Chapter Eleven of Under the Goblin Trees

Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly

Snow fell again, heavier than the days before, as we bade our farewells and made our way again under the darkening canopy of the Dim Forest. Ivan, ever wary, rode ahead upon his fine charger, followed in order by Sir Belvenore, I riding upon Crilli’s pony, and she upon Sir Merciful’s steed. Myron still sat upon his unruly mare, and, last of all, came Bruin the Bear upon his stout warhorse.

Ivan led us deeper yet into the forest, under the heavy ceiling of winter’s withered fuinoria leaves, but soon he found the path he sought. He called it “the road,” but this road was fit not for cart or wagon. It was scarcely more than a worn path that snaked and wound through the darkness with many other possible routes branching off here and there and disappearing into the dim. No straight way seemed possible, and without an able guide such as our woodsman, one might quickly lose the road and wander hopelessly lost in that twisting maze of shadows though endless colonnade of enormous trunks. Many deadfalls hampered our way, again and again, forcing us to weave away from the trail and back, and I often feared we might turn about entirely in the darkness. Our way slowly climbed in elevation as we ascended forest’s spine up the Taura Ridge. From time to time I seemed to see dark forms lurking near the trail and eyes of unknown creatures staring from the shadows.

This deep into the forest, no flake of snow fell upon the ground, for the overshadowing canopy held it all aloft, forming over our heads a soggy dripping blanket which blocked out even more of the sunlight, leaving us ever in a perpetual dusk by day and a deep starless blackness by night as Nerull would have it. Thick silence muffled all the wood round about. As if the silence forbade interruption, none of us spoke a word to one another. Only the steady plod of the horses hooves upon the soil made sound. Despite the cold, dark, miserable nights, we kept our flickering campfire small and dim, both for caution and of a necessity, for dry wood consenting to burn proved scarce, and the smoke hung about us, choking the air.

A Cry for Help

So we travelled in this manner for a day and a night and half a day again, or so we believed from the turn of dusky half-light to absolute pitch blackness and back again. Then came a sound on that second day: a thin voice hallooing for help.

“Many wicked things dwell in these dark places,” Ivan warned. “Some ghost or devil calls out to us to lead us into his trap.”

Chapter Ten of Under the Goblin Trees

Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly

I rose early for prayer and discovered Myron already awake and mumbling over his arcane business. He had stoked up a small hearth inside the tower chamber that previously belonged to the wolf, Sir Bartimaeus. The fire took the chill off the morning air. The sky had not been lit for more than an hour when Ivan called from his perch on the watch, “Behold! A mighty host approaches from the wood.”

The Trooping Host

We all scrambled to the gatehouse to peer out through the slits and windows. From under the canopy of darkness that is the Dim Forest, we perceived a trooping host, self-illuminated by dim fairy light, as if many fireflies had converged among the trees. In a short space of time, a striding giant emerged into the clearing in the form of a stout and leafy tree but of such a type I had never seen. Look! This tree was not only strange of bark and leaf, but it did stride upon great roots as a man walks upon his feet, and it did move a pair of its mighty limbs as a man swings his arms at his side, and it wore a face with eyes and mouth and a round knot of a nose.

Ivan the woodsman who, stood at my side, exclaimed, “It’s a treeman! I never thought to see the stuff of children’s tales!”

Riding astride her strange steed, perched in the leafy crown like a proud bird upon her nest, sat the dryad queen, Nyssa herself, resplendent, wreathed in flowers and draped in ivy. An entourage of young dryads, forest nymphs, elves, sprites, and faerie folk trailed behind.

Still held tight in Nyssa’s thrawl, I ordered the gate opened. Now everyone was up and about. We rushed down the gatehouse, lifted the bolt, and flung open the doors without a moment’s thought or hesitation. I hastened out to meet her. Myron tarried only long enough to speak a spell that changed his countenance to something more becoming, then hurried out to meet the queen too, sniffing and whining, fawning and groveling, “My lady, my lady.” All of us came out onto the lawn to welcome the strange host. The treeman ceased his forward stride and, it seemed to me, his glittering eyes looked upon us with suspicion.

As Myron had been left otherwise speechless and trembling by Nyssa’s majestic presence, I collected my own wits and found my tongue. “My lady, we have done thy bidding and prevailed,” I declared with solemn bow. “But a bitter price we have paid.”

From upon her perch she smiled on me, the corners of her mouth lifting only slightly. The great walking tree lowered her to the ground. So gracefully she moved that she seemed to glide toward us across the snow. Myron and I scraped and groveled, and all her fairy court curtsied and bowed before their lady.

“A bitter price,” she repeated my words thoughtfully, motioning toward the toppled Roanwood which leaned yet against the broken tower. “A bitter price,” she said again before adding, “But so sweet a prize.” She bent low and kissed me atop my head, and Myron also, “Ehlonna has heard my prayers. This day I welcome you my guests into my hall, and you shall sup at my table.”