She kept trying, over and over. To us, it appeared as if Glam was just madly walking in a tight circle in front of the trees. It would have been hilarious if it weren’t so confusing and bizarre. At one point, she got so frustrated that her fists turned into Glam-smash boulders, which she used to swipe at the air in front of her.
“Glam, stop,” Ari eventually said.
Glam looked at us helplessly, red-faced and out of breath.
“I . . . I don’t know what’s going on,” Glam admitted. “It’s like . . . every time I walk toward the trees, suddenly I’m not. It’s . . . well, hard to explain. It won’t let me get any closer. Like I’m being forcefully spun around so quickly I don’t realize it’s happening until I’m already facing the other way!”
It wasn’t long before all of us were walking in tight, desperate circles on the shore of the rocky beach in front of a row of spruce that jutted up from the ground like pointy teeth.
We must have looked insane: eleven Dwarves walking in random circles between a lake and a valley forest, while a huge Rock Troll stood nearby and calmly watched the futile madness.
But it was true: the forest simply wouldn’t let us get close to it.
Every time I tried to walk into the trees, and was just about there, suddenly I found myself facing the other way. I didn’t feel it, didn’t see it; it just happened. Instantaneously. As if through magic.*
Froggy was the first to give up.
“I think it’s the trees,” he said quietly.
I stopped my own mad, endless circle walking and asked, “What do you mean?”
“The trees are making us turn around.”
“I don’t follow,” I said. “They look like normal Ajan spruce to me.”
But Froggy just shrugged in defeat instead of explaining further.
Eventually, we all gave up.
We stood there, lined up along the shore of the small lake with our hands on our hips, shaking our heads in frustration. Why couldn’t getting into this magical forest be simpler and more suited for a Dwarf? Like fighting past a three-headed dog, or solving a stupid puzzle? Instead, we were dealing with a seemingly invisible, wholly metaphysical barrier. There was nothing to stab or chop or slay or trick.
We quite simply could not enter the forest.
“Stoney, do you know how we can enter?” I asked. “You said it wouldn’t be easy. How did you know that?”
“ROCK ONE ANECDOTES,” Stoney said. “MOTHER ENCHANT SIBLINGS NOCTURNALLY FABLES APROPOS ROCK ONE. DOMAIN ADMITTANCE NECESSITATES TRAVELER DEMONSTRATE MERIT. PICEA AJANENSIS AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED. TREES COMMISSIONED SAFEGUARD TIMBERLAND PERSONAGES ILL-SUITED UNDERTAKE ACCOMPANYING PERILS.”
“Huh?” Glam said, sounding as confused as we all felt.
“He said, basically, that the trees are the guardians of the realm,” Ari explained. “They will only grant passage to those proven worthy to face the dangers within.”
An involuntary groan escaped my throat, followed by an eye roll so pronounced that for a second I thought my eyes might not make it all the way around and would get stuck staring back into my brain forever.
“I knew it!” I whined. “I told you we’d find trees that came to life! I knew it!”
I said this even though, as of yet, the trees had technically done nothing but usual tree stuff: which is to sit there and rustle in the wind and not fall over. For all we knew, the tales Stoney’s mother used to tell him were just that: stories to entertain troll children at night and nothing more.
“Stand aside!” Sentry One said. “Let the ranking warrior handle this!”
“You mean me?” Sentry Three said.
“Well, I was referring to me, but I suppose we can all at least agree that the five of us outrank the rest of this lot?”
The five Sentry warriors nodded their heads and pulled out their weapons—an array of axes, swords, and one mace.
“Now stand aside, children,” Sentry One repeated. “We’ll take care of these supposedly sentient trees in no time.”
The small army approached the trees and stopped just short of where they would have spun back around involuntarily.
“Let us enter!” Sentry One announced to the forest. “Or you shall perish!”
“Yeah!” Sentry Four added pointlessly.
The trees did not respond.
