the circle. When the shagoran looked at Sram expectantly, the druid pulled a pouch from his belt and dumped the enchanted berries he had there. When the dragon indicated the potions sitting beside Shamus’s fire, Alissa reluctantly added them as well.

As she carried the wineskin to the circle, she looked up at the drake, then lowered her eyes. “If you want magic, you should know there is a wrecked airship up the valley with arcane elements aboard. Much more than this paltry collection.”

The dragon made no sign of acknowledging her offer. It only pointed at the circle and repeated itself, saying, “Ma-jick,” like it had trouble with the word.

She tossed down the healing draughts and backed away.

When it appeared all had been gathered, the shagoran turned and looked at Crank, indicating the cog with a lifted chin. The automaton had been watching the scene calmly, and tilted its head when it realized it was the center of attention.

“It wants the cog?” Duke asked.

Arin sighed, “She knows Crank has an arcane heart.”

Hearing his name, Crank stood and looked at Phil, who had been attempting to remain small. “Are my services required?” he asked the wood elf.

Phil stood and looked from Arin to the cog. “Why are you asking me, Crank?”

“You are the sole remaining Saint Anne employee. My geas requires that I follow your orders until I return to the shipyards.”

The dragon gave a huff and growled. Her tail lashed the grass.

Phil looked at Arin.

The sorcerer lowered their eyes. “I’m afraid we have little choice.”

The young woman turned to the cog. “I am sorry, Crank. You must go with the shagoran. Do not resist.”

For his part, Crank appeared unphased. The cog carefully stepped through the cringing survivors and made his way to the circle. When he arrived, the gold wyrm pushed the cog down to the ground and sniffed it. Crank watched it all with a surprising lack of fear. 

This inspection went on for a good twenty seconds, during which the tension among the rest of the survivors increased. The wyrm gave another snort and looked around the camp. Her piercing eyes drifted from the wounded, to the children, to the cook fires.

At last, she gathered the wand and the goodberries with surprising manual dexterity, then launched upward through the boughs of the trees and took flight, the sound of her wingbeats disappearing over the forest the only noise in the camp.

A candle later, Arin and Sram used Shamus’s potions to finish healing Theo and Duke. The potion maker had shown up again shortly after the drake left, having hidden in the first moments of the shagoran’s arrival.

As Duke tested his newly mended arm, he asked, ““Why didn’t it take the potions, or the cog?”

“I’ve been wondering about that myself,” Arin said.

Sram smiled. “SHE is a gold dragon, or a drake to be more precise.” He looked at his friends and asked, “Do you know the origin of the shagoran?”

When the two answered no, the druid went on. “They are descendants of the Nagora, great wyrms bred by the Gods to be their ultimate defenders and agents in the middle realm.”

“But,” Duke said, “they’re monsters and killers, the number one bogie of the wilds.”

“They are slayers of arcanists and sorcerers,” Arin added.

“True, the shagoran are not the Nagora, and they are extremely dangerous, but not all of them are monsters.”

Sram nodded as Phil and Theo approached and listened in.

“It was during the Cataclysm, when the energy of creation itself threatened to tear Aeranos apart, that the Nagora were created. Some think a pair of Nagora were captured and experimented upon by the morodos, others say they were warped by the energies unleashed during the storms. Regardless, it was after the Cataclysm that today’s wide variety of dragons first appeared.”

“And the gold dragons are good?” Theo asked.

Sram considered, then shrugged. “They are better than their chromatic kin, and seem to remember their original roles.” He looked toward the eastern skies, as if they might see the drake there. “Even a young drake could see that our band of survivors needed healing. I think that’s why she only took what she did.”

“Thankfully,” Arin said.

Sram nodded, “Thankfully.”

“I’m glad she didn’t take Crank,” Phil said.

“As am I,” Arin agreed.

“Do you think she realized we needed the cog as well?” Theo asked.

Sram shrugged, “I don’t know enough—about cogs or shagoran—to say.”

Maula joined them next, with little Jorum Jr. riding pick-a-back on his shoulders. After the initial fear of the drake, the durin children couldn’t stop talking about it, and had chosen the big trulla to annoy with their continuous prattle. “If you folks are ready, the camp is packed up, and the hunters are anxious to be on the way,” Maula said.

________________________________________________________________

Maybe He's Pooping?

True to their word, the Streatham hunters knew the best trails through the forest. The survivors were still slow, but moved faster than the day before, thanks to magical healing and the lifted spirits that came with a guaranteed destination.

That night they camped beneath a cliff face, partially protected from the intermittent rain. The hunter, Samanda, showed them how to build small, smokeless fires by digging vented pits in the earth. After passing out rations of meat and fresh brewed druid tea, Danika told a few humorous stories she had learned in the circus.

When Shamus asked the bard to play them a tune on her lute, Danika looked at him straight-faced and said, “I don’t play the lute.”

The answer was so serious, and yet odd, that no one followed up with the obvious question of why she carried it around. Instead, the artificer simply smiled, then asked, “May I?”

She smiled back and after pulling several pouches out of the body, handed the portly man her instrument. As expected of a neglected tool, the lute took quite a bit of tuning before Shamus seemed satisfied. When he strummed a soft chord there was a sigh from the nearby listeners.

He sang in a gentle, sweet, highland lilt, much at odds with his comical appearance.

Morgus Murkum lived in a wood

The beasts all new his name

Along came a dragon, sang him a song

Morgus was never the same-oh!

No Morgus was never the same

Fly to the mountains, bring me a thing

With riches I'll fill up your cup

If you don't dance to my lovely sweet tune

On the bones of your beasties I'll sup-oh!

On the bones of your beasties I'll sup

So Morgus Murkum took up his staff

To the craggy old mountain he traveled

Found the wyrm's thing in the hands of a king

But poor old Morgus, the King he unravelled-oh!

Yes poor old Morgus, the King he unravelled

Now Morgus he lurks in the dark with the King

He sings a bloody fine song

Dreaming of woods and critters and sun

And a dragon that done him so wrong-oh!

A dragon that done poor ol' Morgan so wrong

By the end of the song, all in the camp had stopped to listen, and there was a quiet round of huzzahs and clapping. Even Warden Skahl was smiling as he sipped his tea. The potion-maker bowed his head graciously and accepted the praise with a wink and a smile.

Danika gave the man a false scowl and followed it with a grin as she took back her lute. “That was a fun diddy. I hadn’t heard it before.”

“Och, tis juist a song ah learned as a bairn, aboot a druid 'n' a dragon. Ah suppose 'twas today's events that brought it tae mynd.”

Sram frowned, “It doesn’t sound like it turned out too well for the druid,” he said.

“No,” Shamus answered, “but that’s howfur songs gang whiles, isn’t it?”

Theo looked across the camp to Volker. “How long until we reach your village, Volker?”

The hunter scratched his beard and added a stick to the fire hole. “Tomorrow, sometime in the afternoon,” he answered.

The words brought smiles and excited nudges to the survivors. Chapawee smiled at Maula, who grinned back.

DK, The big, bald hunter with the rifle, inspected Duke’s jacket. When the pilot caught him staring, he asked him what the interest was about?

“Are you a racer?” DK asked.

“Aye.”

DK looked pleased. “I thought so! Imperial circuit?”

“Among others.”

The hunter’s smile turned a bit childlike, completely altering his demeanor. “I like racing,” he said, “You know the Crimson Knight came from a village not far from Streatham? He was a champion in the Delek circuit, back in ‘32. Heard of him?”

Duke frowned, “No. I was only five in ‘32. Is he still alive?”

“Far as I know. He’s a gaffer now, in Torbridgetown.”

“Hmm, what did he fly?”

DK’s smile grew even brighter and he scooted closer, eager to talk about his favorite pastime. Duke remained more aloof, but happily told the hunter about his racing exploits.

As the night deepened, the majority of the survivors nestled into their bedrolls and snuggled close to one another, drifting off to sleep. The watches were shared with the hunters, which meant shorter shifts for everyone.

________________________________________________________________

During the second watch, Alissa saw Theo roll out of his bedroll and walk quietly into the trees. When after ten minutes, he hadn’t returned, she grew worried. Throwing on her cloak, she nudged Danika and told her what she had seen.

The tired woman didn’t want to open her eyes. “Maybe he’s pooping,” she whispered groggily.

Alissa shook her head and grabbed her bow. “I’m going to check on him,” she whispered back.

“You do that,” Danika replied, then lay her head back onto her arm.

Alissa moved into the trees to check on him. When she couldn’t find him, she returned and approached the hunter who was currently on watch.

“Samanda, right?”

The woman nodded and Alissa went on. “Theo stepped into the woods nearly a quarter candle ago and hasn’t returned.”

“The monk?”

“Yes.”

The hunter looked at Alissa, then the woods. “Maybe he’s shitting.”

“I don’t think so. Something doesn’t seem right. Will you help me find him?”

The woman held her gruffness a moment longer, then sighed and fetched a hooded lantern, asking DK to take her place at sentry watch.

“If we find him with his pants around his ankles, leaning against some tree, you do the talking,” she whispered to Alissa.

It soon became evident Theo had gone much further than a latrine excursion would warrant. Fortunately, Samanda turned out to be good at tracking and the moon was nearly full. Theo’s trail led them deep into the brush, to a small, wooded hill, crowned by several old oaks. As they began to climb the deer trail he had followed, they heard his voice from above.

“What do you want?”

“To find you,” Alissa said.

“Why?”

Neither party could see the other.

“Are you taking a shit?” Samanda asked tersely.

There was a slight hesitation. “No,” Theo said, “I’m fine.”

“Look,” Alissa said, “we were worried you might be in trouble. Can we come up?”

There was a pause, then, “Just go back to camp.”

Alissa shared a look with Samanda, then said, “We’re coming up,” and proceeded to climb.

They found Theo sitting with his legs tucked under himself, his back against one of the smaller oaks. His pack, sword and boots were piled neatly nearby. He looked annoyed.

“What are you doing up here?” Alissa asked.

“Trying to meditate.”

She turned and looked out over the moonlit forest. “A half mile from camp? Without telling anyone where you were going?” She knelt and looked him over closer, glanced at his bag. “It’s kinda dangerous to be out here by yourself.”

The monk scowled at her, surprising her with his anger. “Only dangerous if we’re arguing and talking, instead of meditating peacefully! You don’t know anything, and you don’t know me. You should just go back to CAMP!”

Alissa looked at the monk in surprise, then scowled. “I’ve never seen you so testy. I was only worried about you.” She knelt and picked up his bag, which caused Theo to tense and lean forward, revealing a heavy chain attached to an iron ankle cuff.

Samanda and Alissa saw it at the same time.

“What the hell!” Alissa exclaimed.

The monk sighed and tucked his feet back under himself. “Look, just leave me be!” he growled.

The hunter had her hand on her knife and took a healthy step back, wariness plain in her stance. Alissa looked more confused than worried.

“We should leave him be,” Samanda said, “Like he said, “he’ll be fine.” She watched Theo like a hawk in the moonlight.

Theo was still scowling, breathing heavily in and out through his nose. Alissa looked from one to the other, noting the shift in tone and the escalation in tension.

“Fine,” she said, “I’ll take your bag back with me. You can collect it when you return to camp, after you explain some things to me.” She looked him over once more, expecting more argument, but Theo only closed his eyes, sighed, and nodded.

On the walk back, after they had climbed down the hill and made some distance from the monk and his chained meditation, Samanda said, “Your friend is dangerous.”

“He’s not my friend,” Alissa replied.

“How long have you known him?”

“A few days. We met on the Saint Anne. He was a big help in the wreck. Why?”

Samanda glanced up through the trees, at the full moon peeking through the canopy of branches, then looked back at Alissa, a trace of fear in her eyes.

“What? I don’t understand.”

The hunter frowned, then shook her head, as if afraid to say more. “Never mind. Just—just be careful around him.”

They stepped into a small clearing near the camp and saw Sram leaning against a moss-covered boulder. An owl with long pointed ear tufts and a round face flew silently into the branches of the nearest tree as the druid tucked a small pouch into his sleeve.

“Good evening, Alissa... Samanda.”

The women replied with a greeting of their own, then walked on. The druid headed back to his bedroll.

Samanda returned to her post. Alissa found Danika and Phil and nudged them awake.

Danika groaned, “WhaaAat? I’m sleeping.”

Alissa ignored her friend’s complaining and looked at Phil, “Do you know Theo well?”

“No better than you I think. Why?”

“Samanda thinks he’s dangerous,” she replied, then went on to explain how they had found the monk in the woods.

Danika stifled a yawn. ‘So he wasn’t pooping?”

“On a hill and chained to a tree?... No.”

“Did you look through his bag?”

Alissa frowned, “No, not yet. Should I?”

“I would,” the bard answered.

Alissa sighed. “I don’t know.”

Phil shrugged. “He’s been nothing but kind and helpful so far. Why don’t you try to talk to him when he returns?”

Alissa looked at the bag and continued to frown, but didn’t answer.

________________________________________________________________

Theo walked back into camp early. Volker fed sticks to the morning fire as he watched the monk carefully. The huntsman didn’t smile or offer more of a greeting than a slight dip of the chin. Theo replied in kind, but added a hesitant smile.

Many of the survivors were already stirring, though others clung to warmth and sleep beneath their cloaks. Little Frieda Dane whimpered in the arms of her mother, who whispered something about breakfast being soon. Shamus snored softly, reclined against a fallen log nearby and apparently uncaring of the early morning dew and cold.

Samanda stepped into Theo’s path, “You’re dangerous,” She whispered.

Theo glanced at Volker, who had strung his bow and was watching them.

“What did you tell him?”

“Only what I suspect,” the hunter replied.

The monk gave the woman a searching look, then said, “I’m no danger.”

“I don’t believe you,” she said, then added, “Explain.”

Another sigh and a furtive look around camp, then Theo steered her away from the others. Samanda allowed herself to be directed. The monk noted she kept Volker’s field of fire open.

When they stopped, the monk gave her a long look before saying, “I am not a danger.”

“You already said that, It’s not an explanation.”

“I know I know,” he said, “Alright, I’ll tell you, but just know that I’m trusting you with information that has generally proven more dangerous to ME than to those around me.”

Samanda nodded.

“I’m cursed with lycanthrope,” Theo whispered.

“I knew it. Beastborn?”

“I wasn’t born this way. I was attacked when I was a child.”

“So you are dangerous, infectious.”

“No, well, only when shifted. I’ve long since learned to control it through meditation and discipline.”

“...and iron chains?”

“Only a precaution,” Theo said quickly, “Things are far from comfortable of late. I didn’t see any benefit in risking the survivors or you and your hunters during the full moon.”

Samanda stared hard at Theo. “How can we trust you?”

“I can only give you my word,” he whispered. “I am a good man. I’ve kept it in check for years.”

“Will you tell your friends?”

“In time—probably sooner than later, now. We just met.”

“We need the druid’s help in the village. If you harm anyone there...”

“I won’t. I promise.”

We’ll be watching you.”

“I understand.”

When Theo arrived at his bedroll, Alissa and Danika were preparing for the day’s journey. "Well?” Alissa asked simply.

“Do you have my bag?” Theo asked.

Alissa reached behind her and banded him the bag.

He inspected it. “Thank you.”

“What did you and Samanda discuss?”

“Things I prefer to keep private, for now. Let it be enough to say I gave her assurances my secrets would not harm anyone.”

“Did you sabotage the ship?”

Theo was taken aback. “What?—no, never.” He frowned.

A tension left Alissa’s eyes. She nodded. “Alright.”

