Nothing but the Truth

Chapter Twelve of Under the Goblin Trees

Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly

Myron’s mare protested in terror, sidestepping, then stomping its hooves, but the illusionist maintained his seat in the saddle. Gripping the mare’s flanks between his knees, he dropped both the reigns and the flaming torch he had been carrying. He raised his hands and, with a few words of incantation, discharged a potent spell. A rainbow of colored light leapt from his hands and up into the dim canopy of the path behind us. Two of the giant spiders dropped to the path like chestnuts dropping from the tree in my garden back in Hochoch.

“They will pursue us no further,” Myron said confidently. He dismounted to retrieve his still-burning torch, clambered back onto the mare, and wheeled her about. We galloped after him, leaving the fanged menaces behind us.

After that, I looked on the spellcaster with new admiration, but Bruin scolded him, “If you had that trick up your sleeve this whole time, why didn’t you play it sooner?”

Interrogating William

Some distance further our road began to climb so steeply that we needed to dismount and lead the horses up the narrow trail. The trees retreated as we ascended. A few moments later we emerged from under the darkness of the canopy and onto a narrow ridge under the open sky. A late afternoon sun hung low on the western line of the hills above us, and for the first time we took in a view of the Dim Forest spread to the east below us. The thick canopy of the treetops, draped in snow, fell away for as far as we could see. The cold wind on our faces felt fresh and sweet after so many days in the stifling air beneath the boughs of the Dimwood. The bare height made me think that we stood atop a bald patch at the top of the head of a great giant.

By then, the poison of the spider’s bite had run its course, and Ivan stirred from his dark dreams. The venom left him pale, sickly in color, and much weakened, but we rejoiced to see him sit upright and to hear him speak to us, for we had feared the worst. Moreover, William (that little rat) shook off his paralysis and, after retching up his stomach’s contents, began to plead most miserably until I consented and loosed him of his bonds.

“How did you come to fall into those webs?” Myron demanded.   

William stammered an explanation, “Verily thy servant did wander, lost in these wide woods, seeking the pathway, when he did stumble into the eddercop’s webs. Forsooth, had not brave Sir Ivan cut thy servant free, I should be a spider’s morsel.”  

Myron spat, “Son of a devil! I swear by all the gods in whom I disbelieve! You speak lies and half-truths! You followed us by stealth, stalking our path to spy upon us when the spiders snatched you up in their traps. Why? And to what end did you pursue us? Are you not a servant of the baron?”

William sank to his knees and threw his hands up imploringly, “Far be it! Far be it! Never my lords, would I ever!”

Now I took matters into my own hands and said, “Listen to what I will say William. I have invoked an adjuration of truth by the power of the gods of truth. Answer our questions in truth.”

“Lies are but my language,” William replied under the sway of my spell despite himself. Shocked at his own unexpected candor, he clamped a hand over his mouth before it reveal more.

Taking advantage of the moment, Myron persisted, “But now you will speak only the truth! Why were you following us?”

“My lords! I was frightened and alone, and my stomach grew hungry. My lord baron’s hall is burnt, and all my cousins have scattered. Where shall I go? But thou, my lords, have shown kindness to thy servant, William,” he explained.

“Do you spy for the baron?” Myron pressed.

“Has the lord baron sent me?” William protested, shaking his goblin head emphatically.

Taking the true meaning behind that evasive answer, Myron reframed the question, “If given the chance to betray us to the baron or your goblin kin, would you do so?”

“I would never…” he started to say, but then concluded despite himself, “Unless it served me well to do so!”

Not wanting to waste the duration of the charm, I asked on further, “What do you know of that place they call the Goblin Trees?”

William replied, “Great, ancient trees! Tall and wide. Many times has thy servant travelled thither to the halls of my kin. Every clan and family is known to thy servant, and also the den of the lord baron and his folk.”

“Now William, you are compelled to speak the truth,” Myron insisted. “How many goblinfolk dwell beneath those trees?”

“Ten times one thousand is our number?” William shrugged uncertainly.

“Surely not!” Ivan objected. “That would be a mighty host far exceeding all possibility. Such a host would overrun the whole wood.”

Myron retorted, “He is compelled by the priest’s spell to speak only the truth.” We exchanged worried glances.

Bruin waved off the concern dismissively, “Goblins can’t count past their fingers and toes.”

“Not so!” William’s goblin face looked truly offended. “Mathematics are thy servant’s specialty!”

“William,” I said, “Tell us true. Is there a stealthy way by which we might enter the Goblin Trees and slay your lord, Baron Wulrich?”

