Summer, year 568 of the Varakarian Cycle

  They arrived at Wood’s Hollow by noon the following day. The drizzle from the night before had stopped, but it brought out the earthy scents of a forest still damp from the rain, mingled with the fresh fragrance of pine and moss. It was a humble settlement of a dozen or so houses in a small glade surrounded by towering trees. The rustic charm of the village was evident in the wooden frames outside several homes, where deer hides and the pelts of foxes had been stretched out to dry. On the outskirts of the village, a river snaked through the forest. Kharg spotted a large pile of logs stacked near the water’s edge, evidence of the villagers’ reliance on the river to transport timber downstream.

  A small group of children ran out to greet them when they approached, their excited chatter and curious stares showing the novelty travelers brought to such a remote place. Fafne took full advantage of their attention, darting from Kharg’s shoulder to perform playful loops in the air, much to the children’s delight.

  Jore gestured for the group to dismount as they came closer. “Let’s not trample their streets unnecessarily,” he said, patting his own mount’s neck as he dismounted. “Mud roads are hard to maintain.”

  The party led their horses into the village proper, where the villagers regarded them with a mix of curiosity and hope. Jore soon spotted Sam, the village elder who had sent the message to the Adventurers’ Guild. He was a stout man in his sixties with a thick, gray beard and a muscular frame that spoke to a lifetime of labor as a lumberjack. He carried himself with a quiet strength, and Kharg noted that his welcoming handshake nearly matched the northern tribes’ in firmness.

  “We’re grateful for your arrival,” Sam said, his deep voice warm. “It’s been a worry for the village since our hunters first spotted those goblins.”

  Jore gestured for him to continue, his voice firm. “Tell us everything you know.”

  Sam wasted no time in leading them to a modest bench outside his home. He described four separate sightings reported by hunters in the past week. “All south of the village,” he explained, his brow furrowed. “The first was near the old quarry, then another closer to the river bend. Two more were deeper into the woods, near the ridge line.”

  Jore listened intently, his expression thoughtful. He asked a few clarifying questions about the frequency and distance of the sightings, noting each location carefully. The others remained quiet, taking in the information.

  “It’s too late in the day to start tracking,” Jore decided. “We’ll rest here for the night and head out at first light. Rub down the horses, and then we’ll enjoy a final proper meal. Eldrana knows when we’ll get another chance at that.”

  “I’ll look after your mounts while you’re away,” Sam said, his tone reassuring. “We’ve got a decent pen near the river.”

  With their plans set, the group made arrangements to stay the night. Though Wood’s Hollow had no proper inn, the villagers were generous, offering their simple hospitality. Aster and Jahram exchanged good-natured banter with the hunters, learning about the woods and sharing tales of their own. Kharg, meanwhile, caught the attention of a few children fascinated by Fafne. The faerie dragon obliged them with harmless pranks and playing hide and seek with them. Sam watched the antics with an amused smile, his eyes crinkling at the edges. As the evening wore on, the villagers gathered around a communal fire to share stories and food.

  Jore took the opportunity to remind the group of their purpose. “Tomorrow, we need to be sharp. Goblins are crafty, and this forest gives them plenty of cover.”

  Kharg nodded, feeling the weight of responsibility settle over him. As he eased into his sleeping roll that night, Fafne curled up beside him.

  * * *

  The sun had barely begun to filter through the thick canopy of the forest when they set out from Wood’s Hollow. The canopy above shaded them from the sun of what otherwise might have been a hot summer day. A pale mist rose from the moist ferns and undergrowth, bringing scents that Kharg could not place. He had barely spent any time in forests and knew little of woodcraft. Jore took up the rear, arms crossed and eyes keen, allowing the recruits to take the lead as part of their evaluation.

  Kharg’s broad-brimmed blue hat, perched jauntily atop his head, immediately drew dry remarks from Aster. “It really is a bold choice for sneaking through a forest,” Aster muttered with a grin, eyeing the plume nodding atop Kharg’s hat. “Might as well carry a flag.”

  Jahram chuckled, adjusting his chainmail as it jingled with each step. “At least it’s not shining armor. We’re subtle, if you don’t count the marching band we sound like.”

  Kharg rolled his eyes but couldn’t entirely suppress a wry smile. “Style and fashion come at a price.” Fafne, hovering nearby, gave a soft trill as if to second the sentiment as Kharg used a spell to muffle the sound around him. “At least I am silent.”

  Aster and Jahram’s efforts at stealth were inconsistent while Jore moved like a wraith. They moved cautiously, stepping over roots and ducking under branches, but the occasional snap of a twig or rustle of a fern betrayed their presence. Aster stumbled over a hidden root, muttering a colorful oath, and Jahram grumbled about the unsuitability of chainmail for forest excursions. Despite their shortcomings, Kharg felt a measure of confidence. Fafne darted ahead, his silvery scales somehow blended with the dappled light filtering through the leaves, defying all expectations. As a faerie dragon, he was not only light and agile but also an invaluable scout. Kharg had shared his thoughts with Fafne, and their bond allowed the familiar to understand his intentions without the need for spoken words.