________________________________________________________________

A Mayor's Welcome

The group finished breakfast and broke camp. There were still complaints, but most were mollified with the promise they would reach the village of Streatham before dark. It was a slow, weary walk but everyone had a full belly. Frieda and Jorum Junior took turns riding on Maula’s shoulders. Theo couldn’t help but notice the extra attention the hunters paid to him. As the sun began to sink toward the westernmost trees, the ragtag group finally arrived.

It was raining as they approached the high wooden walls of Streatham. The village was situated on a hill, surrounded by a ring of cleared forest that had become meadow. Some of the homes and dwellings toward the center could easily be seen, while those closer to the walls were obscured. Woodsmoke drifted from a dozen chimneys.

A few tall oaks and birches poked up from between the houses. At the peak of the hill was an old stone tower. At its apex, a log-trimmed building was set, with a steep shingle roof and simple parapet surrounding it. A three-story stone and wood house could also be seen nearby, its equally steep roofs and shadowed gables a stark contrast to the simple dwellings around it.

The muddy track they were following became a muddy, rutted road before they reached the tall, narrow gates. Volker waved to a young man standing watch. The boy gawked at the string of wet survivors. He closed the gates behind the last of them, then followed.

Eventually, the group came to a halt in an equally muddy village square. Women, children, and four of five young men watched the survivors come to a halt and mill about. The villager’s clothes were simple and sturdy. The young men and a few of the women carried quarterstaffs, or spears, but seemed non-threatening.

The two groups looked awkwardly at one another for a few moments. Cathal MacDonag stood tall, attempting a noble bearing, but his dirt and blood-stained clothes, and unshaven face worked against him. The engineer, O-Hairty stumbled to a washing stone near the well and plopped down, exhausted. Several of the villagers whispered subtly as they stared at the syvani—especially Sram and his Wicalic, druid robes. Others made less subtle notice of Maula. Shamus ruffled a child’s raven hair and received a giggle from the girl, and a weary scowl from Warden Skahl.

Just when it seemed that someone must say something, Volker came down the hill from the large house with an older man and a younger woman. The man walked with a limp, and wore a woolen cloak, tailored vest and jacket. He had an impressive, durin-worthy beard of white, and a balding pate. He was tall and wide, and even in his old-age appeared able to wrestle a boar.

The woman wore a blue woolen dress and a white shawl. She was pleasantly plump and had blonde hair tied into a bun.

The big man gave the group a warm smile despite the rain and said, “Welcome to Streatham! I am Danwydd Slocum, the Mayor of our little village.” His voice was rough, but friendly, “and this is Sally, my daughter-in-law.”

Theo stepped forward, “Thank you for your welcome, I am Thelonius.” He turned and indicated the rest, “Collectively, we’re the survivors of the Saint Anne crash.”

“Yes, Volker was just telling me the basics of your situation.” The Mayor seemed to scrutinize the monk as he spoke, and Theo was suddenly glad he hadn’t tried to shake the man’s hand. The Mayor turned to the rest of the gathered, “But come, let us get you out of the rain and somewhere warm. The grange isn’t exactly a hotel, but the loft is currently empty, and quite comfortable. Sally will see that you are taken care of.”

As the survivors began to follow Sally toward a large barn-like building off the square, the Mayor stepped up to Sram and bowed his shiny head, “Wical, once you are settled and have had a chance to rest and clean up, I would love to invite you to the house for supper?”

The druid looked up at the Mayor and smiled. “That’s very kind of you, but unnecessary. I can eat with the others in the grange.”

“Nonsense. I would give respect to the Huntress by showing her Wical Streatham’s hospitality.”

Sram looked at Arin, along with his new friends, then back to the Mayor, “May I bring a few others?”

Mayor Slocum didn’t hesitate, “Of course! Go and refresh yourself. Sally will fetch you when supper is ready.”

As they walked toward the grange, Duke whispered to Arin, “You notice the total lack of men?”

The sorcerer didn’t nod, but replied softly, “Yes. There is a sadness to the folk that they can’t fully hide.”

“Mmhmm,” the pilot agreed, then took a second glance at some of the young women eyeing him sweetly, “Sad... and lonely.”

The grange was more than spacious enough for the survivors. The lower level of the barn-like structure contained lumber wagons, tools, horse stalls, and the various benches and supplies necessary to keep them all serviceable and functioning.

A wooden stair near the back led up to a loft, where hay for the animals was kept, along with an open space down the middle. Sally Slocum enlisted the aid of several women and a few children to bring cots, tables, chairs, and a few extra oil lamps for the survivors.

The villagers were pleasant enough, but remained aloof to conversation. Two young men hauled a copper barrel up the stairs, and the women began filling it with water from the well, while several oil lamps were set carefully beneath it.

 Soon, others had brought in towels and blankets and a pleasant mood settled over the loft as the mud, blood, and fear finally began to be washed away.

One pretty red-headed woman paid special attention to Sram, and introduced herself as Rowena. She hovered nearby and was always ready to help by handing him a towel, or just scooting out his chair. After several minutes of this, he grew uncomfortable.

“Rowena, this attention is not necessary,” he said, smiling, “I thank you for your kindness, but there are others here who need your help more than I.”

Rowena grimaced shyly. “Just so,” she said, “I only want to make you at home, and comfortable, Master Druid.”

“To what purpose?”

She wrung her delicate hands, “Well, it’s only—it’s being whispered that you might help us find our missing men, and—well, my husband, Donald, is among them.”

It was Sram’s turn to frown, “Truly, rumors fly fast in Streatham, Rowena. I haven’t even been formally asked yet, though I expect your Mayor to do so.”

Rowena went to her knees, drawing the eyes of several others, “Master Druid, please say you will help us. Many have given up hope, but I know my Donny is alive!”

Sram reached out and placed his hands on the woman’s shoulders, calming her as best he could. “I will do what I can,” he said simply, “though I cannot promise you success.”

Rowena was nearly in tears, and the druid’s words caused the dam to burst. “Oh thank you! Thank you so much!”

He continued to comfort her until she gained control of her emotions, then helped her to stand. “Now go and help the others, I have supper with your Mayor to prepare for.”

She wiped her eyes, smiled, nodded and walked away. When Sram looked, Alissa gave him an encouraging smile. He sighed and continued preparing.

________________________________________________________________

Arin, Alissa, Danika, Theo, Duke, and the Warden had opted to come with Sram. Once they’d had their turn at the warm water and towels, they were led by Sally back out into the rain, and up toward the Slocum house on the hill. The spring night had turned chill, and they walked briskly.

They stepped into a small entry chamber. Sally took their cloaks and jackets. Those with long blades placed them in a weapons rack before being led into the dining room.

The house was a rustic interpretation of elegance. Delekian rugs lined the hardwood floors and a few, tasteful yet amateur paintings of relatives and pastoral scenes graced the walls. The sconces and candle holders were all polished steel instead of silver, and the ten-point stag’s head over the mantle was a little worn with age.

Still, to the weary travelers, it was heaven. A fire in the hearth gave a comforting heat and the table was laid out with warm bread and cheese, a selection of jellies and toasted nuts, and several large kettles of strong tea.

Volker was standing near the fire, a cup in his hand. No longer in his forester's armor, he now wore a simple gray vest and wide black belt with a silver buckle. He smiled cordially when they entered—even at Theo—and motioned for them to sit. “The Mayor will be down in a moment,” he said, “He wanted you all to relax and start in on the snacks.”

“Yes,” Sally added, “Please, make yourselves at home. I’m just going to pop into the kitchen and see to the main course.”

They did as asked and found seats at the table. Arin poured tea while they filled pewter plates with various appetizers.

Volker sat, and Duke sat next to him, eyeing his cup. “Is that tea?”

The hunter grinned and pulled a flask from his vest. “My own brew.” He poured a dram into the pilot’s cup and Duke smiled his thanks.

Theo took a corner chair, far from the head of the table, where the Mayor would likely sit. The choice didn’t go unnoticed by Volker, who appeared to relax a notch. Theo drank some tea and glanced around the room, noting there was a nice-looking slag rifle on a wall stand near the hunter’s chair. It looked as if it were already primed.

Before there was a chance for small talk, the sound of lumbered steps coming down the stairs announced the Mayor’s impending arrival. His limp was plainly obvious, but on solid ground it became more of a swagger.

He had changed into a gray silk tunic and dinner vest and appeared freshly scrubbed.

“Good evening guests!” he said, smiling, “I am delighted you could join us for supper!”

There was a general round of polite responses and thanks as he took his seat at the head of the table. “I hope you’ve all had a chance to try Sally’s roasted pecans,” he said, “They are marvelous! And she only brings them out on special occasions.”

Arin nodded and said, “They are exceptional, Mayor Slocum.”

The Mayor smiled brighter and eyed the flamboyantly dressed Syvani with curious interest. “Be sure to tell her when she comes out with dinner...umm” He looked at a loss for how to address the sorcerer.

Arin understood immediately and smiled. “You may address me as Sinisyl Talaorin, or more simply, Arin,” he said, “I am grateful for your hospitality.”

“Sin Isel.. Tal..” The Mayor attempted, then shook his head, “Arin it is.” he laughed.

Sram and some of the others joined in with chuckles of their own. Arin said, “The title means ‘Firstborn of Talaorin’ which is my family title. Arin is my common name and the one most used by my friends and family.”

“Then I am honored to use it,” The Mayor said.

That seeming to be a cue, Arin went on to introduce the others, appearing to relish the formalities of polite conversation. He ended with, “And of course you already know my friend and traveling companion, Wical Sram, or at least his title and calling.”

The druid had tied back his mop of brown hair, but made to brush it from his face anyways. He set down a slice of buttered bread, smiled, and bowed his head in formal greetings, “The Wood and Wave’s blessings on you and this house, Mayor Slocum, for your kindness and generosity to weary travelers.”

Sram’s words seemed to strike a chord with the old man, who bowed and touched a hand to his heart, his head and above, in the time-honored sign of sending a blessing directly to the Gods of Light and Shadow. Volker followed suit.

While they waited for the main course, the Mayor asked to hear of the crash, and their journey south. The group passed around the story before letting Danika take over. The young woman may not have known how to play her lute, but she could weave a fine tale.

With Danika’s taletelling, the desperate scramblings of her new friends somehow became heroic feats worthy of song. And while she did it, the others became aware of a subtle emphasis on Sram's part. To top it off, she somehow timed her bardic retelling to end just before the main course arrived from the kitchen.

“Absolutely fascinating!” the Mayor said. He looked at his daughter and a young woman with a maids apron on. They laid platters of roasted chicken, venison, potatoes, and butter-fried mushrooms out on the table. “Sally, you’ve just missed a good tale.”

“Yes Father, Cunla and I heard some of it from the kitchen,” she said, her round cheeks dimpling as she gave a shallow grin.

Danika gave a wink to Sram when the druid narrowed his eyes on her.

Sally finished off her serving by opening two bottles of homemade wine and passing out glasses. “It sounds to me as if the Wical and his friends were sent by divine guidance, to help us in our time of greatest need.”

The look the daughter-in-law gave the father erased his smile and he nodded sadly. The change in mood traveled around the table as quiet descended. Theo took a sip of the wine and said, “Mayor, you have been a good host, but Volker has told us a little of your problems. Will you tell us about them now?”

Arin ran a finger over the old crystal and nodded his agreement, “Yes, we have heard your son is missing.”

The Mayor reached across the table and patted his daughter's hand. “I had hoped not to sour the taste of Sally’s fine cooking,” he said, “but if you can promise to enjoy the food while hearing a woeful tale...”

They promised to try, and looked at one another. Duke glanced up with a fork of mushrooms at his mouth and quickly lowered it, nodding belatedly. As plates were filled, the Mayor began.

“As you have no doubt learned by now, Streatham is a logging community. My father came here when he was a young man, and helped to build it. We take trees from the eastwood and supply logs and lumber twice a year to the Empire via Renevere, a town on the line, four days to the south. I pay every family here with Imperial coin earned in the trade.

“I tell you this so you know this is not just a personal matter for me. Logging is our livelihood. We lost twelve men in Junic. The eastwood is cut off from us. Shambling things roam the forest. My son, Richland, was one of the first to go missing, along with his team. I fear the worst.”

Danika leaned in. “What do you mean, shambling things?”

The Mayor frowned. “I have only seen one once, but Volker has seen them several times.” He signaled that the forester should continue.

Volker cleared his throat, “They are somewhat like men, but made of green and writhing masses,” he said, “They move fast through the undergrowth and can take an arrow without damage. Any who travel far down the east road, or into the eastwood will eventually fall afoul of them.”

“And beside that,” the Mayor added, “the beasts of the forest are in league with them—”

“Aye,” Volker agreed, “Wolves and bears have been with them, or encountered separately. My mother killed a couple of the wolves.”

It was Sram’s turn to frown, “Your mother?”

Volker nodded, “After Richland’s party went missing, my mother headed a band of hunters on a rescue mission.”

“Volker’s mother is Cana, she was—” the Mayor glanced briefly at Volker, “—I mean is, our best hunter.”

She is missing as well?” Theo asked.

“Yes,” the Mayor answered, “She and five other hunters set out two days after my son failed to return on time. Only two of her men made it back.”

Sally gripped her father-in-law’s hand tighter and stifled a sob. He returned the grip. His face remained sad but stoic.

“And these men are still in the village?” Theo asked.

“Aye,” Volker answered, “Sam and Jarod are still here, though they’ve sworn off hunting.”

Sram retained a measured frown as he contemplated the problem. Eventually, he asked, “Mayor Slocum, did you or anyone in the village do anything unusual before the attacks?” When the question seemed to stump him, the druid went on, “I only ask because of the wolves and bears. It seems you—or your son—may have angered someone or something with power over the wood.”

“Mmm,” Arin said, “Has something like this ever happened before?”

“Does Streatham have enemies?” Alissa added.

The attention of the three villagers moved from one face to the other as the questions were asked.

Finally, the Mayor said, “As to the first question, I don’t remember anything unusual happening before Richland went missing. We have cut lumber from the eastwood for several years now with no problems beyond an occasional broken limb or lost finger.”

“And Streatham has no enemies per se,” Volker said, answering Alissa’s question. “We cut the eastwood because there are no kudra tribes in that direction.”

“Do the kudra give you problems?” Duke asked.

“As a general rule, no, though when the winter has been particularly bad they can be dangerous to our hunting parties that travel north.”

“Mmm, yes,” Arin said, “And to crash survivors. So we’ve noticed.”

The table went silent as the guests pondered the information they had been given and sipped their wine. Eventually, Sram said, “Very well, if we are to help you, I think we should talk to the two who escaped... Sam and Jarod.”

“So you will help us?” Sally asked.

“I can’t speak for everyone at the table,” Sram answered, “but I am willing to investigate your problem, especially since it seems the Wyld is involved in some small manner at least.”

“And I will help my friend, and you who have aided us in our plight,” Arin added.

One by one, the other guests nodded and promised to stay and help, citing repayment of the kindness shown to them and a desire to solve the mystery.

Because it was late, they agreed to postpone their questioning of the survivors until the morning. They finished their dinner and thanked Sally and the Mayor again for their hospitality. Both of them gushed with their own gratitude. Sally sent them back to the grange with a whole berry pie. Volker was more subdued in his thanks, but seemed genuine.

________________________________________________________________

The Dreaming and the Missing

The rain had stopped and the muddy lanes of Streatham steamed in the first light of dawn. Red-headed Rowena arrived at the grange with a basket under one arm. Most of the survivors were still sleeping, cozy in their warm blankets. She crept quietly through their cots until she found Sram’s, near the shuttered hayloft doors.

The wood elf was sleeping, hands set carefully on his stomach and somewhat regal in his prone posture. His spectacles sat on a stool nearby. Unsure whether to wake him, she sat on another stool and placed the basket on the floor. From within, the delicious aroma of something sweet and fresh-baked wafted.

