Chapter Seventeen of Under the Goblin Trees
Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly
“Thanks be to Mother Beory! If not for you children, sure as seven hells, I’d be lying there dead with these me two fellas!” The survivor gestured toward his fallen companions.
“Tut, tut,” I drew up my steed alongside the man. “We are servants not of Oerth Mother such as the heathen adore but of the proper gods of Old Aerdy.” As an afterthought, I added with some reluctance, “And also, by some commission, Ehlonna, Lady of the Wood.”
He looked on me quizzically and then cast his eyes to Bruin. When his gaze fell last upon William, his face darkened with suspicion. “Whatever and whoever you serve, help me now to bury me kinsmen, these good men of the Geoff Lands, lest they be food for beast and fiend. I’ll raise a mound atop them ‘til me fellows return for their pyre. Then will I be on me way and leave you to your business.”
“No need to fear,” I assured him. “We too are Geoffmen and men of the March. I see by your colors, tunic and cloak, you are one of the duke’s bowmen. Perhaps a member of the Lea scouts?”
Friends or Foes?
The ranger gestured toward William, pointing at the goblin with his naked blade, “That’s no Geoffman nor man of the March! Nor are these woods fit for child and a little hobniz lad less they be slaves and sacrifices under the Goblin Trees.” Still brandishing the sword, he turned toward Bruin, preparing to face off with the big warrior, for he supposed him a flesh trader.
Preoccupied nursing his most recent wounds, Bruin paid no attention to the conversation nor did he acknowledge the ranger’s challenge.
“Peace, brother. I know you’re folk!” little Ivan’s squeaking voice piped up. “I’m a son of Micksalicks, and my father hosted men from your band a year ago now on the Feast of Saint Bane. Methinks you were among that company and did sit, sup, and drink at my father’s board.”
“That I was! A year now past in Roanwood Village! Grudger Tom is me name, and these, me sorry fellows, sat also at your father’s table that same night,” the man sheathed his blade and wiped away tears. “Don’t remember any such young child in your father’s hall, but I see the look of the family in your face, and the way of their speech in your words.”
“Well, if you will believe it, I am that same son of Micksalicks called Ivan who sat to the right of my father’s place at the head of the board. We are not children, but victims of fey magic.”
Slow realization occurred to the fellow, and he exclaimed, “Tasted of the pool, did you? There’ll be no cure, so I’ve been told, less the magic wears off on its own.” Grudger Tom sounded relieved to have solved the riddle, but the prognosis he offered perplexed me no small amount.
“We have not time to raise a mound. My spell will soon expire. That walking tree might well return to finish with us,” Cirilli warned. “I will use what arts I have left to heal your steed of its wounds. Perhaps we can help you bear these fallen friends of yours to some safer place.”
“That will be a mercy to be repaid you in the day of reckoning,” Grudger Tom replied. “Me band makes its camp not many leagues from this place. We can repay your trouble with a warm meal and hot fire.”
We met that last suggestion with enthusiasm all around. More words were exchanged as Bruin hoisted Grudger Tom’s sorry friends onto the horses (and a grisly mess that was). We explained our predicament and how we had come to this place in the forest.
Bruin put William back on the leash because he kept baring his teeth, hissing, and snapping at Grudger Tom. Cirilli took charge over the goblin. Her authority over the lyrannikin had much impressed the little pisser, and he accorded the girl new respect and fear. No more pinching or poking at her.
“I’m a woodsmen all my life, yet until today, I never saw a devil’s tree like that one,” Ivan remarked.
“Big Clubber! Well, that’s what we always called him. Few who see a lyrannikin live to tell of it,” Grudger Tom replied. “An old custodian of the Goblin Trees. One of the last of his kind in this part of the woods. We hope.”
“What provoked the tree to attack your party?” Myron asked.
“Ah, there’s olvenfolk stirring on the borders, and that’s what brought him out and about I expect. We was hunting goblin scalps when we come upon him!”
The Good Fellowship
Grudger Tom and his Geoffmen made their camp between the enormous roots of one of those big Dim Forest hardwoods with the long horizontal stretching limbs. Rope ladders dangled from the boughs above where the men slept on the flets according to the custom of olvenkind in all these lands. They were nine men, all counted, excluding the two dead companions we bore back to their camp. These were met with much lamentation from the fellows of that place. Some of the men set about straightway to gather fuel for the burn.
