Sleeper Of The Wildwood Fugue (Book 7)

by Charles E Yallowitz

  “An interesting story, which I will happily tell you over an early breakfast,” Stephen states with a gentlemanly bow. He feigns a pained expression when Trinity tenses and leans away from him. “I promise to behave and treat you like a lady. I’ll even pay for the meal and allow you to have dessert. It is your birthday after all. Though, I think you’ve indulged a bit too much in the delicacies of the outer world.”

  “Being entirely nice is beyond you.”

  “Yes, so give me credit for only making verbal barbs.”

  “This could be more fun than I realized.”

  “Remember that there will be a day when my father is no longer around to protect you from my advances,” the ancient nobleman threatens in a menacing voice. He growls and takes a deep breath before meeting his companion’s violet eyes. “I am trying to behave and while I expect you to take advantage of the situation, I would hope that you show me some respect. If not respect then whatever is the equivalent for someone you dislike.”

  “I’ll give you some mild apathy and smug enjoyment of not having to fear your wrath for a few days,” Trinity offers, extending her hand. She is surprised when she finds herself bent over backwards, Stephen’s lips pressed against hers. “Let go or I hurt you.”

  He releases her with a playful spin, his hand grazing her shoulders. “Promises, promises. Now, I’m in the mood for a good meal. The champions are at the portside inn, so we’ll stay away from there. No reason to start the fun without our guest of honor.”

  With a snap of his fingers, Stephen and Trinity disappear from the forest road. A powerful wind licks at the spot that the pair once stood, leaving shallow gouges in the soil. As if an invisible beast is rampaging, the gale rips a hole in the earth and an enraged scream bursts from the trees. The night goes still as the anguish-filled voice echoes into the distance, bringing a new sense of terror to the Day of Darkness.

  *****

  Walking in a single file, the champions quietly follow the focused dog that is sniffing the path before them. The dawn is still fresh with part of the endless darkness still visible in the distance. Signs of the nighttime attacks can be seen on the path with splotches of blood and scraps of people left behind by the undead. A few of the creatures can still be heard wandering among the trees, their hunger sated enough that they are now in a calming trance. Near a bend in the road they find a farmer in a tree, the man having died from losing his right leg and too much blood. Luke, in the form of Stiletto, growls and barks at the corpse until he feels that he has made his point.

  “This place is a mess,” Nyx mutters, pulling her cloak tighter around her body. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “I’ve seen worse,” Sari claims, her voice numb and quivering. She walks quicker to put herself between Nyx and Delvin, the pair keeping an eye on the sides of the road. “This reminds me of when my clan was killed and my time in Kalam’s lair. There was so much blood during the massacre and bodies were everywhere. During my time as a servant, I had to clean up a lot of blood and body parts. Some were failed zombies and others were . . . enjoy your birthday party, Nyxie?”

  “Thank you again. Everybody knows the plan, right?”

  “Let you talk to the goblins while I try not to look menacing,” Timoran answers from the back of the group. He shivers when Fizzle covers his head in dragon’s breath, which drives the wisps of cursed mist away. “Thank you for helping. I did not realize my height would pose a problem.”

  “Timoran welcome,” the drite happily says before going back to flying a few inches off the ground. “Fizzle not leave Timoran. Stay safe in case goblins mean.”

  “No stealing anything shiny for me,” Sari declares, wiggling her fingers in the air.

  Delvin adjusts his wooden shield and slows down to walk alongside Nyx. “I think you’re being too casual about this. You’re friends with one goblin tribe and they’re miles away from here on the other side of the L’dandrin. What if this tribe turns out to be more hostile than the others?”

  “If that happens then I’ll handle it with self-control,” Nyx assures him, rolling a ball of flame along her knuckles. “Besides, they’re only goblins and I doubt they’re going to swarm if we only want to talk. Maybe we can subdue them by using mild spells and the flat sides of our weapons. If the goblins are very primal then maybe we can scare them when one attacks and is stunned by my bracelet.”

  “You’re spouting a lot of maybes, Nyx.”

  “All I ask is that you trust me.”

  “I do trust you, but I want more of a plan.”

  “Well, I don’t feel like you trust me, Delvin.”