When after several fingers he hadn’t woken, she decided to move the basket closer. Others in the loft began to stir. She smiled, whispered good morning to them, and continued to wait.

Sram continued to sleep.

________________________________________________________________

“Lady, Lady! Please wake up, There’s something wrong with Master Sram!”

Alissa opened her eyes, instantly alert. She grabbed Rowena’s hand and reached beneath her pillow, then sighed. “What is it?” she whispered, annoyed.

“The Master Druid won’t wake up! He lies as if dead!” Rowena sobbed.

Alissa sighed and rose quickly. Soon there was a buzz around the loft. The survivors gathered near Sram’s cot.

Arin was one of the first to arrive. He leaned close to his friend’s face and listened for breathing, then lifted his eyelid. “He’s still breathing, but his eyes are extremely full.”

“What do you mean, full?” Maula asked.

“They are black nearly to the edges.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Rowena asked, trembling.

Arin continued his examination, “We don’t know. The one most likely to help is the one afflicted I’m afraid.”

Shamus came forward and looked around Sram’s robes. He dug into the druid’s pockets.

“What are you doing?” Danika asked.

“I’m lookin’ for herbs, potions, elixirs,” the potion-maker said.

“Healing potions?”

“Shamanic concoctions. Ah knew a lass wance that wid gang oan vision quests. Ah ken wee aboot thaim masell, bit ah mind her eyes wid swell wi' darkness 'n' she wid lie as if deid, whiles fur hours. ”

Alissa joined in the hunt, and soon found a clue. “Could this be it?” she asked, pointing to some crumb-like debris on his blanket. It was gray and spongy.

Shamus looked close. “Aye, that could be.” He smashed a bit of it onto his finger and lifted it to his red nose, sniffing.

“Be careful,” Arin said.

Alissa continued to investigate. “There’s more than a little of this on the blanket. By the pattern, it looks like it popped, or exploded.”

“Can you fix him?” Phil asked.

Shamus looked at her and shrugged, “Nae wi'oot a few days tae concoct a counter-elixir, if i’m even richt.”

They looked at one another, at a loss.

Just then, Theo arrived up the stairs, his cloak fresh with dew and his boots with mud. “What’s going on? What’s wrong with Sram?”

They filled the monk in. At Arin’s urging, Rowena ran to get the village healer. Alissa couldn’t help a furtive examination of Theo. He didn’t seem to notice.

________________________________________________________________

Arin and the others waited for the arrival of the village healer, while keeping an eye on Sram’s condition. The druid remained unchanged, unconscious and breathing shallowly.

It seemed a long time before the creak of the loft stairs announced the arrival of the healer. Rowena steadied the old gran as she climbed the steps slowly. The woman looked every bit the hedgewitch. Her hair was pulled up in a tangled bun and a heavy gray shawl seemed to weigh her down as much as keep her warm. Despite that, her brown eyes were bright and sharp in her wrinkled face.

More wrinkles appeared around her nose as she sniffed and waved a hand about her head, “Pewweew, what stink! Is there a billy goat in the hayloft?” she grumbled, approaching Sram’s cot.

Eyes turned to Maula, but the trulla only smiled, revealing large teeth. He reached up and caressed one of his curving horns, leering down at the old woman as if she’d just complimented him. She craned her neck to look back at him, still scowling.

“Should’a known ‘twas a beastman,” she said. “Isn’t there a circus somewhere missin’ its attraction?”

Rowena quickly ushered the healer to Sram’s side, before she could say more. “This is Gran Winifrid,” the young woman said. “Please excuse her lack of manners.”

“DON’T make excuses fer’ me girl!” Gran Winifrid growled.

“No need for ‘em,” Maula said. “The way I figure it, she just called me attractive.” he wiggled his hairy eyebrows suggestively, “I like her.”

She gave a harumph and dismissed the trulla with another wave, pulling a stool and sitting down beside Sram. After checking his breath with the back of her aged hand, she ran her fingers around his throat and checked his eyes, then examined his palms and fingertips.

Last, she plucked a bit of the crumbled substance from his robe and examined it, then sniffed it. “Shadowcap,” she said, “Surprised he’s alive.”

Arin grimaced, “Is it so deadly?”

“Aye, almost always,” she answered in a less surly tone. “But, since he’s not dead, he might just survive. Never can tell fer’ sure with the forest folk.” She eyed Arin up and down, quickly taking measure of the sorcerer. “What’s yer’ gift, elf?”

“I can do a bit of healing, but I’ve nothing for poisons.”

“No doubt ye’ can kill a man with your talent though, eh?” She asked the rhetorical question with acid in her tone.

“If necessary,” Arin replied calmly, “though only as a last resort.” then went on, changing the subject back to the matter at hand. “You say this shadowcap is deadly. Does it grow in the woods?”

“Aye, but nowhere nearby, if that’s what yer’ gettin’ at.”

“Would anyone in the village have it?”

The old healer eyed him. “Eh? You think a villager may have done this?”

“I’m only trying to be thorough.”

She stared at him for a few moments, than said, “The only person in this village with any shadowcap, or the knowledge to use it, is m’self, as it can be used in certain recipes fer’ the good.”

The syvani and the gran stared at each other a moment longer, one daring the other to make an accusation.

“Is there... any chance someone may have taken your store of it?” Arin asked carefully.

“I’ll be sure to check, but as I said, none with the knowledge—” her wild eyebrows dipped, “and none foolish enough to steal from Gran Winifred.”

“I’m sure you’re correct, but I do appreciate you checking.”

She grunted again, then pulled a small leather pouch out of her dress. “As for your friend here, I’ll consult the Shadow and the Light for the proper course.” She dumped a set of runestones on the floor and bent to examine them.

Behind her, Shamus leaned over to examine them too, eyes alight with curiosity.

“What do they say?” the potion maker asked, intrigued.

“They say the Old Ones ain’t done with this ‘un yet. I think he’ll live, but he could use some help with it.”

“Anything,” Theo said.

The old gran looked at the monk, then the rest of them. “Fine. Make your potion,” she said, indicating Shamus, “I’ll do what I can to ease him with my herbs and ointments in the meantime.”

________________________________________________________________

Downstairs, on the workfloor of the grange, Alissa and the others gathered.

“Where was Sram last night?” She asked, “Does anyone know?”

“He was in the forest, on the western trail outside the village,” Arin answered, “doing his nightly rituals. He came in very late, after I had settled into sleep.”

Alissa nodded, “We should check the trail for clues. Maybe we can find some answers there.” She seemed to remember something and looked at Theo, “Who else was outside of the village last night?”

Theo frowned, “I was—doing my own meditation.”

Arin cocked their head, “You... have nightly meditation in your monastic tradition?”

“Sometimes.” Theo shot a glance at Alissa, who was tight-lipped and staring at the floor.

“Did you see Sram last night?” Arin went on.

“I would have said so if I had,” Theo answered in a low tone. “I went out a bit further into the forest. I didn’t see anyone or anything.”

“You’re sure?” Alissa asked quietly.

Theo stared back at her evenly, “Absolutely.”

“Don’t forget we have to question the hunters from the rescue party,” Maula interjected, oblivious to the tension.

“I already spoke with Rowena about that,” Arin said, “She will take us to them once we’ve sorted things out.”

________________________________________________________________

Alissa and Theo checked the western trail together. On their way out of the gates, they noticed a crow calling loudly from the dung pile, hopping about before diving at Theo, then flying over the grange and out of sight.

“That’s odd,” Alissa said, following the bird’s flight until it was gone.

Theo nodded. “Maybe it's some villagers' pet.”

Once outside the village, they searched the western path and the surrounding foliage in silence. After ten minutes, Theo found a patch of dark mushrooms and called Alissa over.

He used his dagger to uncover them. “Are these shadowcaps?”

Alissa knelt and examined them. “I don’t think so, but I’m not sure. Does it look like any were picked?”

“Not that I can see.” He glanced around, eyes searching. “I see no indication he was even here.”

“Beyond some prints on the trail, I haven’t seen anything either.” She glanced back at Theo and then looked down. “I’m sorry,” she said.

He sighed and looked back at her, “Me too. I understand your suspicion. I shouldn’t be angry at you. It’s just...”

Alissa waited for him to continue. When he didn’t, she shook her head. “I understand the importance of secrets. You don’t have to tell me yours. I trust you.”

He sighed again, then stood. “You know, I never thanked you for saving my life.”

She shrugged and stood, “We’re all in this together, at least for now.”

They moved on down the trail, this time in a more companionable silence. When after a half candle they had found no other clues, they made their way back to the village.

They passed the MacDonag’s servant, Alfonso, inside the gates. The young man seemed to be searching for something behind an outbuilding.

Theo smiled a greeting, then frowned, “What are you doing?”

“Ahh, I’m glad you’re back,” Alfonso said, “It seems the engineer, O’Hairty, has gone missing. I and a few others offered to look for him.”

“Missing? This morning?” Alissa asked.

“Or perhaps last night. No one remembers seeing him this morning.”

Theo’s brows drew together, “That’s not good.”

The servant shrugged his narrow shoulders. “It seems to be the general consensus that he found some booze, snuck off and tied one on. He was asking around for it last night at supper.”

“Did anyone give him any?”

“I don’t know.”

Theo looked at Alissa. She gave her own shrug. He nodded to the young man and they walked on.

Inside the grange, they met up with the others. Arin told them there was no change in Sram’s condition. When Theo mentioned O’Hairty’s disappearance, Arin nodded, “Some of the survivors are looking for him.”

“Did anyone see him drinking last night?” Theo asked.

Danika shook her head, “No, but several said he asked them for it.”

“Excuse me, Master Theo, Master Arin.” When the group looked, they saw the dinari merchant, Uvaldo had crept up on them. “I overheard you asking about the engineer?”

“Yes?”

“I saw him having an argument with that criminal, Shamus, last night, after most had gone to bed.” The little merchant put his feelings into the word.

“Did you hear what it was about?” Duke asked.

“No, but I’d never seen the old engineer so riled before.”

“Hmm, has anyone asked Shamus about it?” Phil asked.

Arin sighed and looked at Sram’s peaceful face. “I suppose we should.”

Uvaldo remained there, staring calmly at them.

Theo realized the little merchant wasn’t done. “Is there something else?” he asked.

“Now that you ask, yes. I was wondering what our plans were?”

“Plans?”

“For getting back to the city,” the dinari said, “Some of the others and I were wondering if arrangements were being made for travel.”

“Oh, of course,” the monk said, “We haven’t had a chance to discuss it with the Mayor, but I will, today.”

“You understand we are all very thankful for our rescue, but some of us have obligations we must attend to,” Uvaldo said, “Important matters.”

Theo smiled and tipped his head, “I do understand.”

Arin nodded in agreement, “We will ask Mayor Slocum.”

The diminutive merchant bowed formally, “My thanks.”

When he walked away, the group looked at each other.

“Well, what now?” Danika asked.

“I’d like to have a word with Shamus,” Arin said.

Theo looked at the sorcerer. “Good idea.”

After asking Chapawee to look after Sram, the group headed downstairs, to the area where Shamus had set up his makeshift, alchemical distillery. The criminal in question was leaning over a pot, stirring something that smelled of mint. Warden Skahl sat nearby, at the open grange doors, cleaning his shard pistol.

When he saw them approaching, Shamus looked up and gave a close-lipped grin, then said, “If you’re lookin’ fur th' potion, you’ll hae tae gimme a bawherr mair time. This sort o' elixir steals langer than they simple healing draughts.” Then his face fell, “Unless th' poor jimmy haes died...?”

“No, no,” Theo said quickly, “Sram is still sleeping—”

 “—and we realize the potion won’t be ready yet,” Arin added.

“Weel then, howfur kin ah hulp you?”

“What were you arguing with O’Hairty about last night?” Danika said flatly, stepping close to the artificer and eyeballing him shrewdly.

Theo gave the young bard a hard look of his own, but Shamus only gave the girl owl eyes and grinned. “Th' auldjin wanted whiskey. Thought ah cuid brew some up lik' 'twas cuppa. Whin ah tellt him tae bugger off, he near bit mah boost. ” He looked from Danika to Duke, who was sniffing the mixture in the pot, then at Theo. “Why,” he whispered, “Whit did th' auld drunkard accuse me o'?”

“Nothing. He’s missing.”

Shamus was still as he processed the news. He glanced sideways at the warden, who was close enough to hear the conversation. “Ah thought ah heard some o' th' folk cawin his name this mornin'.”

“Have you seen him?” Danika asked.

“Na. Nae sin oor ‘conversation’ lest nicht.”

“And that was all you discussed?” Alissa asked.

“Ah tellt th' man tae ask th' mayor fur swally, 'n' stoap bothering me, 'n' that wis a'. ”

Theo looked from the portly artificer to Arin, who sighed and said, “Alright. Thank you Shamus. We appreciate all you’re doing for Sram.”

Shamus winked, “I’ll nae soon forgoat whit ye did fur me, mah sorcerous friend.”

The group filed out of the grange with more whispered thanks to Shamus. When Phil walked by the artificer, she wiggled her pinky at him, and he replied in kind.

Once more in the sunshine, they gathered by the well and spoke more of their immediate plans. Duke, Maula, and Phil agreed to help the survivors look for O’Hairty while the rest went with Rowena to speak with the hunters, Samuel and Jarod.

As they parted, a black shape descended and attacked Arin, scratching at his pink hair and cawing loudly before flying off again. They watched the crow fly to the grange roof. It gave several plaintive caws, then vanished over the rooftop.

“There’s something odd about that bird,” the sorcerer said.

 Theo nodded, “It did the same to us when we returned from the woods, I’m starting to agree.”

________________________________________________________________

Rowena brought them to a modest log house with a thick thatch roof. A sprig of holly and white wildflowers hung on the door. When she knocked, a thin man with long dark hair and a young, but weathered face answered. He smiled. “Missus Rowena,” he greeted, then looked at the group behind her. “Won’t you all come in?”

Rowena thanked him and smiled. They stepped inside a small living area with a pot-belly stove, a spinning wheel and several blanket covered benches. Rowena introduced Samuel Goode and the ex-hunter offered them seats.

“I’d offer you tea, or coffee, but I just arrived from the west trapline and Netty’s off at the grange helping with the visitors.” the villager explained.

Arin waved off the need, “It’s quite alright, Mister Goode. The thought is appreciated, but we wouldn’t wish to impose. If your good wife is helping at the grange, you and yours have already been very gracious.”

The man nodded and sat near the stove. “Well then, how may I help you?”

Arin looked at Theo and the monk took up the conversation.

“Mayor Slocum and Volker told us you were one of two survivors of the rescue mission into the east wood. We were hoping you could tell us what happened, in your own words.”

Samuel grimaced, but nodded. “I could do,” he said, “though to be honest, I don’t like thinking about it.”

Rowena gave him a sad smile and said, “Samuel, these men and women have offered to help find Donald and the others. Will you help them?”

He looked at Rowena, then nodded.

“We left in the morning with Cana. It was Gus, Vera, Tom Randall, Jarod, and I with her. Volker and the others were on a longhunt in the north. The journey to the camp was easy. The weather was fair and we made excellent time.

“We arrived at the camp and found it empty, but there were signs of an attack; collapsed tents,  blood stains, a broken blade, and Richland’s bow in the dirt, but no bodies. We searched the woods nearby and found a boar’s carcass with an arrow in its neck.

“We set the camp to rights and set watches, but we were still caught unaware by the... by the greenmen.” The hunter swallowed and rubbed a hand over his knee, like he was wiping something away.