“I know not, my masters,” William replied sincerely.

Now Cirilli interjected her questions into the interrogation, “Tell me true, William. Do you know what has become of the sons and daughters of Orlane sold to the lord baron in exchange for goblin men a time ago?”

William nodded reluctantly. An apologetic look crossed his face. Bowing low, he scraped, “Begging your pardon, my masters. Forgive your servant for such wicked and uncivilized news. Those children of men sent from the Rushmoor Queen are dainties for the table of my lord baron.”

I sat down hard, clutching my head in hands, and moaned at the thought. Cirilli turned her back toward us, for the girl sought to conceal her tears.

Myron pressed William further with what questions he could, plying him for all he knew of the Goblin Trees and Wulrich’s den. Before long, Ivan urged us on further. “Another hour or so and we shall be to the top of this hill, and there we may pitch our camp, but I would prefer to arrive before the sun sets.”

A Night Upon the Taura Ridge

We came to a wide-open space atop a wide, flat-topped height near the pinnacle of the Taura Ridge. No trees grew there for lack of soil; the natural stone of the mountain stood baldly exposed, washed clean by centuries of rains. What is more, the exposed bedrock of the hilltop seemed strangely smoothed, as if worked by hands. The direct sunlight had melted all snow from the stone, and the chill wind had blown it dry.

“This place is called Table Rock,” Ivan explained. “A sacred olven place. We need fear no evil here. All eight tribes revere the rock as a holy. They come here only to pray and sing, or if need be, the leaders convene for counsel or war.” William looked about anxiously, not at all comforted by the thought of pitching camp in an olven sanctuary frequented by wood elf warriors.

From that elevation we commanded a view of the whole forest stretching out north, east, west, and south. East of our ridgeline, patches of snow yet frosted the canopy, and beyond that, already cloaked and concealed in the darkness of the advancing night, the lands of Gran March. To the south and the west we saw only snow-topped trees stretching as far as we could see save a distant jagged line of the on the edge of the horizon: Barrier Peaks silhouetted by the sunset. The dull red light of the pale winter sun glinted here and there on the water of the Realstream which, far below us, flowed north to south, at the western the base of the ridgeline. The first stars had already emerged and Celene was waning.

A chill wind from the north inspired us to collect wood for a large fire. Our horses found no grazing, so we fed them from their saddlebags. From our own provisions, William ate most greedily, and I observed that we would not have supply enough for many more days. Cirilli attended further to Ivan’s wounds, pressing the poison out and speaking words of healing. Myron and I argued over William’s fate, whether we should allow him to accompany us or not. Bruin and Belvenore both counselled us to kill him and toss his body down the ridge. In the end, Myron agreed that the little rat’s knowledge of the Goblin Trees might yet prove useful if only he did not betray us. We agreed to bring him along further so long as he remained tied up tightly.

Under Open Sky

As we laid wrapped tight in cloaks and furs, we watched the first sliver of Luna’s new cycle rise over Gran March. How many days until the lycanthrope’s curse? Not more than thirteen remained until its fullness.

Myron must have been meditating on the same thoughts. He broke the silence and asked his brother, “Bruin, do you feel something wild stir inside you when you see that moon?”

Bruin grunted and rolled to his side, showing us his broad back in reply.

“Which one of us was it that fell under the charm of Explitica Defilus?” Myron continued to taunt.

I hasted to raise another topic for conversation before a fight broke out. I asked Ivan, “Where leads our path tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow … we descend back under the trees. Two day’s distance now to reach the gorge of the Realstream. We make for the old lumber road bridge. If we are fortunate, we should find rangers guarding it.”

The woodsman’s voice sounded yet weak although stronger than before Cirilli’s administrations. Even as he spoke, I imagined that I saw two shadows move past us near the edge of the camp, just beyond the fading light of our fire. Paranoid of skittering spiders and lurking werewolves, I asked, “Are we certain we need set no watch this night? Unless my eyes play tricks, I see shadows moving at the edge of camp.”

“We are watched,” Cirilli agreed from where she lay.

Ivan assured us, “Pay the shadows no heed. The elves are rightly curious about us. But there is no danger. A holy unicorn guards this hill.”

The ranger’s words elicited a frightened whining sound from William who lay nearby tightly bound hand and foot.

---

Don’t miss chapter thirteen of Under the Goblin Trees. Subscribe to Greyhawkstories.

Artwork: William Imploring, ChatGPT4 + DALL-E