“Very well, then . . .” Sentry One said. “Sentry, prepare to attack—”
“Hey, why do you get to issue the order?” Sentry Five whined. “I thought I was the ranking officer here?”
“You mean I am!” Sentry Four shouted.
This went on for some time as they argued over who technically should give the order to attack. The rest of us watched with morbid curiosity. Not so much to see who might win this pointless argument, but more to see what would happen if they ever got around to actually “attacking” the forest.
Eventually, they compromised and agreed to give the order to attack all at once. Ari rolled her eyes at me, and we smirked as the Sentry began their countdown.
“Three!” the five of them shouted.
“Two!”
“One!”
“Attack!”
All five Sentry warriors hurled their weapons forward at the closest tree. After traveling just a few feet, the axes, swords, and mace quickly flipped in midair and rocketed back toward the Dwarves who had thrown them. The Sentry dove for cover as their own weapons narrowly missed maiming the lot of them.
The weapons continued their journey backward as the rest of us dove out of their path. They flew out into the middle the of the cold mountain lake and landed with an icy splash.
The five Sentry walked back to the group, looking equal parts confused, embarrassed, and distraught.
One of them threw her shoulders into the air. “Well, that’s all we got,” she announced. “We’re warriors after all. We’ve been trained to fight Elves and monsters, not find a way to sneak past a bunch of stupid trees.”
“How do we get our weapons back?” Sentry Two asked.
“I don’t know; you tell us!” Sentry Three countered. “You’re the ranking officer here.”
“No, I’m not!” Sentry Two shot back. “She is!”
“No, no, no!” Sentry One said, taking a step back. “We all agreed that he was in charge, and as the ranking warrior, he must now find a way to retrieve our weapons! All I do is follow orders!”
“I am not in charge!” Sentry Five cried out. “That’s been well established . . .”
The rest of us ignored their argument and turned back to the trees, facing the real problem at hand. As frustrating as the Sentry were, I tended to agree with them: fighting something you couldn’t see and didn’t understand was perhaps even worse than knowing you were outnumbered. At least then you got the comfort of a foreseeable resolution. Even if it was defeat.
But here, now, we faced a problem with no discernible, solvable mechanism.
We didn’t even know how to begin to find an answer, because we still didn’t know exactly what the question was.
It was then, while we all silently brainstormed (and the Sentry continued their argument over who was or wasn’t the ranking warrior), that I realized the others weren’t brainstorming at all.
Instead, everyone else was looking at me.
As if they all thought I might know what to do next.
I sighed loudly and approached the trees, not knowing what else to do.
Trying something would be better than just standing there on the shore of a clear, green glacial lake, waiting around to die, listening to the only adults present argue about how to retrieve their weapons from the bottom of said lake.
“Trees of the forest . . .” I called out to the woods, feeling every bit as stupid as you’d expect to while talking to a bunch of trees. “Oh, uh, wondrous, uh, Ajan spruce in
all your, um, glory and majesty and stuff. Please grant us entry to the Hidden Forest yonder which you guard.”
I thought I heard someone snicker behind me, but I ignored it.
“Um, please?” I added again after a few seconds of silence.
I stood there, arms outstretched, waiting for . . . well, waiting for what? A reply? I didn’t know. An answer from a bunch of trees did seem like a pretty stupid thing to be waiting for. Maybe I’d try another angle.
“Nay,” I called out. “We demand entry! Now!”
I gave it a few seconds and then marched forward. After just a few steps, I was instantly and forcefully turned around by the weird magic. As I unwillingly faced my companions, they looked away uncomfortably.
Rage built up inside me as I spun back around to address the trees again.
Magic surged through me and the ground shook under my feet as I tried to literally uproot the trees with a Dwarven spell. But then everything went still, and the old trees remained intact and upright as my spell was easily diffused.
“Let us in!” I yelled. “Dumb trees . . .”
This was answered with more silence and a gentle breeze.
I was just about to give up when I finally heard it in the wind blowing across my ears: amazingly, the trees spoke back.