“They were like men, but made all of plants and sticks. It was all chaos... then the wolves showed up. Jarod and I stood back to back. We wounded one or two, but then I lost my bow.” Samuel looked at Theo, eyes round. “I was knocked down, then Jarod knocked the wolf off me. We got separated from the others... then... then we ran.”

He swallowed a lump in his throat and blinked rapidly. “They chased us through the night. At first we ran blindly, but then we found the road. We made it back in the early hours.”

“The wolves didn’t catch you?” Theo asked, frowning.

Samuel shrugged, “I can’t explain it. I don’t know why they didn’t tear us apart, we ran and they followed. I’ve never been so tired, or afraid, in all my life.”

“And when you reached the village they stopped?” Alissa asked.

“It was actually a bit before then, I think, but we didn’t stop until we reached the gates.”

“And you haven’t been in the east wood since then?”

The forester shook his head brusquely. “Not for a second. I’ll run traps close to the village on the west and south, but I ain’t steppin’ foot down the east road. Truth be told, I’ll likely headin’ south in Junic or Julydd.” He gave Rowena a regretful look.

The group sat in silence for a few moments, thinking things over.

Theo finally said, “Thank you for speaking with us.”

Samuel nodded and wiped a sweaty palm on his knee. “I hope you find them, truly, but I fear you’ll find only—” he stopped short and shot a glance at Rowena, “—well, I don’t know what you’ll find, but I wish you luck.”

________________________________________________________________

Duke looked up a steep path between two stone cottages. He had been searching for the missing engineer for a half candle without any success. He eyed the incline and was about to turn and try a less exerting route when he spied a tarp-covered object tucked away in a thatch roofed stall.

He was drawn by faded red paint reflecting spring sunlight. Marching up the hill, he pulled a corner of the tarp away and whistled. The flared front aileron of an old arcanicraft lay exposed. When he nudged it with his boot, the craft shifted, held aloft by an apparently functional arquonite frame.

Missing drunkards momentarily forgotten, he pulled the tarp further back to reveal a red cowling with a worn but recognizable devil’s head and horns painted on its side in white. The body was out-of-date by at least thirty years, but except for some rusted components seemed in excellent condition.

He was about to investigate further when he heard a deep voice from behind him.

“So you found her on your own.”

He turned to see the big hunter, DK, grinning like a child, and answered with his own grin.

“This is your baby?”

“Yep.”

“The one the... uh, Crimson Knight piloted?”

“Uh huh, the Red Devil.”

Duke looked back at the half-covered craft, then at DK. “Do you mind?” He grabbed the tarp. When the big hunter gave him the go ahead, he swept the cover all the way off, revealing the rest of the long body and the seat. A nest of brass and iron controls nestled behind a small windscreen of durin glass.

A closer inspection revealed many of the leather trimmings, and copper fittings were missing or worn away, and the seat cushions needed a complete replacement, but she was in surprisingly good shape, and Duke told him so.

“Aye,” DK said, “I’ve been replacing what I can, when I can.”

Duke nodded, “How’re the relays—the core?”

DK shook his head and gave a mild frown, “Relays need work, and I need a whole new core, or a full re-binding of the old one, if it’s possible. ‘M afraid the arcanics aren’t my strong suit, and they’re so damned pricey.”

“Hmm,” With DK’s permission, Duke popped the panel off the starboard cowling and peered inside. After a minute, he asked, “Have you had anyone run a charge through it?”

“Ain’t no one in the village except Gran Winifrid who could, and she won’t have anything to do with it,” the big man answered.

“Why’s that?”

“She says magics for healin’ the sick, not for sportin’ and sinnin, whatever that means.”

Duke fiddled with a few parts and then stood, hands on hips. “Well, if you want some help, and I’m around long enough to give it, I’ll see what I can do.”

DK smiled. “You know I do.”

“Alright,” Duke said, grinning. “For now, let’s cover her up and see if we can find the drunkard. The Red Devil’s been waiting decades, another few days won’t hurt.”

________________________________________________________________

Rowena led the others back to the Mayor’s house after finishing at Samuel’s. As it turned out, their second interview had to be postponed since Jarod and his family were out hunting for O’Hairty with the rest of the village.

When they approached the house, they saw two young girls being chased by the crow. The lasses waved their hands in the air, shooed it loudly, and slapped at the bird before it finally fled once more over the rooftops.

“I wish Sram were here to give his opinion on that creature,” Arin said.

Further comment was forestalled by Sally Slocum meeting them at the front steps.

“How is Master Sram?” she asked.

“Still sleeping when last we left him,” Arin answered. “I’m sure we would have been informed if there were any change.”

“Of course you’re right,” she said, “And you still haven’t found your missing man?” she asked.

“It appears we haven’t,” Theo answered.

“Has anyone searched your house, Mrs. Slocum?” Arin asked, “It is believed by many that O’Hairty might have been seeking strong spirits, or beer, and may have sought the mayor’s house in search of them.”

Sally looked confused, then alarmed at the thought of a stranger hiding in her home. “No,” she said, “No one’s searched the house. Do you really think he might have gotten inside?”

Theo was about to answer when the Mayor stepped out of the house onto the porch and interrupted, “Who may have gotten inside where?” he asked, brows knitting.

 When they explained, the Mayor was more than willing to allow a search. In fact, he insisted on it. With his permission, Alissa and Danika were led into the house by Cunla, the serving girl. Arin and Theo remained on the porch with Sally and her father-in-law.

“Mayor, may I ask a few follow up questions concerning the attacks?” Arin queried.

“Of course.”

“I was ruminating on the possible causes of your troubles, and kept returning to a thought. When people fall afoul of magic, the focused will of an enchanter or practitioner is often to blame.” The high-elf raised a well-plucked brow. “Were there any secrets, or scandals that your son may have uncovered, prior to the attack?”

“What sort of secrets?” the Mayor asked.

“Well, Mayor, I am no expert on small village life,” the sorcerer said, “but I presume all namers are the same in some fundamental ways, be we elves at court, or village folk in the Winter Wood. Every gathering of people has its feuds, family secrets and hidden trysts. It might help us pinpoint who targeted your son and his crew, if we knew who had a grudge against whom.”

The Mayor pondered that for a moment, but Sally beat him to the village’s defense. “That’s awfully forward of you, Master Arin. Our community is made of gods fearing folk, who keep to the bright circle and don’t go in for dark behaviors and sinful acts.” Her face flushed as she spoke. “This is obviously some devilry from the woods.”

Theo noticed the Mayor frown. He carefully avoided looking at his daughter-in-law. Sally steadied herself at once and a neutral smile returned to her face, but the monk wasn’t fooled. Arin had hit a nerve, something close to home.

“It’s as my daughter says,” Mayor Slocum answered, “Streatham is a tight-knit community. No one here could have done such a thing.”

Soon enough, the three women returned to report O’Hairty wasn’t inside. “Moreover,” Alissa added, “the liquor stores seemed to have been undisturbed.”

“Alright then,” Theo said, “I propose we join the others in searching for O-Hairty.”

They agreed. Theo couldn’t help but notice Sally seemed relieved the subject had changed. When they began to walk back toward the grange, the monk put a gentle hand on the woman’s shoulder, holding her back from the others. She turned to see what the matter was, her smile fully back in place.

“Sally, may I ask you one more question?”

Her smile cracked a little, but she nodded.

“What are you not telling me? About Richland?”

Her smile melted away. She glanced furtively around, then looked angrily at Theo. “Look here, whatever you might have heard, my husband is a good man. The rumors about his... dalliances are just that, rumors! Evil rumors! He will be the Mayor soon, and that kind of thing breeds jealousy.”

While Theo processed her intense revelation, Sally straightened up and hurried after the others. A moment later, she reversed course and drew close to the monk once more. “And I’ll thank you not to spread any foolish gossip while you’re here!” She stalked away.

Theo wasted little time in sharing what he had learned with the others. With this new twist to think about, they joined the growing group of villagers and survivors searching for the engineer.  Danika, Ash, and Phil took the village. Arin, Theo and Maula went outside the wooden palisades, searching the nearby forest.

________________________________________________________________

A candle later, O-Hairty still hadn’t been found. Danika had knocked on a few doors and scoured a few chicken coups and tool sheds without luck. Most everyone in the small village was searching too, but she checked cottages as well. One in particular had an abandoned look, and the door was partially open, so she stepped inside.

As suspected, the rooms were empty of furnishings and a fine layer of dust covered the stone mantle and the window ledges. A few worn blankets and a bucket lay forgotten in the corner of the room. Though she didn’t find footprints, she checked the back rooms, just to be thorough. She found a small table tucked into a corner of a tiny room, with melted candles and a carved depiction of the Mistress.

Beside it, a folded piece of parchment was tied with a bit of twine. Knowing it was a prayer note, she felt a twinge of guilt as she untied it and read what was inside:

Nedra, Lady of peace, guide us safely on our journey to find a new home. Mother of All, protect my child and my husband as we travel.

“You might have thought to pray to the Traveler as well,” she whispered to no one, then refolded and tied the note, leaving it where she found it.

________________________________________________________________

At another cottage down on the opposite end of the village, Alissa and Phil stopped a man, his wife and child, just coming home. As he stepped up to his door, the two women hailed them. They asked him if he had seen O-Hairty—which he hadn’t—or anything at all unusual—which he also hadn’t.

As an afterthought, they introduced themselves, and he did the same. Thus they learned the man was Jarod, Samuel’s fellow escapee, and survivor of the summer attack. Taking advantage of their luck, they interviewed him, and found that his story matched Samuel’s, with little of import to add, except a slight anger in the man, when Richland was mentioned.

After his wife and child had stepped inside, and thinking about what Theo had learned, Alissa asked a different question. “Were you friends with Richland Slocum?”

The question caught the man by surprise. His frown was lightning quick, but deep, and made his already plain features turn ugly. “We grew up together... but not particularly. Why do you ask?”

Alissa narrowed her eyes. “I’m not one to stir trouble, but we have heard certain gossip...”

“What gossip?” he asked guardedly.

“Well...” Alissa paused, looking for a delicate way forward.

“We heard he got around,” Phil said bluntly, “he was popular with the ladies? Like to lay with the lasses—”

“—I get your meaning!” Jarod said, and glanced at his closed front door, glouring.

The look and reaction were enough. Alissa looked at Phil and gulped. Phil winced and looked away. Jarod noted their looks and stepped away from his door. “All I got to say is I don’t miss him overmuch, and he likely got what he had coming,” he said quietly.

Realizing what he might sound like, he added, “I didn’t do anything, but he was acting strange at the logging camp.”

“What do you mean?” Phil asked.

“He’d go missing on overnight excursions, wouldn’t tell us where he went. He claimed he was sick, but just... seemed tired.” Jarod raised his lip, “More than one of us thought he might be meeting someone in the forest.”

“But no one saw who?” Alissa asked.

“Nope, and no one could figure who it might have been, as the camp is so far from the village.”

The sound of a crying baby came from inside the cottage, and Jarod looked at the door. “Look, I probably told you too much. I gotta live in this village, and ain’t nothin’ provable, so—”

“—Understood,” Alissa cut him off. “We very much appreciate your candidness. We won’t speak of this with anyone but our fellow investigators.”

“Thanks.”

________________________________________________________________

Maula poked a finger through a dirty hole in the palisade logs. It was no bigger than a rat, or a weasel hole.

“No way O’Hairty squeezed through any hole in this wall,” The trulla looked up at the top of the twelve-foot palisade, “and unless he’s a lot more spry than I gave him credit for, he didn’t climb out neither.”

Arin surveyed the forest, seeking some clue in the spring greenery. They had circumnavigated the entire village, checking the wall, and the forest edge. They stood at the head of the narrow wagon track leading into the east wood. It was dark under the heavy treetops. The trail seemed to be swallowed by the gloom, despite the sunny day.

Under the dark canopy, Arin’s keen eyesight caught a glimmer of movement.

Theo saw the sorcerer’s focus narrow. “What is it?”

“There,” Arin said, indicating a thicket of ferns deep in the shadows, near the edge of the track, ‘Do you see it?”

“I do,” Maula said, “A wolf.”

As if it could sense it had been spotted, the big wolf loped out of the brush and onto the track, no more than a shadow in the gloom at its current distance. It sniffed the ground, then turned its head to face them, its eyes shining.

“Sure wish our druid was here,” Theo whispered.

“He’s not, ‘our druid,” Arin said, “but I take your meaning.”

Having taken their measure, the wolf trotted back into the darkness on the other side of the road and disappeared.

“I feel very much as if we have just been evaluated,” the sorcerer said.

“Me too,” said Theo.

Maula only fingered the haft of his witchwood ax, silently mouthing the word evaluated?

CRAAAW! CAAAAAAWWW!

The crow dove at Maula, raking at the braided shag of hair between his horns. He slapped at it, but it was too fast and dodged his attempts. Arin pointed a finger at the bird and spoke a few arcane words. Like the bully on the Saint Anne, the crow instantly fell asleep, dropping from the air.

Theo reached out and deftly caught the bird before it hit the ground. A few moments later, it was wrapped in a cloth and placed in a small sack.

Arin grinned. “Nicely done.”

Theo nodded, “Right back at ya’.”

“Stupid bird tried to steal my hair,” Maula said gruffly.

Theo smiled, “You still look beautiful as ever.”

Arin grimaced with a look of distaste.

They glanced once more at the dark road, then went inside with their prize.

________________________________________________________________

They found an old cage in the storage area of the grange, and put the crow inside before it woke. The others had returned from their search, and O’Hairty had yet to be found. Arin expressed his opinion the bird was possibly something more than it appeared.

“How?” Duke asked.

“I’m not sure, but we know something magical is happening in the forest. This might be connected.”

“Maybe it’s not a crow at all,” Danika said, grinning, “Maybe it’s a fairy, shape changed into a crow!”

“Maybe it’s O’Hairty?” Maula said.

“Or perhaps it's the Crone Goddess, Agmored, come seeking people’s hair for a dire spell,” Danika whispered dramatically.

Shamus, who was busy mixing ingredients nearby, heard what they were discussing and said, “‘Micht be a familiar.”

Arin looked at the artificer. “I had the thought,” he said.

Shamus gave the sorcerer a knowing wink, “Cuid be spying fur tis master.”

“They can do that?” Duke asked.

“Oh aye,” Shamus said, “That 'n' mair, if th' master’s powerful enough.”

The pilot looked at the cage, and the crow inside. “Should we cover it or something?”

Arin nodded. “A wise suggestion, though I  think if it meant to spy on us, it could have done a better job of it.”

“When it wakes,” Alissa said, “Maybe we should try and question it.”

“An excellent idea.”

________________________________________________________________

Into the East Wood

After he returned from his trip into the west woods to commune with his new owl companion, Sram went to his cot and slept. Sometime after that, when all was dark and quiet, a strange sound entered his consciousness. It was a sibilant, whispering chant that took a while to recognize as genuine.

When it finally dawned on him, he opened his eyes to find something about the size of an apple sitting on his chest. In that strange fuzziness between waking and sleep, he couldn't make out exactly what it was. The chant reached a quiet crescendo. There was a THOP, like a gall popping under heel. Something drifted down over his face. Then the fun really started.

A dozen strange scenarios played out like the worst kind of hallucinations, but he only remembered a small portion. Sram wandered around the barn, trying not to wake people, but asking where the berries had gone. He had an argument with an old saddle in the corner, but ran outside when it threatened to beat him.

In the muddy square, he sang songs into the well and laughed as it echoed back with words in an elemental language and offered to "wash all the civilization off of you." All the while, the dark skies danced with bright colors and the horses laughed in their stables.