Despite those solemnities, my companions and I found good cheer in our hearts, for the captain of the troop invited us to share from their soup pot which seethed over an open fire with venison boiling in the broth. The hot soup chased the chill of the dark wood from our bones. Even William was allowed to sup with us, although more than one of the fellows demurred, “Bad luck to let a devil boy live.”
They were skillful hunters, keeping eye on the borderlands lest ogres or orcs steal out from under the Dim to raid Geoffland farms. The good fellows collected goblin scalps to redeem for coin in the local villages. Such bounties were the custom among the woodsmen and those villages round about the edges of the Dim Forest. Most folk of the duchy were glad enough to have such men patrolling the wood and keeping safe their flocks so long as they did not extort from them their wage.
The head of the band was a certain half elf of Keoland known to the others only as the Sheriff, and he introduced himself as such. “I’m the Sheriff of Dimwatch!” he said cheerfully. “And these are my men, everyone of them loyal to me.” Although a halfblood, his elven features shown keenly, and he might have passed for an elf except for the beard. Sheriff knew Ivan’s family and all the folk of Roanwood Village. Our tale of wolfing night nearly a month now past amazed and troubled him. He eyed up Bruin fearfully as if the big man might transform into a wolf before his eyes.
Sheriff seemed to me noble born, cultured and well-lettered, but when I inquired of his house he laughed it off and made a jest of it, “My house? This is my house beneath these roots! I am an outlaw to the Lion Throne, but here, in these woods, I am the law!”
What is more, Sheriff and his fellowship knew the name of Felligan, a young elven companion of mine who we lost to the touch of the undead wight that lurked in the Naga’s layer under the vast marsh. All those fellows were sorry to hear of Felligan’s fate and eager to hear all that tale too. One story led to another until piece by piece we told the Sheriff all that had befallen us and how we had come to the edge of the Goblin Trees.
“Am I to understand the sum your quest is this: the head of the Lord Baron Wulurich?” Sheriff asked. When we agreed it was so, he whistled through his teeth intoning dismay and wonder. “May the gods that have led you thus far grant for you success in your endeavor, but what can four children, a hobniz child, and one man at arms hope to accomplish in the middle of a wolf’s den?”
“But we must go all the same,” Myron insisted, his childish voice grating like a metal rasp. “We have no other will. Such is the weight of the enchantment that compels us.”
“Double-enchanted,” the Sheriff mused.
“Triple-enchanted,” Bruin sighed.
After giving our story some thought and asking more details, Sheriff said, “Perhaps some divine cunning of Ehlonna is at work, as you say. Then take my advice. It’s well-known that the goblin king, whoever he may be, pays the flesh traders good coin for human children to feed to his wolves. If in that guise you go, as slaves to the market, you may find your way beneath the Goblin Trees yet.”
“Can you guide us there? Or send one of your men to show us the path?” Ivan asked.
“I will set you on the path to the front porch, but I cannot walk with you beneath the Goblin Trees. They know my scent! Nor dare I send my own folk in such a treacherous hour, lest the curse of lycanthropy overtake them, too. Besides all that, I have no man left to spare. Tomorrow, we join the Woodfolk of Derellion on the edge of that copse lest the dogs spill forth and overrun these woods, come the fullness of Luna. My men join the elves on the morrow and take what scalps we may, but we will not tread beneath the Goblin Trees.”
Sheriff had some healing arts in his hands with which he helped bind our wounds and straighten us for the journey ahead. Moreover, his men helped to fit us with clothing, weapons, and gear more to our size.
That night, while we settled down at peace under sheltering roof of root and earth beneath the broad splaying roots of the great tree, Sheriff and his men bade farewell to their companions by flame of a nearby funeral pyre. Such is the way of the heathen Flanmen of those parts. I fell into peaceful sleep under the mournful lullaby of their funeral dirge and the crackle of heathen flames.
The Treetop Road
On the morrow, they served us breakfast from their porridge pot. We sat around an open fire with the fellowship, grateful for the warm food. William gulped down the porridge greedily despite the scowls of the good fellows. “Have a thought for others, you little devil!” Bruin scolded him.
“You will need to leave your horses here with our boys to look after if you intend to travel with us,” Sheriff warned.
“Why? Are the horses the price of your hospitality?” Myron asked indelicately.
