Battle for Realbridge

Chapter Thirteen of Under the Goblin Trees

Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly

Fireseek 27 of the common reckoning 575. I rose early, reluctant to leave the relative warmth of cloak and fur. The morning had a cold bite, and my breath steamed in the air. Despite the chill, I rose refreshed by the night. Pleasant dreams, no doubt inspired by the sacred stones, had washed away the previous day’s traumas. I communed with the divine as the dawning light broke into a magnificent sunrise over Gran March. Taking full advantage of the sacred stone upon which I stood, I beseeched my Lady of Changing Seasons and all the true gods of right and good that they might grant us success in our quest. Nor did I neglect strange Ehlonna of the forest who had summoned us hither and into the sanctuary of her favored folk.

We made a cold and numb-fingered breakfast atop Table Rock, loaded the horses, and began the descent down the western slopes back into the forest. Ivan’s charger, a native to the woodlands, carried him at the head of our troop. Sir Belvenore’s proud cavalry horse came next, followed by Sir Merciful’s which now bore young Cirilli in the unfortunate knight’s stead. My sturdy pony trotted after these, with William tethered to the horn of its saddle, plodding alongside us. Myron’s unruly mare snorted and bucked behind us, and last of all came Bruin’s stout warhorse under its heavy burden. William ran alongside as long as he could, but when his little legs tired, he consented to riding with Ivan. Now Myron rode up close beside them and took advantage of the opportunity to learn the goblin tongue. He passed the miles inquiring about the goblin word for this and for that. William happily obliged and proved to be a most capable tutor.

Realstream

Our descent to the Realstream took us on a steep plunge back under the forest canopy. We again found ourselves cloaked beneath the shadows, plodding along a well-trodden but narrow twisting pathway.All around us, the trunks stood like a sprawling colonnade, each pillar separated from the next only by the darkness of the Dim.

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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?”

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Naming Iggwilv

Anna B. Meyer

Edited by Thomas Kelly

Truenames hold the immense power of the creature named. A truename might protect from the named, scry upon the named, exploit the power of the named, dominate the will of the named, or even banish the named. But it’s not an easy thing to obtain. The truename summarizes a being’s story in the form of a poem. The recitation takes at least a minute per level of the creature, and it needs to be recited in the native language of the creature. A truename can be found if you research the creature in question and identify the details of its creation, its kin, its birthplace, its development, its foes, its friends, its accomplishments, its afflictions, and its dominions. Even little details, like its phobias and quirks, can strengthen the true name. But be careful. Truenames keep changing as a creature remains active and adds chapters to its story. In that respect, a truename is only true for a short while before it must be updated in order to stay true. So let’s explore some of the story we might use to name Iggwilv.

She’s called Queen of Witches, Mistress of Demons, Matriarch of Diabolists, Mother of Iuz, Daughter of Baba Yaga, Apprentice of Zagig, the Witch-Queen of Perrenland, and Author of the Demonomicon. But her birth name was Natasha, and she was born into a very poor family somewhere in the Tuflik valley. The family’s situation was so dire that her parents gave the baby away, sold her off, or worse. She ended up in the hands of the legendary hag Baba Yaga. Natasha grew up in The Dancing Hut. At the age ten, Baba Yaga taught her how to summon demons. Natasha despised her adopted sister, Elena the Fair. 

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Web of Shadows

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.”

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Free Greyhawk Novel

Download a free Dungeons & Dragons novel set in the world of Greyhawk, the original campaign setting for the worlds greatest role playing game! Follow the links below to get your free e-book or PDF version of The Hateful Wars: The Saga of Kristryd Olinsdotter.

Download your free copy of e-book here.

PDF Version
E-Book Version

I originally published this novel as a chapter-by-chapter serial at Greyhawkstories.com back in the pandemic years (2020-2021). Since then, I have revised the text, corrected a lot of errors, and collected all the chapters into one convenient downloadable file that will work on e-readers like Kindle.

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Hall of the Dryad Queen

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.”

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The Lumberjacks

Chapter Nine of Under the Goblin Trees

Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly

“Help me prepare fire,” Myron commanded. Even I know that trolls must be burned in fire or their wounds will heal themselves. Once severed, a troll’s limbs might reattach while the beast fights on. Myron, Cirilli, and I searched the tower chambers for flammables, oil, grease, pitch, wax, and fat while our four warriors descended by a wooden ladder to the ground level of tower and out into the court to smite those lumberjacks.  