“Hey, we’re not dumb. You are!”
CHAPTER 12
The Shadowy Forest of Endless Death and Destruction
Billiam?” a faint voice whispered in my ear. “You hear that? This sod just called us dumb! Him, the boy begging and pleading at our roots like a prat!”
“I ain’t even heard a bloody fing . . .” another voice answered.
I couldn’t believe it. Were the trees really talking? Not just talking, but speaking in British accents. Or was it all in my head, like when I thought I’d heard the Bloodletter speaking to me back in the ocean?
“I hear you!” I said. “Is that you . . . uh, trees?”
“Of course it’s the trees, you dolt,” the first voice responded. “Don’t be an arborist! Just because I sound like English pine don’t mean I is one! Ya prejudiced little mug . . .”
“No, I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I’ve never heard a pine or a spruce talk before, so I didn’t assume anything. No offense meant.”
“Come on, Reginald,” the second voice, the one called Billiam, said. “Why you wasting your time talking to this Gwint?”
“Hah!” I shouted. “Now who’s the racist one?”
I spun around and grinned at my companions, sure they’d be relieved I was finally getting somewhere. But their faces were filled with shock, confusion, amusement, and a lot of concern.
“You guys are hearing this, right?” I asked them. “The trees are talking!”
They all shook their heads slowly in unison.
“He’s lost his mind,” Sentry One whispered loudly, holding a dripping ax, having apparently figured out a way to retrieve it from the lake.
“Maybe,” Glam agreed. “But let’s just see where this goes. Greggdroule’s been known to pull a trick or two out of his hat before.”
“He doesn’t have a hat,” Sentry Three said.
“For the love of Godwin the Proud, it’s an expression,” Glam snapped back.
“Maybe this has something to do with his love of trees?” Froggy suggested.
This did seem like a plausible explanation.
“Could be,” Ari agreed. But she still looked more concerned than confident. “Go on, Greg. Um, keep talking to the, uh, trees, then . . .”
I nodded and turned back toward the forest.
“Which two trees are you?” I asked. “I’d like to, uh, you know, look at who I’m speaking to. Face-to-um-face . . .”
The trees laughed.*
“Hear that, Billiam?” Reginald said. “The boy thinks we got faces!”
“Ha-ha, yeah,” Billiam added, sounding less amused. “Like he’s never seen a bloody tree before.”
“Look, it don’t rightly matter which one of us you is speaking to, right?” Reginald said. “’Cause all of us trees, we all stand together, yeah? In unity and such! We are all one and one is all.”
I thought I detected a hint of playful sarcasm in his voice, and this was confirmed seconds later when Billiam and a few other trees exploded into fits of laughter.
“Okay, okay, fine,” I said, trying to get the trees back on track. “But what I want to know is: Can we enter the Hidden Forest?”
“Hidden Forest?” Billiam asked. “What the devil are you talking about?”
“He means the Shadowy Forest of Endless Death and Destruction,” Reginald said. “Them blokes out there must just call it the Hidden Forest, yeah?”
“The Shadowy Forest of Endless Death and Destruction?” I said, my throat suddenly so dry I was barely able to swallow. “Really?”
There was a long pause and then they both erupted into more guffawing. These trees were really starting to get on my nerves.
“Nah, bruv,” Billiam finally said. “We just call it a forest. Why does every bloody forest or river or pond got to have a proper name? Who gives a toss what it’s called?”
“That’s a right good point, mate,” Reginald agreed.
I shook my head, trying not to get too frustrated. After all, the whole mission now hinged on me befriending these trees.
“Well, whatever you want to call it,” I said. “Why can’t we enter? Why can’t we get past you?”
“Because, bruv, you ain’t the . . . the, uh . . . Chosen One!” Billiam said.