“No, Master Illusionist, we will not steal your steeds,” Sheriff laughed. “But we do not intend on walking beneath the boughs of the Goblin Trees, nor should you think you will ride there. If you come with us, you will need to walk the branches in the manner of the woodland elves. I think your steeds will find the footing too treacherous for their hooves to manage.”
“What? Walk the boughs like fleetfooted fairies?” Belvenore objected. “I will not!”
But he did, as did we all. By midmorning, with all things prepared, the band of good fellows was ready to set out. By way of dangling rope ladders, they ascended into the darkness of the crown above and beckoned for us to follow. That we did, one at a time, slowly making our way up into the dim of leaf and branch and bough above that gave this great wood its name.
At first, it was a matter of pushing through a mass of scratching twigs and withered winter leaves in utter darkness, but presently, as I ascended after the Grudger Tom, the dim subsided and a glow of daylight grew brighter. In short time, I emerged onto an open road, so to speak, suspended in the canopy. A low-ceilinged narrow tunnel of rustling leaf and crown arched it over. Bright shafts of winter sunlight streamed through open breaks in the foliage, here and there, here and there, lighting the way in enchanting fashion. Unheard in the quiet hush below, birds sang in the sunlight. The air felt cold and tasted fresh. I filled my lungs with it.
My hair-covered feet stood upon a wide bough of Deklo that gently rose horizontally as it stretched off to disappear in the distance ahead where the Sheriff’s men already walked ahead, beckoning for us to follow. At the end of that span another way opened, joining to another branch by which we could move to the next, and so it went.
At first, we made our way slowly with considerable hesitation along the elf road, but at the urging of Grudger Tom and Sheriff, we tried to keep pace with the rangers. Cirilli took to branch-walking as if she were a squirrel all along. Still leashed, William hopped along on all fours behind her, completely unconcerned with the height. Ivan, a woodsmen accustomed to climbing, showed no fear, but Belvenore whimpered miserably and pouted with every step, clinging to us the whole way and frequently loosing his footing. As to be expected, Myron also had a few slips, but only so far as the canopy would allow his child-sized body to drop. With considerable cussing and wheezing, he scrambled back onto the branch and continued for a pace before slipping again. Here and there we found it necessary to leap from one bough to the next or swing on ropes as if we were losels leaping through Amedio jungles. Such a feat was not so difficult for the good fellows, but the child-sized among us relied on help from the long arms of the adults to catch us and steady us.
Bruin had the most trouble of all with the treetop roads since he insisted on keeping his armor and most of his weapons. Over encumbered and off balance, he lost his footing several times and, on one occasion, nearly fell to his death. He had to walk hunched over when the canopy closed in tightly or catch his helm in the leafy ceiling, for the elven folk of the Dimwood are diminutive, more akin to fairies than their taller Oyt and Hornwood cousins. The adult-sized menfolk stooped as they made their way along those parts of the elf road. In this manner, we travelled what I can only guess to have been miles for the remainder of that whole morning and into the afternoon before stopping to rest and take some food, perched up in the trees.
As the winter light darkened and the air chilled, we drew nigh the Goblin Trees. Now we observed the way grow more foul, the foliage blighted and thorned, and the boughs more treacherous. We moved slower and with greater caution. If ever we spoke, Sheriff hushed us and bade us keep our voices low.
Presently we could hear faint the shout of warriors and the sound of battle engaged. Then came upon us from behind a hurrying band of elvenfolk of Derellion, all of them small folk with gleaming eyes, long wild hair, and slender limbs. Their bows were already strung; naked blades flashed in their hands. William squealed in terror at the sight of them and tried to scramble into the thick, but Cirilli held the leash. Moving swift as wind, the elves passed us by upon the trees with hardly a word exchanged except a brief greeting for Sheriff.
Some short way further on, elves occupied the trees all about. Goblin voices in nearby treetops snarled and cursed and spat. Arrows passed back and forth between the two. They pierced the leafy walls and stuck into the wood. From forest floor below came the distant bay and snarl of wolves, intent upon the hunt. Bruin sniffed at the air as if he caught their scent. A low guttural growl escaped his throat.
“Here we part ways,” Sheriff said. “You will find the front porch to the wolf’s den below you. Make your descent quickly. If any beast or man find you, feign yourselves thralls to Big Bruin and William for the slave markets. They may even bring you to the heart of the trees.”
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Artwork: Ranger Camp beneath the Roots, ChatGPT4
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