The Two Trolls

To either side of the Witch Tree stood the trolls, chained there by some heavy enchantment. If you have never seen a troll, count yourself blessed and favored of the gods. These long-limbed gangly horrors stand a man and a half tall and more. They would stand even taller if ever they righted their posture to stand up straight. They prefer to amble along hunchbacked and arched of spine with their long and carrot-shaped noses pointed toward the ground. The flexible nose twitches and bends, this way and that, as the troll sniffs out prey. A troll’s nauseating green and grey mottled flesh is oily, slippery, and reeks like urine. Nevertheless, the skin is tough like hardened leather, like the bark of a tree, and trolls typically need no armor or clothing, or if they do wear anything at all, only skins and rags and ornaments of bone in the most primitive of manner. They are long and sinewy creatures, always appearing emaciated and famished and without any fat on their visible bones, and indeed, their appetites are insatiable. The clawed hands on the ends of their long swinging arms are their most formidable weapon. Although the troll appears spindly of limb as it totters about on long lanky legs, it is strong as a giant. Its raking clawed hands can tear a man asunder as easily as one might open a loaf of bread. Atop the troll’s angular skull grows a mass of dark writhing bristles resembling hair. For a mouth, the troll has a gnashing maw armed with sharp flesh-stripping teeth set just above its jutting chin. Most unnerving of all, black and lifeless eyes set deep in the troll’s skull glare out with a dull animal malice. The blank eyes give the troll a terrifying aspect despite the ridiculous protruding nose. I have heard that a troll might have two, three, or more heads, but I have seen only single-skulled specimens.  

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Mayloriel’s Leap

THE LIBERATION OF GEOFF

The Giant Slayers part 3: Mayloriel’s Leap
(Thomas Kelly)
A campaign based on Living Greyhawk Geoff and Against the Giants.

Drowsily the warm summer night blankets darkened Geofflands. But for the blazing stars, only the last faint silver sliver of Luna before Walpurgis night casts scarce light across the Upper Lea. “If I trip in the dark, I’ll fall asleep before I hit the ground,” Brynn complains. Her war dog, trotting along beside her, whines sympathetically.

“Sleep soon enough,” Mayloriel beckons the party hasten after her. “A little further between us and the snouts of those wargs.” The elf lass hurries them along over heath and stone, dodging from starlit shadow to shadow, weaving a course parallel the Lea Road from Pregmere. Cloaked in darkness, hooded under coats from Edhellond, and moving quiet in soft boots sewn by olvemaid hands, the party moves invisible, but they cannot mask the scent of their passing.

“We had not a proper rest the night before Pregmere, nor all the day we spent there. We can’t run all night like this and keep our strength,” Ansgar growls. He shifts the weight of his pack from one shoulder to the other.

“A heartening song I’ll sing, and make the heathlands ring!” the gnomish bard volunteers.

“You’ll not!” A stern word from Ansgar silences the songmaster’s crooning.

A Short Rest

Another hour stumbling through the dark.

“I canna go no further,” Bryn collapses to the ground.

Only Mayloriel’s keen eyes are visible gleaming in the dark, flashing in the starlight as she surveys the landscape about. “There rises a rock wall on the south side of this hillock. We’ll put our backs to it a short spell until the light,” she confers with Gundoriel in the elven tongue. The Flame of Larethian agrees.

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A Battle before Breakfast

Chapter Eight of Under the Goblin Trees

Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly

Before first light, Cirilli and I conducted our devotions and invoked the power of our lady. Moreover, Cirilli said, “We should turn our prayers to Ehlonna in whose woods we wander and who has summoned us hither.” I shrugged off the suggestion. Cirilli raised her invocation to the fey Lady of the Wood. I left her to her reverie.

As the morning light filtered through the boughs, Ivan pointed out a path of prints in the snow circling around our camp. “Last night’s werewolf came from the tower and returned to it,” he said. Now we were perplexed. As yet, we had no better plan for assault. Ivan suggested, “If perhaps we can draw them out to pursue us …”

Myron drew our attention to something that none of us had previously noticed. Outside the tower, not more than fifty feet from its stone walls stood one lone Roan, swaying slightly as if in the wind.

“That tree was not there when we arrived yesterday,” Belvenore said. “That tree was not there even a few moments ago.”

“An illusion,” I suggested, but Myron insisted that our eyes were seeing the truth.

“If you observe, you can see that the tree is moving,” Cirilli stated. “The trees are laying siege for us.”