  Late in the morning, Fafne sent Kharg a vivid impression of a foul, acrid stench that made his stomach churn, even through their mental link. The scent was unlike anything Fafne had encountered before. Through their shared bond, Fafne communicated his concern, accompanied by an image of broken ferns and disturbed undergrowth. Kharg held up a hand, signaling for the group to halt. “Fafne’s caught something,” he said in a low voice, his expression intent. “An unnatural scent. He’s scouting farther.”

  Jahram glanced around the clearing, brow furrowing. “Where is he?” he whispered.

  “Out of sight,” Kharg replied absently, still focused on the faint impressions passing through his mind.

  Somewhere behind him, Aster muttered under his breath, “Right… the dragon’s nowhere around, yet he knows what it smells like. Must be one of those strange mage tricks.” The remark was followed by the faint rustle of him shrugging it off.

  The group crouched among the trees as Kharg concentrated, his senses attuned to Fafne’s discoveries. Fafne sent him a mental image of a faint trail marked by broken ferns and twigs, the acrid scent lingering like a warning.

  “Looks like we’ve got a lead,” Kharg said, rising and gesturing for the others to follow. He led them through the forest, stepping carefully over the disturbed vegetation that marked the goblins’ passage.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  When they reached the area Fafne had indicated, Jore stepped forward to examine the ground. He crouched low, brushing aside some leaves and exposing the unmistakable imprint of goblin feet. “Half a dozen, maybe more,” he murmured, tracing the edges of a footprint with his finger. “Definitely recent.”

  Aster peered over Jore’s shoulder, his face grim. “That means they’re close.”

  Jore acknowledged with a grunt, his voice steady but firm. “Good work, Kharg. Fafne’s done us a great service. From here, we proceed with caution. Stay alert.”

  Kharg felt a mix of pride and apprehension as the group prepared to follow the trail deeper into the forest. This was no longer just a training exercise, it was a hunt for a real threat.

  A few hours later, and several miles deeper into the woods found them crouching in the relative safety of the trees at the edge of the glade, their breaths shallow and their movements hushed. The forest’s oppressive silence pressed in on them, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves. Jore’s calm gaze swept over the recruits, his longbow resting casually across his lap as though he were about to enjoy an afternoon hunt rather than prepare for a confrontation with dark folk.

  Kharg, however, felt the tension thrumming through his companions. Jahram's hands trembled slightly as he adjusted the string of his crossbow, his brow slick with sweat despite the cool shade of the forest. Aster fumbled with his bolts, nearly dropping one before managing to load it properly. Even Fafne, perched on a low branch nearby, seemed unusually subdued, though his bright eyes darted about with keen vigilance.

  Ahead of them, the mound loomed, an ancient structure weathered by time and obscured by moss. A dark arch yawned at its center, a gaping maw swallowing the light and leading into shadows deeper than the forest’s gloom. The faint curl of smoke rose from the remains of a crude fire, the ground littered with bones stripped clean.

  Jore’s quiet voice broke the silence. “The dark folk are likely holed up inside. Sunlight weakens them, so they’ll stay put until nightfall unless we draw them out. Caves like this are their favored lairs. Be ready for anything.”

  Kharg let his senses merge with Fafne, focusing on the details flowing through their bond. The faerie dragon was a hundred yards ahead, hidden among the leaves on a large branch. Through Fafne’s vantage, the dark archway revealed more. Weathered stone framed its edges, and the cold ash of the campfire was still shot through with faint orange embers. Scattered around were the gnawed bones of unfortunate animals, a grim testament to the dark folk’s presence.

  Kharg leaned closer to the group, his voice steady but low, drawing their attention. “Listen carefully. Here’s the plan. I’ll conjure an illusion, a knight in full plate-armor. It’ll approach the mound and make enough noise to lure them out. They’ll think it’s a lone fighter and expose themselves.”

  Aster arched an eyebrow. “And when they do?”

  “You and Jahram prepare your crossbows for an immediate volley,” Kharg explained, his tone firm and confident. “Focus on the ones closest to the illusion. Once they’re hit, step forward and form a shield-wall. Jore, you’ll cover us with your longbow.”

  Jahram’s frown deepened. “What about you?”

  Kharg replied confidently. “I’ll be preparing a fireball. If they try to charge, the shield-wall will buy me the time I need to hit them hard. With luck, the illusion will keep them distracted long enough for us to take control of the fight.”

  Aster weighed the idea before offering a slow, approving motion. “It’s a good plan. Better than charging in blind.”

  “Fine. Shield wall after the volley. Just don’t burn us, Kharg.” Jahram exhaled, his grip on his crossbow steadying.

  “Not unless you sprout fangs and tusks.”