Sram headed for the gates and ran into the woods, chasing an owl that wasn't his friend as it sang songs of his childhood. Then things grew dark. Wolves accompanied him as he walked the midnight paths. He began to hear more chanting, the same quiet, barely audible words in an unknown tongue. The wolves had gone, and he stood in a patch of rainbow-colored vines. Sram was wet and cold. A voice boomed from all around him:

"YOU CAN NOT STOP THE RETRIBUTION THAT IS COMING. YOU ARE BUT A SPORE NEWLY ROOTED. CONSIDER THIS YOUR WARNING, CHILD OF TWO MOTHERS, FLEE THIS PLACE!

He ran. The thing that spoke was darkness and hate. Its words flung like barbs from a porcupine's back. He crashed through the woods, the rampant colors now an impediment, tripping him and slashing at his limbs. Sram fell into a pool of stagnant, black water where things floated. Looking up, He saw a rotted tree spotted in fungus and mushrooms, a mantle of mold draped like a cloak over its back. Buried in the woody folds of its trunk, a bleached-white skull grinned down at him. All the colors once in the night sky now shown from its three eyes. Sram screamed. All was oblivion.

________________________________________________________________

He woke in the early morning, when all was quiet in the loft. His stifled shout woke Rowena, who had dozed curled in a chair beside his cot.

“You’re awake! Thank the Gods!” Her excited exclamation woke several of the survivors, including Chapawee and Danika. Soon a lantern was lit, and most of his new companions were gathered around his bed.

“How do you feel?” Arin asked his friend.

“Well enough. How long have I been sleeping?”

“A day and a night,” Alissa answered, “We were worried.”

The druid smiled. “You are kind to have been concerned. I had... interesting dreams.”

While Rowena brought him tea, Sram explained his visions.

When he finished, Theo asked the question on everyone’s mind. “What does it mean?”

“It seems clear enough,” Duke said, “It’s a warning that we shouldn’t get involved.”

“Yes,” Arin said, “but from whom?”

While they pondered, Shamus stepped up from behind, hair messier than ever, and grinned. “I’m glad tae see ye awake, though it seems i’ve wasted mah time oan a potion fur ye.”

“I’m glad not to have needed it, but my thanks, Master Shamus.”

The artificer shrugged good naturedly, “Weel you’ll hae it fur efter at ony rate, shuid yi''ll need it.”

The druid nodded and looked around at his gathered companions. “So what have I missed?”

The sun rose as they filled him in on O’Hairty’s disappearance and the subsequent search. Rowena returned with a proper breakfast of biscuits, gravy and fresh eggs, which Maula put away an impressive portion of.

“So,” Theo finished, “Our main theory is that the crow is a familiar, but we were hoping you had a means to verify.”

Sram set aside his napkin and stood, looking whole and undamaged by his strange experience. “In fact I do, and I’m curious to see this mischievous crow.”

Together with the others, he walked downstairs and toward the covered cage in the corner. When they arrived, it was to find the door unlatched and hanging open, and no bird within.

“That’s disappointing,” Arin said.

Duke raised a hand, “I latched it tight, I swear.”

“Bird didn’t mak' a peep, 'n' wis thare whin ah gaed tae bed lest nicht,” Shamus said when the sorcerer looked at him questioningly.

“So either someone snuck in and freed it,” Danika said, “or it freed itself.”

“That does seem to sum up the likely possibilities,” Alissa replied wryly.

“Well, shit,” Duke said calmly.

________________________________________________________________

The search for O’Hairty continued when the village woke, but with somewhat less zeal. The place had been gone over with a fairly fine toothed comb, and no trace had been found. The survivors discussed the mystery with an air of weary inevitability. Some prayed, others continued to search, but most admitted quietly that he wasn’t likely to be found—alive at least.

As for Sram and his companions, a decision still had to be made. Dream warnings aside, they had made a promise to the Mayor. All of them seemed ready for the challenge.

“I don’t feel like letting some three-eyed monster from Sram’s dreams make me an oathbreaker,” Maula said.

“For all we know, it’s the same creature responsible for the disappearances,” Alissa added, “trying to scare us off.”

The decision made, Theo went to the Mayor and set final arrangements for the survivors to be transported to Renevir by wagon. Since none were sure how long their mission would be, they all said they’re farewells as they stowed their bedrolls and packs for the trek into the east wood.

Shamus gave them the restorative draught and said a special thanks to Arin.

“Ye trusted in me whin maist wouldn’t, 'n' ah won’t forgoat it.” To the rest he added, “Ah mak' acquaintences a' th' time, bit frinds rarely. Ye lot ah count as frinds, sae luck gang wi' ye.” He looked at Skahl, who was standing nearby, then looked back and said, “Whin ah git cleared o' this wee entanglement, a'm waantin' ye a' tae mind i’m offering a special mukkers rate if we cross paths again.” With that he winked, bowed, and stepped back.

Nearby, Phil and Maula turned and gave Chapawee a hug. The old oroka held them tight and whispered, “Thank you,” into the wood elf’s hair and Maula’s chest. Phil smiled and blinked back a tear.

She turned to the trulla and took his large hands into her small ones, looking him in the eye. “Now you listen to me, Maula. They’ll be no walking alone anymore. You’ve got the makings of some good friends here.” She squeezed his fingers, showing surprising strength, “It may have taken a tragedy to knock you off the old path, but you’re on a brighter one now, understand?

He held her gaze and nodded, then muttered, “I’ll miss you!” and scooped her up in a trulla-sized hug, drawing a gasp and groan from her that made the others smile.

A few more minutes of general farewelling, including a tearful moment between the Dane children and Maula, and a stiffly formal, but honest well-wishing from Cathal MacDonag, and the group of investigator/adventurers headed out the gates.

Volker and DK went with them, and wore their ranging gear and weapons. The Mayor accompanied them to the head of the lumber track, leaning on a heavy cane.

“Everyone in Streatham will be praying for your successful return,” the old man said. “Be careful.”

The group stood awkwardly in the sunshine. Of them all, Danika looked the most out of place in her colorful shirt and feathered hat. Phil had replaced her stained green tunic for a hunting shirt.

Sram stepped forward at the silent urging of Arin and the others. “We shall, and should the Wind and Wave will it, we’ll get to the bottom of this mystery.”

The Mayor smiled and nodded. A good distance behind him, near the gates, Rowena stood and waved, a nervous smile visible on her pretty face. He smiled back.

With nothing else to say, they turned and headed down the track, following the wheel ruts into the shadows of the forest.

________________________________________________________________

When they started down the track, tensions were high. Maula carried his ax at the ready, and those with bows or rifles carried them knocked or primed. Volker and DK twitched often, searching the shadows for enemies. But for all their caution, the forest seemed less foreboding while in it, than it had while contemplating it from the village wall. The most that could be said, was that it was strangely quiet for a wood in springtime.

After a candle of walking, arrows were returned to quivers. Once or twice, a mountain jay, or a fat, gray squirrel wood chirp warnings from the trees above. No one saw wolves, or greenmen, or anything threatening.

“Where do you suppose the wolf went?” Maula asked.

“I’m sure it’s out there,” Theo answered.

“Do you think they’re keeping their distance because of you, Sram?” Danika walked next to the druid, her voice low.

Sram looked at the young bard, in her flamboyant outfit, and wondered why she was whispering. “It would be nice to think so, but I doubt it.”

“Look at this.”

Turning, the group saw Phil holding back the fronds of a large fern and pointing at the ground. When they approached, they could see a patch of mushrooms scattered across the forest floor. It only took a glance to realize they were all too large to be natural, and of several varieties.

“That’s not normal,” Sram said.

Arin shook their head, “No, it’s not, but it's not exactly threatening either.” The sorcerer knelt down and examined them. There were a dozen button mushrooms, a few boletes and a score of flat-capped toadstools of an unknown variety. All of them were easily three times the size they should have been.

After a few moments, they shrugged and moved on. Danika stayed behind and drew her rapier, giving one of the smaller one’s a poke. When nothing happened, she turned to join the others and heard a rustling. Spinning back around, she looked closely to see what had made the sound. She swallowed a sudden lump in her throat and hurried to catch up.

A hundred paces ahead, they spotted a second batch. Another dozen paces and they began to see big shelf mushrooms on the trees. Duke approached one and saw tiny eyes in the shadows of its frills, unmoving, and yet somehow watching him. By silent agreement, the group walked slower, and gathered closer together, watching behind them.

Ahead, at a bend in the track, several even larger mushrooms sprouted wide, red caps. They had eyes as well, and chubby appendages growing from their stalks, that could be nothing other than arms, though they didn’t move.

Maula stopped, and the others followed his lead. From the tall grass near Alissa’s feet, three puffball mushrooms, roughly the size of a plum, hopped on tiny legs toward the syvani and the trulla.

Maula knelt down and watched them approach. “Aweee, look at ‘em, they're adorable!”

Alissa wrinkled her delicate nose and leaned back, more wary. “I-IIIIII don’t know,” she whispered.

The closest puffball finally arrived at Maula’s hoof. It looked up with tiny black dots for eyes, then began to vibrate.

POOOF! POOF! POOOOF! POOF!

It and several of its companions exploded into clouds of white, expelling mycelial clouds into the air above them.

Alissa rolled back with deft quickness. Maula was caught more unaware, and took in a lungful before coughing and standing. Behind them, the others drew their weapons, watching the large redcaps in the brush, but nothing rushed them.

“You alright?” Theo asked.

Maula began to nod, then shook his head as if clearing his ears. “Yeah, I just— Do you hear that?” he asked, cocking his horned head.

His companions looked at him with concern, shaking their heads in question.

Maula stood listening, and heard a sing-song chorus of strange voices in his head...

You should go and run.

   You should run and hide.

You should never stab us.

  Now it’s time you died.

“Uhhh, guys,” Maula whispered, “they’re singing a creepy song in my head. I don’t think they’re frien—”

A half dozen of the three-foot redcaps rushed from the undergrowth, large, sharp quills in their chubby fists. They launched themselves at the group, thrusting with their strange weapons.

Theo dropped into a crouch, which turned into a forward roll as a redcap tried to stab him. Beside him , DK brought his heavy slag rifle up but some sort of spore bomb struck him in the face, and he cried out in pain as his skin began to sizzle.

Phil, Alissa, and Danika engaged several redcaps, rapiers parrying quills and slicing chunks of hardened fungi from their strange bodies. Theo managed a gutting strike with his short sword, which only seemed to slow the mushroom man he faced. Volker held his breath and stomped on smaller mushrooms hopping from the forest.

 For everyone but Maula, who could hear the mushroom’s disturbing song, it was a strangely quiet fight. The big Trulla kicked, stomped and sliced the enemies that came near him. With his help, they cleared a space around them, but it seemed more were coming from the deeper shadows at the edge of the track. More spore bombs exploded around them.

Arin raised their hands and intoned their spell of sleep. Several more mushrooms sank to the ground and cleared a route ahead. “Don’t let them surround us!” Arin yelled, and jumped over the sleeping fungi. The rest of the group followed at a run, moving with haste further down the track.

At first some of the mushrooms chased them, but eventually they appeared to give up. They finally stopped at a small stream much further on. DK knelt beside the water while Volker and Arin tended to the man’s face. Large blisters and caustic burns covered his head and neck.

The big hunter winced when Volker put a wet cloth to it, but otherwise bore the injury stoically. “Do you think we lost them?” he asked.

“For the moment,” Arin said. The sorcerer placed a pink-nailed hand on the bald man’s scalp and whispered a Healing. The welts and burns subsided somewhat, and DK breathed a sigh.

“HEY!” Volker yelled, swatting at something in the brush. The gang turned and watched as a sleek fox darted away from Arin’s side, disappearing like magic into the brush.

 The sorcerer made a quick check of his person, then realized the beast had bitten his money pouch from his belt.

“That cheeky little bastard!” Danika said.

Sram looked dishearteningly after the fox. Arin seemed glad it was only his coin pouch. As tired as they were from the run, they only stayed long enough to catch their breath and fill waterskins before marching on.

They continued a quick march toward the logging camp as the sun traversed the sky above, largely unseen by the companions below the canopy. Once or twice they heard rustling in the forest, or saw small beasts watching them from the trees, but their quick pace seemed to keep them a step ahead of trouble.

After nearly seven candles of trekking, they were weary. Volker had just told them they were getting close when a dark shape rose up ahead of them, taking them by surprise. A shaggy, nine-foot bear turned dark eyes on them. Its tooth-filled maw opened and its black nose twitched. As they registered the threat, it roared and charged!

________________________________________________________________

The High Woebeguti

Upon closer inspection, the bear was obviously infected by a strange mold and fungus that clung to its fur and gave it a weird, chitinous armor in places. It let out a menacing sort of snuffle and charged. Maula drew his hand ax, roared and charged too, hurling the weapon and catching the bear in the shoulder.

Several arrows found their mark before the barbarian and the bear met. Maula had drawn his heavy ax and carved a wound into the beast’s chest, but it returned the favor with three-inch claws. With the bear standing on its hind legs, the two combatants were nearly of a height, and though it was bloody, the matted creature hadn’t yet seemed to realize its many injuries.

Maula slipped under what could have been a decapitating swipe and readied for a counter when a blast of Arin’s sorcerous fire caught it across the back. From behind everyone, Danika’s voice took on the unpleasant echo of enchantment.

“HEED ME BEAR, TODAY YOU DIE!”

The creature’s eyes snapped to the bard. In an apparent panic, it turned and ran, taking Phil’s crossbow bolt through the cheek, and a parting slash from Maula’s ax as it did.

It didn’t run far before Sram’s conjured, thorny whip wrapped its leg and yanked it to the ground. It thrashed for a moment before rising sluggishly, now bleeding from multiple wounds, which renewed its rage.

Just when the beast appeared to be slowing, an armored rider on an enormous forest stag leapt into the road, catching Maula in its own thorny whip and dragging him through the undergrowth. It happened so suddenly most of the troupe had no time to react. Only Theo gave chase with preternatural reflexes. In a long race, he wouldn’t have kept up with the stag, but in a short sprint he came close enough to slice the whip with his shortsword. Maula tumbled free.

Back on the road, Volker and DK helped the others bring down the bear. Maula and Theo tried to chase the mounted rider, but soon gave up when it became apparent he wasn’t returning. Though Duke sent a seeking arrow to find him.

When it became apparent the mysterious rider had disappeared into the gloom, they gathered themselves and bandaged Maula’s wounds on the road. Alissa and Sram watched their backs.

“Who do you think the rider was?” Duke asked.

Arin looked from the pilot to Volker, “Could it have been Richland Slocum?”

The hunter looked uncertain. “I didn’t get a good look,” the man said, “Richland never wore no armor like that! Why would he attack us?”

“Why indeed?” the sorcerer whispered. “Maula, did you get a look at the man?”

The trulla was examining the new scratches in his hide and shook his shaggy head, “You mean while I was being dragged like a rake through the bushes? No.”

“He had a visored helm,” Theo added, “He seemed a largish man.”

Unable to solve the mystery, the band finished regrouping and decided on their next course of action. Volker informed them they were nearly to the logging camp. Actively aware, and concerned with what might find them next, the group sent their stealthiest—Alissa and Phil—to scout it.

When the two women approached, they found the camp covered in vines, mold and patches of large mushrooms. There were two wagons and three tents, all smothered by the local flora. A sort of hazy miasma hung over the place.

When they returned with their findings, Sram was the first to comment.

“Completely covered in plant growth? It seems unlikely in six months, most of which were in winter.”

“No more unlikely than animate mushrooms and moldy bears,” Arin replied.

“That’s my point, friend,” Sram said, “It’s a dangerous place to explore at night, when half of our party cannot see properly.”

“Agreed.”

“Agreed,” added Volker.

DK nodded and a consensus was reached.