  Sari clears her throat and interrupts by saying, “Can mom and dad not fight in the middle of a cursed forest?” The gypsy rolls her eyes at the blushing pair before adding, “I think the puppy found something.”

  The adventurers watch as Luke excitedly turns in a circle with his wet nose touching the ground. The Noble Shepherd barks at a spot where a narrow thicket is touching the path, mist curling around the edges. Before anyone can stop him, the dog pushes his head into the dense growth and happily wags his tail. He wiggles through the thicket with the others a few cautious steps behind, none of them daring to make a noise. It feels like the tight thicket goes on for a mile until it opens onto a crude dirt path. The cursed mist is at the edge of the simple trail and hangs in the low branches, forcing Timoran to stoop.

  Remaining in the form of his old friend, Luke moves slowly as he is bombarded by scents that are difficult to sort out. He can smell the rotting flesh of undead and the sweet scent of wildflowers, which throws him into emotional turmoil. Rabbits, squirrels, and deer are hiding nearby, the thought of their meat making the hungry dog drool. The spirit of Stiletto urges him to investigate, ignoring the presence of the dangerous mist along the road. Unable to fight the powerful instincts, Luke decides to revert to his true form. Fur sinks into his skin to reveal his clothing and his face transforms into that of a handsome half-elf. Not waiting for the change to finish, he nearly topples into the forest when he stands on unsteady canine legs, but Delvin swiftly steadies him.

  “I’m sorry,” Luke whispers, feeling his vocal cords shift back to normal. “There were too many scents to keep track of and Stiletto went wild. Kind of pathetic that I can control a griffin, but I’m at the whim of a dog.”

  “All you need is more practice and a long talk with him,” Nyx tells her friend, using a minor wind spell to shove the mist back an inch. The sentient curse pushes back and takes the form of a serpent to hiss at her. “We’re safe as long as we stay on the path. Did you pick up any goblin scents?”

  “It was in there, but I couldn’t focus on it in time,” the forest tracker admits as he draws his sabers. He uses his sound sight to scan the area and turns it off once he notices that he can no longer see the narrow, winding path. “Maybe I could have done something if I fully bonded with the griffin. I can manipulate air currents to some extent, but I could be doing so much more. I think I messed up.”

  “Fizzle think Luke do right,” the drite announces, floating over the group and shielding them with a rainbow fog. “If not feel right then Luke should not do. All friends understand. No more moping.”

  “That sums it up pretty nicely,” Delvin claims with a chuckle. He slaps Luke on the back and prods him to continue walking. “Stay alert and take point. This isn’t combat, so you don’t have to worry too much. Goblins wouldn’t attack a group with our size and variety. Not without scouting us first and between you and Timoran, we’ll notice them.”

  “Or we can look up,” Sari mentions, pointing at the thick canopy.

  Yellow eyes peer down at the adventurers from the branches that span over the path. The ivory horns and dark red skin of the goblins can be seen in the few beams of sunlight that pierce the thick treetops. The creatures point their spears and stone axes at the intruders, a low murmur running through the large hunting party. Their wide feet grip the branches and their mottled claws leaves thin scr
atches in the wood. With a series of hisses and snarls, many of the beasts drop to the ground and surround the path, their bodies cloaked in the thick mist. A very large, male goblin lands in front of Luke and puts the tip of a crude spear against his throat. The hunting party leader removes the weapon only when the half-elf sheaths his sabers.

  “We don’t want any trouble,” Nyx announces, holding up her hands. She turns to get a general idea of where the goblins are, but they are too well concealed. “We were told that you know how to remove the curse on this forest. Please show us how and we’ll get out of your territory. I promise that we mean you no harm.”

  “Curse not harm us. What you give?” asks the large goblin while scratching the wart on his long nose. The creature pushes his way to Nyx, nearly knocking Delvin off the path. “Why we trust you?”

  “My friends and I are the champions of Gabriel and it is our destiny to cleanse the forest,” the caster explains, kneeling to look the goblin warrior in the eyes. The stench that wafts off the leader is very powerful, so she creates an invisible barrier to plug her nose. “I’m sure you don’t like people aimlessly wandering around your forest. The longer the curse goes on, the more crowded your territory will become. There’s the chance that it can reach a point where city-folk find your womb tree. Let us prevent that from happening.”