  Jore gave an approving nod but remained silent, letting Kharg take charge. The recruits began preparing as best they could. Aster finally managed to load his crossbow, his movements more focused now, while Jahram tightened the straps on his shield and checked so that his broadsword would be easy to draw from the scabbard.

  Kharg wove his protective spells with familiar efficiency. A transparent shroud of air enveloped him, which rippled faintly with his movements. Next, he conjured a lasting shield of air on his left arm, a weightless copy of a normal shield. Its semi-transparent surface was almost invisible in the slight gloom under the trees. As a final effort, he brought forth his illusion, weaving light and air into the imposing figure of a knight. Seven feet tall and clad in a shining suit of plate-armor, the illusion was very lifelike and imposing as it swiveled its head. A massive sword gleamed as it rested against its shoulder, the very picture of a fearless champion.

  Aster stared at the illusion, wide-eyed. “I’ll admit, that’s... impressive.”

  Jahram snorted softly, though a hint of admiration crept into his voice. “Hope the goblins are as impressed as I am.”

  “You know, for someone who packs fancy food and a dragon, you’ve got a knack for battlefield theatrics,” Aster muttered under his breath. Kharg chuckled in response.

  He positioned the illusion near the mound, watching as its gauntleted hand raised the massive sword. “Remember,” he said, glancing at his companions. “We stick to the plan. Keep calm, stay focused. Let the illusion do its work.”

  The recruits exchanged determined yet uneasy glances as they approached the tree line. The tension was palpable as Kharg sent the illusion forward. With a resounding clang, the knight slammed its sword against its shield making a sound that would wake the dead. Kharg cringed inwardly a bit, thinking he had overdone it but Fafne gave an excited trill, lending his support.

  The group held their breath as the illusion advanced toward the archway, its movements purposeful and commanding. Shadows stirred within the mound, the acrid stench of dark folk thickening in the air. Kharg’s heart pounded in his chest, but he kept his focus, ready to unleash his next spell. Behind him, Aster and Jahram tightened their grips on their weapons, while Jore’s hand hovered near his quiver, calm and prepared.

  The glade grew tense as the illusory knight advanced toward the entrance with heavy steps, accompanied by the clanging sounds of metal against metal as it swung its sword in leisurely arcs in front of it. Kharg struggled somewhat with the illusory shadows on the ground, and hoped that the crudeness of them would not be spotted. Kharg held the spell steady, his breath even but his heart racing as the group awaited the enemy’s reaction.

  A sudden, harsh horn blast shattered the silence, almost causing Kharg to lose concentration on his spells. The sound was guttural, primitive, and filled with menace. The recruits flinched and their weapons trembled in their hands as the eerie echoes of the horn faded into the forest. Jahram muttered a curse under his breath, knuckles whitening around the grip of his crossbow. Aster shifted his weight nervously, the tip of his crossbow bolt wobbling slightly as he took aim.

  Two goblins emerged from the mound, their grotesque forms silhouetted against the dark opening. They were shorter than Kharg had expected, barely taller than a child. Their yellow, leathery skin stretched taut over wiry frames, and their arms were unnaturally long, ending in dark-clawed fingers that flexed as they gripped the crude spears. Greasy black hair hung in clumps around their flat, ugly faces, and their wide, almost lipless mouths bared small, jagged fangs under noses clipped short, as if hacked with a blade. Beady red eyes darted toward the knight, their sloping foreheads wrinkling in suspicion as they barked guttural commands in their harsh, incomprehensible tongue.

  The goblins squinted against the daylight, snarling and barking harsh commands in their guttural language. One jabbed its spear toward the illusory knight, as if testing its resolve, though the distance between them was still too great. When the knight failed to attack the goblins grew bolder and cautiously approached as they tried to menace the knight. Kharg let the knight make a casual swipe with the sword so they jumped back in alarm.

  “Hold steady,” Kharg whispered firmly, his calm tone a stark contrast to the situation. “Wait for my signal.”

  Aster and Jahram raised their crossbows, their hands trembling slightly. Aster muttered a prayer to Eldrana under his breath, while Jahram’s lips pressed into a thin line of concentration. With Kharg’s quiet encouragement, they steadied their aim and waited for the goblins to step fully into the open.

  “Now,” Kharg ordered, his voice cutting through the tension.

  Twin bolts streaked through the air, striking the goblins squarely in their torsos. The creatures let out shrill cries, their spears clattering to the ground as they fell. The recruits exchanged tense glances, then set their crossbows aside and drew their swords. Shields raised, they advanced cautiously toward the mound.

  The glade went silent once more, save for the quiet rustling of leaves. The recruits hesitated by the fallen goblins, their eyes flicking toward the dark entrance.

  “Why is nothing happening?” Aster whispered in a voice tight with apprehension and a dose of fear.

  Before anyone could answer, a sharp twang echoed through the glade. A crude arrow flew from the shadows and bounced off Aster’s chainmail with a loud clang making him stagger back a step. Then came the war cries, guttural and shrieking, filled with fury.

  “Ambush!” Jore yelled. “Hold your positions!”