So it was. As we watched, we discerned the distance between the Roanwood and the tower closing. The tree slowly advanced, leaving a trail of freshly turned earth behind it. The goblins took note of the approaching Roanwood too, and they launched flaming arrows from the tower top, trying to set the menacing besieger ablaze.

Sir Belvenore exclaimed, “By Cuthbert and Heironeous! The gods are fighting for us! Now woodcutter, take your axe and drop that tree on yonder tower and let it serve us as our siege ramp.”

Cirilli objected and called it a sacrilege, but Ivan, who also revered Ehlonna, saw no moral difficulty in dropping a Roanwood tree, whether it moved about or not. We had not yet even eaten breakfast and the warriors were donning arms, armor, helm, and gear. Ivan set to the task of felling the tree while Sir Belvenore and Sir Merciful shielded him from the goblin’s darts. Ivan’s axe unbalanced its immense weight. The Roanwood began to lean and groan. A few more blows and it tottered, staggered, then made a crashing fall broken by the tower’s battlements. It crushed goblins as it struck and tossed others to the ground. There it remained, leaning up against the tower, as neat a siege ramp as you could ask. The blow caused some collapse to the structure. Dislodged stones rained to the ground.

Sir Belvenore, Merciful, and Bruin immediately began to ascend the trunk, threading their way around the boughs and branches. Ivan assisted with his axe, cutting a path for their ascent. They made slow progress in their cumbersome armor, and at one point, Sir Merciful slipped to the ground. Uninjured by the fall, he clambered back on the leaning trunk, crawling on hands and knees, scrambling behind his colleagues in arms. I followed more cautiously. It took me a few tries to get up onto the great trunk, and, even after I had done so, I made only small progress up the tree not without losing my footing once. No broken bones. Cirilli helped me up, and we made the ascent together. Myron followed last and slowest.

The crown of the Roanwood rested on the battlements, making for a tangled confusion of branch, leaf, and broken stone. The fighting men pushed through the thick mass of foliage, emerging into a volley of goblin darts. Less than a dozen goblin guards remained atop to defend the battlements. They wore the sort of leather and chain armor favored by the goblinfolk, and they carried long knives, short swords, and bows.

Bruin thrust his spear into the first in the midst of the leafy obstruction. Arrows bounced off his armor and shield, but more than one punctured their way to find flesh and draw blood. By then we were all caught up in combat, swinging madly and blindly, netted in the crown of the Roanwood tree. Belvenore found one with the end of his sword. I came behind with my sickle and finished the wounded guard.

“More coming,” Bruin shouted. Free of the entangling brush, he ran his spear through another defender. The force of the thrust sent the goblin flailing over the edge of the tower, Bruin’s spear still impaling him. Sir Merciful clambered out of the tangle and rushed the last defender on the ring of the tower, thrusting him backwards and into the open center of the tower. I peered down to the ground at the center of the tower ring. I saw his broken body lying in a courtyard below. At the center of the court stood Nyssa’s oak, rising up the height of the tower, it’s crown spreading out above our heads. Even as I peered down, two great trolls with axes shamble out into the courtyard.

“Trolls below!” I shouted.

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Witch Tree Tower

Chapter Seven of Under the Goblin Trees

Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly

We travelled not some far way into the darkness of the wood that dim lit morning before Ivan indicated we ought to leave off from the road. His keen eyes followed the track of the goblin messenger. Ivan dismounted and examined the prints and trail markings before assuring us, “Our path leaves the main trail here and begins to climb this rise.”

Sir Belvenore and Sir Merciful huffed and objected. “Well known that one who leaves the road never finds his way out of the forest,” Sir Merciful shook his helmeted head.

“There’s no fear of that,” Ivan assured us. “So long as I am with you, we will not lose ourselves in this wood, even if we do lose the way.”

Cirilli spoke like an oracle, “The forest will direct our path. Pay attention to the trees. They direct us now to Nyssa’s oak.” Something about the way she spoke troubled me more than the words themselves. It was not the way a proper daughter of our Lady of Changing Seasons said things. I gave her a disapproving scowl, but she turned her head, pretending not to notice my displeasure.

Belvenore and Merciful wanted to stay with the trail, but none of us said we would stay with them. They feared becoming hopelessly lost in the forest without Ivan’s assistance even if they remained on the road. Moreover, their oaths to their lord bound them to protect us and guide us as they could.

Ivan turned his attention back to studying the prints. After some few minutes of peering about in the near darkness he concluded, “This path is well-trodden. I see many goblin prints, coming and going, and also the marks of hooves. And here are the prints of a great dog … nay, not a dog, but a wolf, methinks.”

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