  The goblin leans forward with an angry snarl. “How you know of womb tree?”

  “I protected the womb tree of the goblins near Hero’s Gate. I guess you can say I’m a goblin friend,” Nyx proudly answers. She leaps to her feet when the creatures erupt in a symphony of screeches and shrieks. The goblin leader rushes out from among the adventurers to leap back into trees. “We don’t want any trouble!”

  “You friends with enemy! Intruders! Elder will judge!”

  “It never crossed your mind that goblin tribes have feuds, did it?” Sari whispers to Nyx.

  The gypsy moves to draw her daggers when a goblin drops from the branches and knocks her off the path. Sari’s mind is plunged into a thick fog, making her helpless as the creatures tie her up. The large goblin rushes out of the trees to tackle Luke into the mist and pins him against an oak, forcing the warrior’s mouth open to inhale the curse. A rope flies out of the branches to wrap around Delvin’s neck, the chattering creatures leaping from their perches and yanking him into the forest. Nyx is about to cast a spell when the pack rushes forward and drags the caster to her bound friends, all of them succumbing to the mental fog.

  “My friend and I ask to go peacefully,” Timoran declares while raising his hands. A goblin tries to rush him off the path, but is driven away when Fizzle whips it with his tail. “If we are allowed to retain our senses then we can argue our case to your elder. This would prevent unnecessary bloodshed, which I prefer because I do not want to hurt any of you.”

  “We can kill others,” the large goblin says as he steps back on the path.

  “Do so and I will end your entire tribe,” the barbarian replies with a fierce stare that sends a chill through the surrounding creatures.

  “Follow, but keep weapon on back.”

  *****

  Timoran and Fizzle stand very still in the middle of the goblin village as they watch the creatures gather around them. Like the one near Hero’s Gate, the huts are made out of mud and twigs with a deep recess hollowed out beneath them. Each with a cautious guard, crude scaffolds are scattered about with thick vines running between them. The green plants have wide, aromatic flowers that bloom in the darkness and attract fist-sized fireflies that illuminate the village. Tuning out the din of high-pitched voices and buzzing insects, Timoran and Fizzle stare at the enormous willow tree where clouds of colorful pixies dart through the branches. Frog-like creatures called trimmels leap around the roots and nip at anything that gets close to their razor sharp teeth. One of the amphibians moves too close to a batch of mewling goblin infants and is speared by the long nail of one the nannies, the squealing pest swiftly devoured by the spikey-haired guardian. She grins at Fizzle and licks her lips, making the drite flutter his wings and bare his pointy teeth.

  The other adventurers have been locked in a simple cage where they mindlessly wander in a daze, occasionally bumping into the wooden bars. Their weapons have been left on the prisoners since the closest any of them have come to using their gear has been Delvin staring at the edge of his shield. Nyx mumbles around the gags in her mouth, a simple attempt to stop her from casting spells during her trance. Flames still race along her arms and through her hair whenever a look of anguish breaks through the blank expression caused by the mist. As if under orders to stop her, one of the others always bumps into the caster and breaks her concentration long enough for the curse to regain its hold.

  Gentle rustling in the branches causes the goblins to stop and bow their heads, only the youngest of them daring to look at the approaching figure. A muscular goblin is carefully climbing from the top of the willow, his limbs decorated with bones that have been sharpened into spikes. His horns are longer than the others and end in forks that their owner has carefully cut into the ivory. The battered hilt of a shortsword can be seen over his shoulder and patches of leather armor have been sewn into his chest. With a wild scream, the goblin leaps at Timoran and laughs when the barbarian moves out of the way. The elder rambles in his native tongue, but it is clear he is mocking the large warrior for avoiding the attack.

  “They not nice,” Fizzle whispers.

  “It would appear there is great variety in behavior among goblins,” Timoran replies, watching the elder puff out his chest in an imitation of the barbarian. “Those near Hero’s Gate are polite and civilized with a desire to be left alone. This tribe is obviously more primal. I wonder if they are responsible for our perception of goblins since I see signs that they have a habit of attacking travelers.”