Just off the road, but far enough away from the carcass of the bear, they built a small fire and took a bit of supper, before setting watch and settling onto their bedrolls. They hadn’t rested long when Sram noticed the shrooms were once more gathering around their camp, appearing in that subtle way they had.

He and Alissa attempted to wake the others, but Maula and Duke were the only ones to rouse. The others appeared to already be under the effect of some spell or spore, and only mumbled drunkenly in their sleep.

“This isn’t good,” Alissa whispered.

“True,” the druid answered.

For his part, Maula seemed less concerned. “They are whispering warnings to us,” the trulla said.

“You can still hear them?”

“Aye. They want us to leave the wood.”

Sram and Duke began making rush torches and setting them around the perimeter of the camp. There were now dozens of three-foot shroomlings, some with sharp-looking, sword-like quills in their fleshy hands. Alissa quietly drew her rapier.

“Wait, Sram said. “We have to find out what’s going on,” he continued in a whisper.

He motioned one of the little button mushrooms forward, which had gathered just beyond the torches. “I wish to communicate with you,” he said a bit fearfully.

One of the tiny shroomlings hopped forward and squeezed its tiny eyes closed, expelling a small cloud of white spores into the air. Sram braced himself and leaned in, drawing the spores into his lungs. At once he felt light-headed. When it passed, he realized he could hear the same whispered throng of strange voices that Maula could. Made of hundreds of layered thoughts and words, the network sounded like a foreign party being held in a lightless cavern somewhere far beneath the ground. The predominant message was, “Leave.”

“Tell us where the villagers are. Tell us why you are doing all of this,” he begged.

The shroomlings didn’t answer. Instead, they began to chant, “High Woebeguti, High Woebeguti, High Weobeguti,” over and over.

Descending the trunk of a large tree on steps of shelf mushrooms came a curious little shroomling with a bright purple cap and a tangled mycelial beard. In his hand was a tiny staff of rotted wood, festooned with a dozen tiny, smaller mushrooms and wisps of green moss. The air around this apparently important creature swam with hallucinatory visions, like rainbow ghosts.

The High Woebeguti’s mycelial voice was clearer than the others. Deeper, and more intense.

“You have been warned, Druid. Why have you not heeded the Milig Ruagh? You are too weak to help, but you need not share the retribution of others.”

“We have been asked by the villagers to find their missing kin. We only seek to learn what they did to earn the forest’s anger,” Sram replied.

“It is enough to know the people of the village have earned their punishment. Their kin now belong to Old Man Oak. What they have done is of no concern to anyone else.”

“Was that Richland that we saw today, on the hart?”

“It was. He now pays for his transgressions, as will you if you do not leave the wood.”

At the little shaman’s words, the larger, shroomlings leaned in. Sram and the others were disheartened to see there were even more of them now. Fearing violence, Sram tensed and went on.

“I must speak to this Milig Ruagh—this Shroom Reaper. At least let us try to help Old Man Oak. I ask you in the name of the Wind and Wave, in the name of the Old Gods which I serve.” The druid straightened his spine and drew his power close.

A silence fell across the mycelial network of thought. The High Woebeguti seemed to scrutinize Sram, then the others. As if the shaman could hear more than was spoken, it replied, “You cannot save the village. It would be folly to try. But very well, Druid. We will take you to the Milig Ruagh at dawn. You may plead your case before the Guardian. He will decide your fate.”

Maula and Sram let out a breath they didn’t realize they were holding. Alissa and Duke did the same when the shaman’s decree was translated.

“You will sleep here tonight undisturbed,” The High Woebeguti went on, “In the morning, you will leave your weapons here and I will lead you to the Milig Ruagh.”

“Very well,” Sram replied simply, afraid more of his thoughts might be read across their strange link.

With his answer, the shroomlings withdrew. Before they had gone far, Duke knelt beside a little button shroomling and asked to share the spores of communication. The tiny creature blinked twice then erupted in a dust-like cloud.

A short while later, the others awoke from their induced slumber and were brought up to speed on the situation. Though a few of them balked at having to leave their weapons behind, they eventually agreed there was little other choice.

Though they remained vigilant and kept watch through the night, the Shroomling’s protection seemed good. While they heard many beasts in the woods, and even spied the eyes of wolves watching them, nothing attacked.

In the morning, those who shared the link awoke to the whispers of the shroomlings.

“It is time,’ they said, “The Milig Ruagh summons you.”

________________________________________________________________

The Shroom Reaper

“What’s going on?” Volker asked, rubbing the last of the spore-induced dreams from his eyes. “Do you hear that?”

“It’s the mushrooms,” Sram said.

“They returned last night,” Arin added, “and enchanted many of us.”

The hunter reached for his sword but Maula put a gently restraining hand on his arm.

“We’ve made a deal with them,” Sram continued.

“What sort of a deal?” the hunter asked suspiciously.

“A deal to speak with their master... their leader, to learn what’s really going on.”

DK sat up and stretched. His expression hardened. “I had crazy dreams,” he said simply.

Theo handed the hunter an oatcake from the food pack. “There’s a lot of that going around.”

“Well, at least I might find out if my mother is still alive,” Volker said.

Arin looked at the hunter, gauging something. “How old is your mother?”

Volker frowned, but answered, “She’s sixty-three.”

Arin turned to Sram and whispered in syvani, “An bhfuil sé sin sean le haghaidh néarán?” Is that old for a neran?”

“Is é an titim déanach, an gheimhridh go luath ar an saol neran” It is the late fall, early winter of a neran life, Sram replied.

When they looked at Volker, the hunter was scowling.

Theo said, “May I suggest we keep to languages we all speak.”

Sram looked embarrassed and Arin surprised.

“I apologize,” the sorcerer said, “I am unfamiliar with neran lifespans. I was trying not to be rude.”

“You failed,” Danika stage-whispered.

“It’s fine,” the hunter said, “I’m not easily offended. My mother is strong for her age, and very skilled.”

“Ah,” Arin answered, “That is good.”

Over a quick breakfast, Sram, Maula, and Alissa did their best to fill the others in on the events of the previous evening. Of them all, the village hunters were the most upset with the prospect of going unarmed. It seemed the mushroom escorts were becoming impatient by the time they finally decided on a plan. DK volunteered to stay at camp, with the weapons while Volker went along as a representative for Streatham.

The walk through the woods was quiet and slow. A host of mushrooms led them down deer paths and along winding trails, silently whispering to one another through their mycelial bonds.

At one point, Danika found herself walking beside a fat-legged bolete mushroom. She leaned over and said, “I, um, just wanted to say I’m sorry for cutting your friend yesterday. I didn’t realize you were, you know... alive.”

The bolete-man climbed onto a fallen tree bole and continued walking, but turned its odd eyes in her direction. “All will be settled by the Milig Ruagh,” it said cryptically.

“What does that mean?” she asked, but the mushroom man only kept walking.

A little over a half candle of walking through deeper and deeper undergrowth brought them eventually to a mist-shrouded grotto. A trickling stream pooled there, and the damp air buzzed with insects. The ground was carpeted in deep moss that left wet footprints where they walked.

In the center of the hollow was what at first appeared to be an old, overgrown stump of a tree, or perhaps a boulder, shrouded in moss and fungus. As they drew closer they saw it was actually a large, bent creature draped in a mossy, earth-colored cloak.

Its head was cowled and hooded and its wide shoulders appeared somehow bony and stick-like through the rough material and fungus. Its hands were likewise hidden in the folds of its sleeves. Even crouched, it was seven feet high. A twinkling sort of dust hovered about its robed feet.

As the group gathered before it, the mushrooms formed a semi-circle behind them. The High Woebeguti appeared on the large creature’s shoulder and raised its tiny staff formally.

“You stand before the Milig Ruagh, Unseelie Guardian and Knight Protector of the Midnight realm of Seledor. Who speaks on your behalf?” The shroomling shaman’s words echoed through the mycelial bond.

Though the cloaked figure didn’t move—and in fact was as still as a stone—something about it changed nonetheless. An awareness blossomed from under the hood and each visitor felt examined.

There was a moment of uncertainty among the visitors. Sram wanted the comfort of his oaken stave, but remembered it was left with the weapons. Maula started to move forward, but Theo held him back with a gentle shake of his head. Arin gave Sram an encouraging nod. The druid stepped up, bowed, and spoke in the secret tongue.

“Phe am sram emen se demant wafe, demant phe mantas untasen treat lina-ina rema xijat limina madri, umana Thiarna” I am Sram of the Wind and Wave, and I have come to treat with you in this matter, Your Lordship.

Now the creature spoke, and its words rolled out in druidic as well, voice rough and hollow, spoken with the weight of age, “Zat reta rema mantas emen Leats, druid? whu mantas rema noka hyded limina warde?” What would you have of me, Druid? Why have you not heeded my warnings?

A glance at his friends reminded Sram that none could follow the conversation. “Phe-remlit speak xijat se tungue, Thiarna?” May we speak in the common tongue, Lord?

“Let it be so,” the Milig Ruagh answered.

“Lord Reaper, we come on behalf of the people of Streatham, as recompense for their help in our own time of need. We seek their missing men, and to learn the cause of the unrest in this wood.”

Now the Milig Ruagh did move. He shifted and things beneath the cloak rolled and settled. “Debt, and favor. All things in this life come down to one or the other. By debt are you allowed to stand before me. By debt, you choose to come here. It is by the broken pact and debt incurred by one, the villagers of Streatham are caused to suffer. Their fate is sealed, Druid.”

At the unseelie creature’s words, Volker tensed but didn’t speak.

“May we know why Your Lordship?” Sram asked, “What wrong did they do you?”

“Not I, Druid Sram. Tis’ Old Man Oak was betrayed, his sacred flesh harmed. I am but the manifestation of his wrath, the instrument of his revenge.”

“Revenge for what?” Arin reiterated.

The Milig Ruagh turned his head. A bit of bone gleamed in the darkness of his hood, then disappeared into the shadow. He regarded the sorcerer, considering for a good long while, then said, “The mortal Richland Slocum made a promise to seek out the Druid of Thousand Leaf Grove in return for the hand of the Birch Daughter. He failed in his task, then sought to fell Old Man Oak with a wicked ax and take Birch Daughter by force.”

Dark passion filled the Lord Reaper’s raspy voice as he concluded, “Now the Grove lies wounded and the forest weeps for those it has lost! Punishment is due, druid!”

The Milig Ruagh’s emotions seemed transferred to the shroomlings in the grotto. They fairly buzzed with anger, tiny eyes fierce and half-formed hands clenched into fists.

Phil’s hands were balled as well, “Sounds like Richland Slocum has earned his punishment,” she whispered to Theo, who nodded his agreement.

When the shroomlings grew excited, Phil glanced nervously around the hollow and spotted something in the shadowed branches of a wide-trunked oak. A silhouette of a large cat lay across a high bough, its furry tail dangling down.

“Th-Theo!” she whispered excitedly, tugging at the monk’s sleeve. When he didn’t immediately respond, she turned to him and pinched his arm, “Theo! Look! It’s a cat!”

The monk looked where she indicated. “Where?”

She looked back, but the shape was gone and she frowned. “It was there,” she said somewhat dejectedly.

“Are you sure you saw it?”

“YES!... ahem, yes,” she said in a hushed whisper, “It was huge and fluffy.”

“Alright, alright, I believe you.”

Meanwhile, Sram sought to continue the negotiations. “Lord Reaper, Is there nothing we can do to heal the grove?”

The Milig Ruagh leaned back, for the first time revealing its skeletal jawbone and a hint of deep-set eyes in dry bone sockets. “You have already been judged too weak to heal his wounds. Only the druid of the Grove could have helped, and she is lost.”

Theo stepped up, “You said that Richland Slocum failed to find her. Was that him we saw yesterday, on the stag?”

“Aye, that one has now taken the mantle of the Oaken Knight. He and his brethren are condemned to protect that which they spurned.”

“What of my mother, Cana Cranwell?” Volker asked, “She came with the rescue party—a tall woman with gray-blonde hair.”

The Milig Ruagh turned toward the hunter, “She rides with the Oaken Knight, under the same madness and curse as the rest,” he said ominously.

“Can she be saved?”

The Reaper was silent. He eventually said, “While Old Man Oak still lives, his curse might be lifted, though he is not a Power known for forgiveness.”

“What if we find the druid?” Sram whispered.

The Milig Ruagh’s head tilted beneath his cowl, but he remained silent.

Sram went on, “If we find and bring back the druid of Thousand Leaf Grove, will Old Man Oak remove the curse? Can the village continue its peaceful existence?”

“Are you offering something, Druid Sram?”

Sram turned and looked at the others. Now that he’d suggested it, he seemed to realize he hadn’t asked the others. Volker nodded, and Maula too. After a moment, Theo, Danika, and Alissa did as well.

Arin looked from Sram to the Milig Ruagh and asked, “What if we fail?”

“No debt is taken on, no favor granted.”

 Arin turned back to Sram and spoke in syvani, “Is cara maith thú, a Shéamuis. Cabhróidh mé leat leis seo.” You have been a good friend, Sram. I will aid you in this.”

Sram placed his hand on the sorcerer’s shoulder in thanks, then gave a nod to the others before turning back to the Shroom Reaper. “We will try to find the druid. Can you tell us where he or she went missing?”

“—and how long they have been gone?” Arin added, “... and who they are?”

“Her name is Yona, and she went missing three decades ago in a cave to the northeast,” the Milig Ruagh said. “She is... or was, Orokan.”

“Can you give us directions to this cave?” Maula asked.

“Better, I will send Ploosh to guide you there.”

Before they could ask who Ploosh was, they saw a twelve-inch shroomling with a bright orange, wavy top step out from behind its kindred and walk forward on stubby legs. Ploosh had a smooth, golden stalk and black eyes that reflected the diffuse light of the grotto.

It wasted no time in climbing up Maula’s leg with surprising dexterity and taking root on the trulla’s shoulder. The barbarian couldn’t help but grin at their guide, who blinked benignly back.

With the formalities seemingly over, the Milig Ruagh’s spine straightened and his cowl slipped backward. Free of its shadow, the group could now see the Reaper’s skeletal face clearly. The bone was yellowed and cracked with age. Eyeballs floated deep in the sockets. Stringy ropes of sinew held the jawbone in place. Faint runes were carved into any otherwise smooth bit of bone.

A third hole was situated directly in the center of the unseelie lord’s forehead, about the same size as his eye sockets. It had tiny fissures and cracks running away from it, and only darkness within.

“Let it be known by all, that you partake of this quest of your own impetus. Should you succeed, whatever boon or reward you are granted is full of the Grove’s choice, and all shall abide by it. Should you fail, no debt is incurred by the Courts, or by The Grove, but your sacrifice will be made known to your Order.”

The Milig Ruagh returned to his crouching seat and his face was once more obscured. When he spoke again, his words were quieter. “Beware the Oaken Knight and his band. They are filled with the fey vengeance of the Grove. They will not hesitate to kill you, and I will not hinder them.”

Sram bowed. “Thank you for this opportunity, Lord Reaper.”

“Do not thank me for that, Druid Sram. I have but given you a tale of betrayal and punishment. You have chosen what to do with it. ”

The walk back from the grotto was mostly the same, but a new sense of optimism put a lift in the group’s step. The shroomling, Ploosh was a welcome addition as it pointed the way and answered a few questions.

“Ploosh,” Danika said, “What is your role in your shroomling tribe?”

“Ploosh guide!” the little shroomling said in a childlike voice, raising a chubby hand into the air.

“And a fine job you’re doing, too!” the young bard said, giggling.

A smile creased Maula’s face. “Do you all have jobs?”

The little shroomling seemed to ponder this, its tiny mouth pursed in thought. “Ploosh guide, Slerfy Boop watch, Gerbulbo protect.” It looked to see if its answer was acceptable.