“Yeah, yeah, that’s right, innit?” Reginald said, sounding suspiciously as if he was making this up as he went along. “Only the one foretold by the, uh, Prophecy of, uh, Zandbroz Zingy Zulzannah may enter these forbidden and holy lands! So it was said many moons ago by the Great and Wondrous Wizard and Prophet, um, Lord Sorcerer Pricklebinkadink, yeah?”
The rest of the trees were barely holding it together, and stifled chuckling whistled past my ears in the wind.
“Another lame prophecy, of course,” I muttered under my breath—even if this one had just been made up on the spot by a couple of trees.
But that was fine; if they were going to play this game, then so could I.
“Well, for your information,” I announced, “I am the Chosen One. I am Greggdroule Stormbelly! Famous among Dwarves everywhere for fearless courage in battle! Selected by the holy relic Bloodletter to one day rise up and restore our people to glory!”
I waited for some sort of oohing or aahing from the trees, but a brief silence was followed only by quiet snickering.
“Oh, is that right, bruv?” Billiam asked. “Well, I ain’t ever heard of no bloke called Thundergut or whateva.”
“Plus, if you is right about the Bloodletter choosing you, mate,” Reginald added, “well, then, where is it? I don’t see it with you, yeah?”
“Thank the gods, too,” Billiam added. “I hate that guy! Always running off his mouth like he’s got nuffin betta to do.”
“You know Carl?” I asked, surprised they knew my old ax.
“Is that what he goes by now, then? Carl?” Reginald asked. “He used to call himself Hank. Yeah, we know him. A mug of a fellow, really.”
I supposed it made sense that they wouldn’t like an ax. Most axes were originally designed to chop down trees, after all . . .
“Hey, bruv,” Billiam said. “You remember the Norwood Massacre of Piney Ridge?”
“Oh, yeah, right mess that was,” Reginald said. “Your old pal Carl or Hank or Bloodletter or whateva slaughtered a whole family of Norwegian pine just for jollies!”
“Oh, well, that’s horrible,” I said, not wanting to come across as rude by reminding them that technically whoever wielded the ax was more responsible than the ax itself. “I mean, I would never ask Carl to do something like tha
t . . .”
“Maybe so, maybe not, mate,” Reginald said. “But since you ain’t got the ax with you either way, we can’t even be sure you’re telling us the truth now, yeah?”
I sighed because he had a point.
For probably the tenth time, I found myself regretting throwing my ax into the San Francisco Bay.
“Right, well, see here, bruv,” Billiam said. “We ain’t gonna let you enter regardless, seein’ as this old curmudgeon to me left decided a long time ago to not ever let anyone past us again. Not after what them Fairies did all that time ago. I mean, if it was solely up to me, bruv, you’d already be on your merry way frough them woods behind us!”
“Hey now,” Reginald interjected. “Don’t you go puttin’ all this on me, mate! You were the one who convinced me to stop admittin’ folks, yeah?”
“Maybe so, but I’ve since changed my mind,” Billiam shot back. “And now I’m sayin’ we let this chap and his companions pass frough.”
“Well, I still say no, mate,” Reginald said curtly.
“Sorry, bruv, you heard him,” Billiam said to me. “I’m afraid we can’t let anyone pass unless the vote is unanimous.”
What he’d said about the Fairies renewed my hope. It seemed to indicate that at least some part (or maybe all) of the rumors of the Fairies hiding the amulet within the Hidden Forest were true. So I had to keep trying.
“Billiam,” I said, “what eventually made you change your mind to think of starting to allow people to enter?”
“Boredom, bruv, simple as that.”
“Which is dangerous!” Reginald added.
“Oh, come on now!” Billiam argued. “Dangerous how? What are these travelers going to do, pee on all of us?”
“They could set us on fire . . .”
“Oh, well, yeah,” Billiam agreed. “That is certainly possible. We be hearing stories about you fools out there settin’ your own forests on fire and doing all sorts of other horrible fings to your natural environment. I suppose we wouldn’t want that in our forest now, would we? In fact, you’ve convinced me, Reginald. I’m voting no as well now.”
The Rise of Greg Page 7