  “What signs?”

  Timoran subtly nods his head to a nearby hut where the glint of armor can be seen through the open doorway. Fizzle stretches his neck and squints, his eyes turning a dull pink as he whispers a spell. Looking through the wall, he sees a large collection of weapons, armors, and backpacks full of traveling gear. The dragon can even see a small pile of abandoned toys tucked into the corner of the hut. A terrifying thought crosses Fizzle’s mind and he steadies his nerves while watching the rambunctious elder. Taking a deep breath, the drite darts through the air, circles around the chuckling goblin, and soars back to Timoran’s shoulder.

  “Bones in goblin are human, halfling, and elf,” Fizzle declares, earning a chorus of laughter from the creatures. “They going to eat us.”

  “That changes things.”

  “Coward not allowed to speak!” snaps the elder, drawing his shortsword and pointing it at the barbarian. “You and friends are ours. We decide your fate. Stand there and be quiet while Daga think.”

  “I find myself unwilling to obey now that I know you plan to eat us,” Timoran replies, crossing his arms and staring down the burly goblin. “All we want is a guide to the source of the curse and we will be on our way. There does not have to be bloodshed.”

  “You want to remove the fugue?” Daga asks with a cruel cackle. He bounds around the area to get his people whooping and shrieking. “Goblins want to keep mist. It make hunting easier. If it grow then we take river and city. This be our land and we feast every night!”

  “Goblin not make sense,” Fizzle says, scratching his head with his tail. “Bones in body make mind hurt? Fizzle not understand.”

  “Dragon is a fool.”

  “Goblin is ugly.”

  “Dragon be eaten first.”

  “Goblin too stupid to catch Fizzle.”

  “Dragon caught now.”

  “Is Fizzle?”

  The drite takes to the air and zips around the village, his body nothing more than a purple blur. He releases a stream of rainbow smoke over part of the crowd and they collapse into a twitching slumber. As the goblins panic, spears and rocks hurtle through the air at Fizzle in an a
ttempt to bring him down. The noise rises into a din of mad screeches until Timoran roars loud enough to scare every living thing into silence. Even Fizzle catches his breath and darts back to the barbarian’s shoulder where he feels safe.

  “I do not want to waste my time with you,” the muscular warrior states in a voice that is edged with anger. “My friends and I require your help. I will take it by force if I have to because it appears you are not giving me much choice.”

  “Daga not scared of coward,” the elder declares, jumping up and down with his sword held high. The goblin slashes at the air, pretending to gut his towering opponent. “Friends will be eaten first. Start with dragon to make sure no trouble made. We take time with coward. Enough meat for everyone to get bite. How a coward get so big and strong when only run away?”

  The barbarian scratches the scars on his shoulder and growls like a frustrated beast. “Why do you insist on thinking I am not a threat?”

  “You surrender on path and avoid my attack,” Daga answers matter-of-factly. He bravely approaches Timoran and grins, revealing several missing teeth. “Daga know you refuse to hurt goblins. You weak so all power with me. Nothing coward can do.”

  Using a fraction of his strength, Timoran kicks Daga and sends the elder crashing through one of the mud huts. The other goblins swarm toward the warrior as Fizzle takes to the air and races to the cage, covering it in rainbow breath that solidifies into a protective shell. With a fluid motion, Timoran draws his great axe and holds it so the flat side knocks down several of his attackers with every swing. He sends goblins flying and rolling in every direction as he patiently makes his way to where Daga is groggily getting to his feet. The barbarian charges the last few yards, sending the creatures in front of him scampering for cover.

  “Daga no coward!”

  Timoran hurdles the elder’s charge and spins around to bat a handful of screaming goblins out of his way. His great axe leaves deep gouges in the ground as he swings and misses his nimble opponent. Daga’s shortsword clumsily jabs forward, but the barbarian effortlessly blocks it with his bracers. The other goblins move away from the fast-paced fight, dragging their injured to the willow tree for healing. Every time Timoran deflects one of his enemy’s attacks, an echoing ring dances around the village. The noise causes the trimmels to begin whistling, the animals mistaking the sound for their own mating call.