“Gods!” Danika gasped, “I love you Ploosh!”

Ploosh’s little face scrunched up, then broke into a tiny, worried smile.

They arrived back at their camp to find DK once again eating. As they explained the situation to the big hunter, a plan eventually came together. Though Volker was desperate to save his mother, he and DK decided to return to the village to inform the Mayor and the others of what was happening, and to warn them about Richland Slocum. The rest of the party would let Ploosh lead them to the cave.

While they gathered their things in preparation for leaving, Alissa watched Arin pour a large pile of coins onto their bedroll and look at it in frustration.

“What’s all that?” she asked.

“It’s a lot of money I didn’t have a candle ago.”

“What?”

The sorcerer looked up at the others, who were all now paying attention, “This money just appeared in my pouch, as if by magic,” they said.

“Good magic!” Theo said, eyeing the fat pile of coins.

“Another example of the rich getting richer,” Danika whispered.

“Not necessarily,” Arin said quickly. “I’ve heard tails of the fey indebting creatures by such trickery.”

“What do you mean?” the bard asked.

“It means, if I spend this money, I will owe something to whoever gave it to me, some faerie with a hidden agenda perhaps.”

‘So what are you going to do with it?”

“Leave it here.”

“All of it?” Alissa asked.

“Everything but what I already had.”

“Seems a waste,” Danika said.

“Not if it keeps us out of faerie debt.”

The group wished Volker and DK well and watched them depart before turning and heading into the forest. They left the gold piled on the ground near the extinguished fire pit. Ploosh was once more perched on Maula’s wide shoulders, pointing the way.

The journey led them steadily upward, over forested hills where the sun only occasionally pierced the canopy. At several points during the journey, wolves were spotted paralleling their course, but they were never attacked. The trees seemed less menacing and the party even felt comfortable conversing in quiet voices as they walked.

“So...” Danika said to their guide, “Is your whole life spent serving the Milig Ruagh? Is guiding and protecting and keeping watch over the forest all the shroomlings have to look forward to?”

It was clear the little shroomling wasn’t used to answering questions. With each, its tiny face would contort with concentration.

Before it could reply, Maula added another. “Do you sing and dance?”

A true smile passed over the shroomling’s face and it nodded, “Ploosh dance! Ploosh sing!”

“I would like to see that sometime,” the trulla said.

Ohhh, count me in on that,” Danika said.

After several candles, the forest began to change from deciduous to mixed, with tall pines now piercing the canopy,  and rocky ledges giving the party occasional breaks from the tree cover. They kept their eyes peeled for Richland Slocum and his gang, but didn’t see them.

The sun passed its zenith and was sinking toward the western horizon when they reached the base of a rocky cliff. Ploosh pointed to a large northern pine clinging to a ledge a hundred feet up and said, “Cave there!”

Arin looked at the nearly vertical wall of stone with worry, but Maula only smiled and said, “I’ll toss down a rope,” then began “climbing” the cliff with goat-like efficiency. A few minutes later, a line dropped down and they took turns ascending. Arin had some difficulty, but with help, the sorcerer eventually reached the ledge.

The precipice turned out to be nothing more than a wedge of flat stone with a cave mouth against the mountainside. The entrance was decorated with a worked stone arch chiseled with weathered knots and durin design. A single Durin word was carved deep into the arch.

“ALEBRAND,” Theo read aloud.

“A durin tomb,” Arin remarked.

Ploosh jumped from Maula’s shoulder and hobbled to an exposed tree root.

“You’re not coming, Ploosh?” the trulla asked.

“Ploosh stay. Ploosh guide you home.”

“Awwwe, are you sure?” Danika asked sweetly.

The little shroomling smiled, “Ploosh see many go in. Ploosh not see any come out.”

Danika’s smile withered and she sighed, “Wonderful.”

Directly inside, they found the cavern was natural, but the floor had been worked into a smooth passage with wide steps to account for the downward slope. An old coil of hemp rope lay on the floor. An empty iron sconce was affixed to the wall.

Theo displayed his gifted blood by calling flame to his hand and holding it aloft, like a torch. “Shall I take the lead?” he asked.

Maula shook his head, “Let me, you keep the light behind me and I’ll keep my hands free for weapon work.”

It was agreed and the group set off down the uneven stair. The passage wasn’t overly wide or tall, but Maula could proceed with only a slight stoop. After fifty paces or so, the stairs ended in a small, natural chamber with a constructed stone wall across one section.

Again, the wall was decorated with fine, durin artistry. A heavy stone door with no handle was situated in the center of the wall. It had been pried open about four inches and something was wedged into the opening at shoulder height. When Theo brought the light close, they could see it was a skeletal forearm, complete with bits of old rotted flesh at the joint.

“That’s disturbing,” Danika whispered.

Alissa agreed and she examined the door more closely. “It doesn’t appear to be a trap, nor a mechanical door of any kind. By the scrape marks it appears someone opened it further than this. I’m not sure how someone got their arm stuck in it.”

“Well,” Maula said, “Stand aside and I’ll open it.”

The trulla set his ax against the wall and grabbed the door with both hands, then strained with all his might. A bit of dust drifted down from the door, but it didn’t budge.

Alissa handed the trulla her crowbar, “Try this.”

Maula thanked her and tried again, this time using the fulcrum power of the tool to amplify his strength. With a grinding shift of stone, the door slid open and the severed limb dropped to the floor. Maula tossed Alissa her tool and scooped up his ax, then slipped inside. Theo followed with the light, then the rest.

The room they entered was square and twenty feet to a side. All four walls were worked stone to a height of ten feet. The top ten feet and ceiling were still natural, complete with shadowed crevices and a couple of small stalactites. An open stairwell of stone steps leading down was set against the far wall. Beside it, two base relief carvings of durin warriors.

Danika picked up the limb and examined it. “It’s all scraped up,” she said, lips pulled back in mild disgust.

Alissa took it and peered closer, paying special attention to the scrapes. “These aren’t simple scrapes, they’re teeth marks. Something ate the flesh from the bones,” she whispered.

“What does tha—”

Whatever Danika would have asked was cut off as something bowled into Sram, knocking the druid to the ground. At nearly the same moment, four other creatures launched from the shadows above. A horrible stench came with them, like the worst maggot-infested carcasses.

Sram reached up to hold back his attacker, but the thing had claw-tipped fingers that dug into his neck. A wave of sickness coursed through him. With it, his defenses failed and his body went limp. He watched helplessly as the thing—a durin corpse with a distended jaw and blood-red eyes—lowered its mouth toward his face... and was kicked off of him by Theo, who held one flaming hand aloft and slashed at it with the sword in the other.

Around the small chamber, it was chaos. Another of the creatures tried to pounce on Alissa, but her reflexes saved her. As it slashed the air, she rolled backward and squeezed through the narrow stone door. Yet another jumped at Maula, but the trulla seemed to explode into dust, only to reappear ten feet away and cut a jagged wound into a third ghoul’s back.

Phil and Danika edged away from the door. They kept their backs to the wall and their rapiers before them as the fourth ghoul harassed them and looked for an opening. The last creature ducked under Maula’s swing and slashed his leg. The injury should have been minor, but the poison worked fast and the trulla collapsed.

“Not good!” Arin whispered as the sorcerer crouched next to Sram and traced the air with an elegant finger. “Teine a loisgeas, gu iomlanachd tilleadh,” they intoned, then touched Sram on the leg.

The druid gasped and rolled to his feet, eyes wide with fright. Theo stabbed the nearest ghoul and it hissed. Across the chamber, Phil fairly danced with her rapier, cutting deep slashes in her target and staying just out of reach of its clawed hands.

Danika stabbed the ghoul on Maula and shouted, “Some fighter you are Maula! Get up and help us!” with more desperation than anger.

The stinging words were enough to bring a growl from the trulla, who surged to his feet and shoulder-checked the ghoul. He gave Danika an evil look and the bard returned it with a defiant one. Then the room went dark.

For ten crucial seconds, the chaos was complete. Whatever had ended Theo’s spell had left all of them blind and their enemies took full advantage. When Alissa finally tossed a lit torch through the door, Theo and Sram were once again prone and paralyzed and Arin had backed toward the corner.

With the return of the light, the sorcerer dove toward Theo and hit him with another restorative spell. Alissa sent an arrow into the ghoul harassing Danika and the bard buried her blade in its eye. It dropped like a string-cut puppet.

Phil’s opponent was the next to fall as her blade ripped a hole in its guts. Vile rotten flesh and blood spilled out, causing the ghoul to wither before her eyes.

Arin restored Sram again, then sent a blast of fire into an injured ghoul. Theo followed up with a series of slashes, and punches which staggered it backward and Maula finished it with a swipe of his witchwood ax that exposed its spine and destroyed it. With light and numbers, the remaining two bloodless creatures were quickly surrounded. In another few moments, they were cut down.

Heavy breathing and gasps slowly turned to wary quiet, and soft questions verifying everyone was alright. The smell of the ghouls was near overpowering. As Danika and Arin whispered spells of Healing, the others brought the torch close to the creatures, inspecting them closely for the first time.

They were all once durin. It was apparent they had been wrapped in burial cloth at one time, though most of the shrouding had fallen away. Dry whisps were all that remained of their beards, and their toes and fingers were tipped in blackened, sharp nails. Their once thick limbs were shrunken, making their arms and legs appear longer, Their gums had receded from their teeth and their eyes were pupil less and flooded red.

There wasn’t much to say. Although they were recovering, the battle had been sudden and vicious. Barring perhaps the crash of the Saint Anne, it was the closest they had come to death, and the shock was slow to overcome.

Eventually, they gathered their wits and stood before the stairs. Looking down the well into the darkness, they heard a barely audible rumble. Somewhere far below, rushing water flowed.

________________________________________________________________

Under the Earth

Once recovered from their skirmish, the group moved carefully down the stairs, Maula and Alissa in the lead. There were about fifty steps. Along the way, four shallow alcoves held stone funeral slabs, empty of bodies.

Arin had Sram hold a torch close to one as he examined it. The stone was decorated in engraved, durin knotwork. Each had the Alebrand name displayed prominently. He found a trace of cloth and marks in the dust that indicated a body had once lain there. He looked at Sram.

The druid whispered, “Our welcoming party?”

The sorcerer nodded. “Four slabs, four creatures.”

“Who were they? In life I mean.”

“Durin lords keep bonded retainers in their household. Those that pass before their master are often entombed in their grave, waiting to serve them in the afterlife. It is a sign of favor.”

They caught up with the rest of the group, who had stepped into a long, vaulted chamber.

All four walls and the arched ceiling were designed with impressive durin craftsmanship. The flickering torchlight threw the carvings and guardian statues into semi-life. In the center of the chamber was a raised stone platform, on which sat an equally impressive stone sarcophagus, even though it had been despoiled.

The carved and crafted lid had been pushed off and lay on its side, against the stone box. One edge had broken and the debris lay along the raised steps. From their vantage, no one could see into the coffin itself.

Arin moved around the room, attempting to get a better view of the lid. The relief image of a durin in ceremonial armor held a carved shield. Arin took the torch from Sram and held it close, reading the durin runes written there:

“Here lies Segramus Alebrand, son of Jerodun, son of Clayborn, son of Jerodun. May he find peace in the halls of his ancestors.”

Danika snorted, “So much for that,” she whispered. She looked at Theo, “Are you gonna check it?”

The monk looked unsure. “It seems disrespectful.”

“Hmph, Theo, the disrespect has already happened. We’re looking for a druid, and in case you haven’t noticed, this is a dead end—pun intended—and we haven’t found a druid.”

“You know,” Arin said, “It is common for Durin lords to build false chambers to fool tomb robbers. It might be that this isn’t Segramus Alebrand’s actual resting place.”

Theo grimaced. “You know a lot about Durin culture.”

The sorcerer shrugged. “A result of my father’s insistence on a thorough education.” Arin nodded at the tomb walls and sarcophagus, “The Durin are infamous for their greed and the protection of their wealth.”

Alissa looked at the monk and the sorcerer expectantly, her initial question unanswered. When both simply stared back, she sighed, “I’ll do it.”

She climbed the platform and Theo went with her. They peered over together, carefully, and their expressions turned to puzzlement.

“No body,” Theo said.

“But there is a hole,” Alissa added.

“Good call,” Duke said, grinning at the sorcerer.

A few minutes later, Maula squeezed through the cracked floor of the coffin and dropped ten feet to the floor of a second tomb. The diffuse torchlight from above revealed this one to be even grander than the first. Though this room had six more empty alcoves, no ghouls attacked him.

As the rest of the party dropped down, Maula walked around the chamber, double-checking they were alone. Again, an impressive sarcophagus sat center stage, and again the lid was moved aside, though this time it hadn’t fallen. Unlike the room above, this one had an archway with another set of descending stairs.

Alissa took one look at the stone coffin and said, “This one’s different. Be careful.”

“What? Why?” whispered Theo.

“There are wicalic seals around the rim, broken.”

Both Sram and Arin nodded and agreed. Arin said, “Alissa is right, those are meant to prevent malevolence from escaping. They are a ward against evil.”

This time Danika was less flippant when she said, “Again, someone else has already done the deed. We’re just seeing what’s left... right?”

Again, Arin held the torch high and tried to get a look at the shield engraving without actually getting near the sarcophagus. It took some awkward straining but he was eventually able to read the runes.

“Here lies Segramus Alebrand, son of Jerodun, son of Clayborn, son of Jerodun. Though he ended his days in poverty, he brought much wealth during his life. May Torc and the Forge Fathers keep him at peace in death, and his shadow forever locked away.”

Duke frowned, “So the guy was broke when he died?”

“It doesn’t appear so,” Arin said, pursing their lips, “The Durin word for poverty is synonymous with evil, or bad. Likewise, wealth is good or righteous.” He frowned, “It’s less than a wholesome literary relic of early Durin culture in my opinion.”

“Sounds like modern Imperial thinking to me,” Danika said.

“Well”, Theo said, “I’m checking.”

This time Alissa drew her dagger and followed the monk.

He glanced carefully over the edge, eyes alert for any sudden surprise. This time there was a figure in the coffin. It was the desiccated corpse of a durin warrior. He wore rusted mail and a severely patinated bronze helm. His beard was dried and many of the hairs had cracked and fallen away.

Most notably, the dead lord—presumably Segramus himself—had gloved hands with twisted and broken fingers, as if he had been holding something until it was torn away. Theo looked at the corpse’s sunken eyelids and gave a slight shudder, then turned to the others.”

It’s a body, but whatever he held seems to be mis—”

The corpse’s misshapen hands thrust out of the coffin and grabbed the monk by the throat. Theo was taken completely by surprise and could only turn back in dread. As the shriveled face of Segramus Alebrand rose toward him, the monk began to hyperventilate and his eyes turned a strange shade of gold. Alissa recoiled as well.

The corpse’s dry jaw opened wide and it screamed in the rasp of a voice long silent.

“Hvor er det? Hvor ER DET?!”

With every move and every word, the body crumbled. Theo beat the arms away and they shattered into dust and bone shards. When the words were shouted, the thing’s face fell away too, first the jaw, then bones and flesh above. A cloud of dried meat and powdered bone exploded into the monk’s face. He coughed and wretched, falling back from the open box and struggling to keep his feet.

Duke half caught him as he fell back. Theo released a low sound in his throat, more growl than a cough, his golden eyes wide and panicked. It caused the pilot to shy back. Then, like that, Theo’s eyes were normal and frightened again. Duke doubted whether he’d seen anything at all.

All around them, weapons had been drawn. “You alright?” Duke asked.

“Uhm uh, yeah, I’m fine,” Theo coughed again, watching the coffin warily. Whatever had happened, was over, though none of the party seemed ready to let their guard down.

“What did it say?” Danika asked.

“HE said, ‘Where is it?’ Arin answered. The sorcerer looked at the carved relief on the sarcophagus lid, noting the distinctive ax in Segramus’ grip.

“The ax!” Duke exclaimed.

“The demon ax the Milig Ruagh said Richland tried to chop down Old Man Oak with,” Maula added.

Sram nodded, “Seems about right.”

Duke looked carefully at Theo. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

Theo had recovered his wits but still seemed more shaken than the rest of them. He tried a small smile and nodded. His eyes remained a bit wide.

“What WAS that thing?” Danika asked.

“A ghost, a spirit, the unquiet shade of Lord Alebrand,” Arin postulated.

The bard looked around the chamber nervously, “And where is it now?”

The Sorcerer looked at Sram. Neither practitioner had an answer.

Alissa carefully stepped up to the coffin again and looked in. “Body’s dust.” She stepped away and looked at the others. “Where do we go now?”

Maula pointed a thumb at the arch, “There are more stairs.”

They gave the sarcophagus a wide berth, then followed Maula down the stairs. They immediately found the wide steps covered in used-up candles and melted pools of wax. Between them, leaning against the walls, were dozens of stone markers, all with durin runes and sigils.

“Are they magical?” Alissa asked.

“No, they’re prayer stones,” Arin said, “the kind mourners leave at the sight of a tragedy.”

Duke knelt and read one, revealing his understanding of the durin script:

"Great Torc, Shield us from harm and keep us rich and wise.”

Sram smiled, “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

Duke picked another one.

"Seven blessings of the Seven Fathers be upon the doomed and impoverished souls of this sept."

“And that does,” he added.

Neither Arin nor Duke read anything else on the stones. They soon reached the bottom of the steps and another carved-out chamber. This one had a set of iron doors at the far end, and two stone braziers flanking them.

Over the lintel of the massive doors was the Alebrand Rune. On the door hung a circular iron seal, etched deeply with words that Arin read aloud.

"All ye' who step beyond this threshold, step from the light of wealth and gladness into the dark of malice and woe."

There was a long beat of silence as the crew processed the warning.

It was of course Danika who broke it. “So... What in the Shadow are we stepping into here?”

Sram noted a symbol painted on the doors in what looked like ink, or blood. “Look, that’s the druidic trail sign for ‘Bad. Turn Back.’

“Of course it is.”

‘The door doesn’t appear to have been opened in years,” Alissa said, investigating what she could see of the recessed hinges and the markings on the floor. She turned her head and held a hand up for silence. “Do you hear that? The water sound is louder...” she followed her ears, bending to a small four-inch crack at the base of the wall to the left of the doors. “I think this goes through to the other side.”

Arin frowned and asked Sram, “Is it true what they say about druids shapeshifting into beasts?”

His friend nodded, “Aye, I see where your mind is going. You think the druid went through here?”

“Possibly.”

Arin cocked his head questioningly.

Sram shook his head. “I’m not going in there,” he answered.

“Probably wise.”

“Well, the door is trapped with a needle,” Alissa said, “Likely poison. And locked.”

Can you beat it?” Danika asked.

“Probably.”

Arin looked anew at Alissa. “Are you a locksmith?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“What luck!” Arin seemed genuinely pleased.

Alissa and Danika stared at him for a moment, then looked at each other.

Maula asked, “Are we doing this?”

All agreed, and Alissa bent to the lock. Danika held her toolkit as she worked. She almost jumped when Phil lit one of the braziers, but soon after there was an audible CLUNK as the tumblers in the old lock shifted into place. The hinges were a bit rusty, but the durin-made doors pulled open with a little muscle. A shift in the air sent cobwebs dancing. The way lay open before them.

The first to hit them was the smell, a mixture of dust, stone, and something faint but cloying, like milk gone off in the pale. The cobwebs were thicker as they looked in on an ancient hallway running left and right. Another, simpler oak and iron door stood directly across the hall.

Looking in each direction with the torch held high, they could see the hall turned into a large vaulted chamber to the left. To the right, the hall ended about sixty feet away, in what appeared to be a stairway up.

As the party glanced back and forth, trying to decide on the best direction, Alissa caught a flash of movement toward the stairs. A low, crouched shape scuttled on all fours across the flagstones, up the stair. Though it appeared humanoid, its movement was stuttered and quick. Before it disappeared, she caught a glimpse of pale white, glowing eyes.

“We’re not alone,” she whispered, then sent a flicker of light toward the spot. “Something was watching us from there.”

“What?” Duke asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Better not to have something at our back,” Theo said.

There were nods from all around and they moved toward the stairs, weapons at the ready.

When they approached, Maula boldly stepped close and looked up the stairs. There was nothing there, but the stairs themselves had collapsed into a pit of some kind after ten steps or so.

“Whatever it was, it must have crawled into the rubble,” he said.

While the big fighter kept watch, Theo checked another door on the right side of the passage. It was locked. This time Phil took up the lockpicks. Alissa eyed her suspiciously, but the young wood elf only raised an eyebrow and grinned innocently. A few moments later she pushed the door open.

It was a storage room. Rows of crates and barrels lined the walls. A few big rats scurried away from the torchlight, but there was no other sign of movement.

“Whatever curse befell this place, they didn’t waste time taking the supplies with them when they left,” Theo said.

He was about to step in with a torch when Phil put a hand out and stopped him. “Hold on,” she said, then pointed at two crates stacked near the center of the chamber. Those with syvani and trulla eyes could make out the markings. A large red X, then smaller durin runes. “I may not be able to read the rest, but that X hasn’t changed since pyromite was first discovered.”

Theo looked wary but unconvinced. “So?”

Duke took up Phil’s explanation, “Even freshly mined pyromite has a strong, sympathetic connection to fire. Old pyromite on the other hand...”

“Old pyromite draws flame like honey draws bees,” Phil finished. “Step in there with that torch and the whole thing could go boom. Including those.” She pointed to a rack of ten lamp oil casks.

After weighing the risks, the group decided to leave the storage room unchecked. Phil carefully closed the door and turned, when a movement on the arched ceiling caught her eye. What first appeared to be a dense shadow, resolved itself into a contorted figure clinging backward to the stone. She screamed a warning as the durin corpse dropped onto Duke, a horrid black mouth opening beneath its pale white eyes.

The warning wasn’t quite in time to help him. The creature tried to gouge Duke’s eyes with long, black nails and sank yellowed teeth into his exposed throat. From every shadowed corner and dark nook in the hall, more of them attacked, moving with deceptive speed.

They seemed to be made of as much flesh and rotted cloth as drifting shadow. All had haunting, pupil-less eyes and gave out muted wails as they launched themselves through the air.

As Duke fought his assailant, another leaped onto Phil, smothering her in moldy cloth and shadow. Keeping her feet and her senses, she rolled backward, drawing her rapier and kicking it off, then making a diagonal cut, center mass.

Another fell on Danika and two harried Theo. In the swirling shadows, it was difficult to tell their numbers. Wherever they struck, coldness seeped past armor and clothing, even when nails and teeth didn’t score the flesh.

Maula struck out with his ax, but they seemed to melt away.

Arin screamed, “Sluagh!” then sent an arcane blast of fire at the nearest, doing little more than singing it.

Sram summoned his vine whip and ensnared one about to jump on Danika. The barbed thorns wrapped it tightly. When he yanked, the Sluagh was shredded and fell apart with a fading cry.

Danika summoned her bardic voice and sang out a note that sounded like broken glass scraped across fiddle strings. The sluagh she focused on fell back under the spell. Alissa was waiting and cut it in half.

As the crew focused, the tide turned. What at first seemed uncountable, became a half dozen, then two. The terror turned to driven determination. Duke and Phil destroyed another and then there was one. Together, they surrounded and cut it down.

“What... is... a sluagh?” Theo asked, breathing heavily and bleeding from several bites.

Arin intoned a spell and staunched the worst of the monk’s injuries, then answered his question. “Sluagh are the restless dead. They are spirits that flock to cursed areas and sources of evil and Shadow. They are excellent at hiding and only take physical form when they attack.”

“They are said to be able to track a living soul anywhere,” Sram added. “According to the tales, they are summoned by the Hunt, and roam on moonless nights.”

“My Gran told scary tales about them when I was a child,” Duke said.

Arin went back to checking their surroundings. “Rightfully so.”

“Where to now?” Maula said gruffly. “Up the broken stairs or back the other way?”

They chose back and stopped at the door directly across from the entrance. Alissa did the honors of unlocking it, and Maula gave the handle a tug. Inside was what appeared to be a small chamber. The size was difficult to gauge, however, due to the large amount of rope-like webs that filled the space.

Theo gave a groan of protest. Arin’s delicate features turned to a pout. Everyone had their weapons drawn.

“Spiders,” Danika whispered.

Sram looked bemused, “What’s wrong with spiders?” he asked in a hushed tone.

“Nothing when they’re tiny,” Theo answered the same way.

Arin nodded their agreement.

“Can we burn the webs away? At least see what’s in the room?” Alissa asked.

Theo whispered a word of power and a ball of flame appeared in his hand. Before anyone could react, he tossed the fire in.

“—WAIT!” Phil blurted, but it was too late.

Theo winced.

“There might be more pyromite in there.” Phil said, backing away from the door.

The rest did the same. The flame burned away a ten-foot swath of webs, revealing no pyromite and nothing else in the chamber either, except for a missing chunk of floor and more webs—this time woven into a tunnel of sorts, disappearing into the hole.

Sram did the same, this time aiming the flame at the tunnel. As the fire burned the web, a weirdly childlike screaming emanated from within. A moment later, an enraged spider the size of a large dog lunged from the hole and attacked.

Arin was ready. As soon as it appeared, he hit the oversized arachnid with a perfectly aimed firebolt. The flame struck it on the head and WHOOSHED to life as it engulfed the creature. It continued to scream, but its legs began to shrivel. Phil placed the killing shot with her crossbow.

“That’s a big spider,” Theo said. He moved into the room, kicking the spider once to make sure it was truly dead.

When it didn’t move, he checked the hole. The space beneath was uneven, natural cavern and curved away in a descending slope. A great many more webs lined the narrow cave.

“Looks damn scary down there.” The monk kept his eyes firmly on the hole.

“Do we think our druid would have come this way?” Alissa asked.

“A locked room with nothing in it but a spider hole?” Danika said, “I can’t see why.”

“I agree,” Sram said, “We should leave it for now.”

They backed out of the room and closed the door.

Turning the only direction left, they walked toward the large hall. Supported by several carved pillars, the chamber was further across than the torchlight could travel and was twenty feet high. The floor had fallen away in several long crevasses and someone had placed makeshift wooden bridges across them. Even damaged, it was still the most impressive room they had seen so far in the durin holt.

A stone wellhead was situated close to one of the nearby walls. While Phil examined it, Theo and Alissa moved up to the crevasse edge and looked down. It was immediately evident to both that the flagstone flooring was held up by a series of support columns. Thirty feet or more beneath was a natural cavern floor, uneven and full of stalagmites and rubble.

Theo also realized the edges were extremely dangerous where the columns had been compromised. He moved carefully away, told Alissa to do the same, and warned the rest. Phil reported the well was fairly shallow and appeared to have water in it.

From a location near the chasm, they could see another of the large stone braziers across the gap. Sram threw a conjured ball of fire into it, and the light blazed up. Noting the curious fact that the braziers and sconces all seemed to have oil, Alissa examined one.

“These sconces and braziers are connected to some kind of drip feed,” she said with admiration. “I don’t know how much is left in the system, but...” she set a torch to a sconce and lit it with a small puff of lamp smoke. “... We can take advantage of the light.”

Lighting the sconces as they moved, the group crossed the rickety bridges one at a time. They found another door, and another set of stairs leading down and decided to check the door.

It was unlocked. When they opened it, they found a long room full of more crates and more webs. After a careful explosive and spider inspection from Phil, they burned a path through, until they found a skeleton on the floor.

Sram knelt and examined the skull. “It’s a forest lion,” he said.

Behind him, Arin searched the crates.

“Could this have been the druid’s companion?” Theo asked.

‘The Milig Ruagh said her name was Yona,” Sram said, “and yes, it could have.”

“Right, Yona.  If it was her pet, then she came this way.”

Noone disagreed.

Arin stepped up and showed the group a handful of gemstones they managed to find in the crates.

Duke whistled. “Nice.”

Danika eyed the stones a little covetously. “And the rich get richer,” she whispered.

There were only a few fist-sized spiders, but they scuttled into cracks and crevasses when the light or flame came too close. There was a short, steep set of stairs down at the far end of the room. When they burned their way through, they found a small landing and another, impressive iron door.

Again, Theo was about to check the handle when Alissa told him, “STOP!”

He did, and she pointed to a section of flagstones on the threshold. “Pressure plate,” she said.

Theo scowled, “Why?”

“There’s obviously something valuable, or important beyond. Give me a minute.”

It took that long to announce she had successfully picked the lock. While she couldn’t be sure, she thought she had disarmed the trap too. In case of mistakes, she said, “Maybe don’t step there anyway.”

The doors opened with protest, anchored on the other side by dozens of web strands. They set them alight like all the others, but Theo was starting to fidget and grip his blade too tight. “Does anyone else think this is a lot of webbing for one spider?”

“Definitely,” Duke said.

The passage turned to the right and they looked across a big room completely crisscrossed in sticky webs. Like the previous grand hall, the floor here had been supported by columns, but in this case, it appeared the entirety of the structure had given way. Thousands of pounds of debris, including crates and furnishings lay along the cavern floor, beneath a blanket of more webbing.

They threw a torch down to get a better look. It burned a small hole in the webs and gave fitful illumination to the debris, along with a few sinister-looking sacks dangling from strands or fastened against broken pillars.

“Are we doing this?” Duke asked.

In answer, Theo took a coil of rope from his pack and looked for a good tie-off. When it was secure, he said, “I’ll climb down and burn away a safe spot. Assuming I’m not attacked immediately, you follow after.”

When they agreed, he pulled on a pair of gloves and slipped over the edge. A minute later he was crouched on the uneven floor with a globe of fire in his hand, setting the webbing around him alight. Nothing jumped out and attacked, so the others followed him down.

By unspoken agreement, everyone began whispering. Theo said, “The footing is pretty bad, but if we move slowly, we can make it.”

They began their slow trek across the debris, burning as they went. They passed a dozen small meal sacks but left them alone. There could be little doubt they were dealing with much more than a single spider, but no other creatures had yet shown themselves.

When they passed the first large sack, Arin whispered, “If we’re looking for Yona, we should check these.”

The suggestion was met with varying looks, but no one disagreed. Maula took a torch and burned his way to the silk-wrapped bundle. Looking briefly at it, he ran the edge of his ax along it, then the torch. Dark fluid, bones, and an awful smell fell out. Whatever it was, it appeared humanoid, but the skull was too flat and wide for an oroka, and the spine attached too far back.

Half the group had their hands across their noses and disgusted looks on their faces. Duke was checking some of the smaller sacks out of a morbid sense of curiosity. They appeared to be large rats and cavern insects of one type or another.

“It’s like a damned feasting hall,” Alissa whispered.

“Yeah, but where are the feasters?” Danika asked.

Duke held his torch high, checking the shadowed ceiling far above. “I for one hope we never find out.”

Phil had moved a tiny bit ahead and held out her torch. “I think I see good flooring up there. The passage forward might continue above.”

They moved to follow her. Maula said, “Lead the way.”

Leave Feedback if you want the next chapter. 
If you really like what you're reading, consider joining the Gamers Cortex - Aeranos Patreon