by Ember Lane
“Where is Daemon Mercer?” Merl asked.
“We held him on the shores of Darlencia, but that was before I’d left. Now? My guess is that Tintagel is no more, and Daemon Mercer’s ships sail our way. My guess is that this plague was his doing, and that it has cleared the way for his bloodless victory over Alaria, Valaria, Epsosodium and the Fellian Wilds. My guess, Merl, is that we are already too late.”
“Then why are we bothering? Why don’t we just go to Morgan Mount and wait for him?” Merl asked.
“Would you give up Portius to Daemon Mercer’s bastards, Merl? Would you invite his hordes to her doorstep? Or would you fight many miles away and hope that her threshold is not breeched.”
Merl wriggled uneasily. “You know the answer to that, Frank.”
“Then you know what we must do,” Frank said, but he sounded tired.
“Never give up,” Merl said.
“And pray that the Witches of Wormelow Tump aren’t as useless as they appear to be.” Frank grinned and winked at Merl. He quickly turned away before Desmelda could issue a riposte.
Merl, however, wanted to hear her answer. “Well, what can they do?”
Desmelda threw her head back and made a noise that sounded like pure frustration. “They have done all they will.”
“And what is that?” Merl asked.
She leveled her gaze at him. “They sent me.”
Merl stared at the flames. Frank, Billy, and Desmelda were all asleep. Gloomy Joe stirred, whimpering and growling in his doggy dreams. The surrounding forest oozed tranquility, yet Merl didn’t feel rested at all. The river flowed by. Its gentle burble was soothing, its ripples flowing like moonlit sequins. Quaiyl stood as a sentinel, and just his mere presence should have comforted Merl, but it somehow reminded him that danger was waiting for them, lurking westward, and they were rushing toward it. A dozen guardians surrounded them too, a free indulgence so that they could all sleep, yet Merl had never been so awake. His earlier conversations with Frank had unsettled Merl more than he realized. He hated that they might be too late. Failure was no future, and that thought troubled him. It didn’t seem like a thought he would actually have.
Gloomy Joe stuck his head up. He sniffed the air and began to wag his tail.
“What is it, boy?” Merl whispered, trying to keep his voice down, as he suddenly realized he was enjoying his lonesome reflection.
Gloomy Joe stood. He leaned forward, his tail straight as a stick, and nose pointed into the forest. Merl spied a small, blue light. It shone like a tiny star. Gloomy Joe took a step toward it. Merl hesitated, but then inched over too. They crept around the fire and then through the guardian line. Quaiyl trotted along behind them, though Merl sensed no danger, and Gloomy Joe didn’t growl.
They stepped into the forest and headed toward the light, but it soon became apparent that there were two sources. The lights emanated from two lanterns, and they were held up by timber posts with cross beams. They dangled on little chains. Upon close inspection, Merl realized the blue lights inside weren’t flames at all, but iridescent fairies. The one on Merl’s right was sitting on the lantern’s base studying her nails, while on the other side the fairy bent and blew Merl a kiss before giggling and covering her mouth.
Crushed bark littered the space between the lamps and then snaked off into the distance, where Merl could now see another two lamps. He stepped along the path, waving a goodbye to the two fairies. After a glance back to the camp, he chose to keep on exploring, not wanting to disturb the others. Gloomy Joe sensed no danger, and Quaiyl was just behind. What harm could possibly befall him? The enchanted pathway led up the riverbank’s rise, traversing the slope and then turning back and reaching higher, lit by pairs of evenly spaced fairy lanterns. Merl shrugged and marched along it, but somehow marching didn’t suit it at all. It felt too hurried, too forceful, and too fast, and so he settled into an ambling pace, and that let his ears attune to the forest’s ambience. The tiny fairies were all talking to each other. They were laughing, giggling, sniggering. They called ahead to announce his imminent arrival.
Merl and Gloomy followed the bark-strewn path is as it curled up and away from their camp. They were soon lost in the trees, but Merl didn’t worry, since the path would lead them back. Looking up, he spied round houses perched on the tree’s branches. They resembled ten-foot-wide bird’s nests with pitched roofs and leafy walls. He saw ropeways and ladders and giant tree trunks with spiral steps carved in them. The path climbed until it crested a ridge, and there Merl stood and he looked down into a bowl.
Except he didn’t look at a forest’s canopy—he looked between it and the forest floor, and he saw thousands of blue lanterns forming a hundred illuminated pathways that spread across the hollow’s floor like the silken strands of a glistening spider’s web.
Merl marveled at the scene, at its countless tree huts and rope bridges, at its very air that seemed to be alive with sparks like a fire’s rising ash but Merl knew were some kind of firefly. He searched out its people, yet he saw only hints and shadows. A flash of green here, a shade of brown there, glimpses, only glimpses graced his blinking eyes, like a hand drawn back or a swirl of ebony hair.
“Hello?” Merl called, but Gloomy padded on down, still wagging his tail. His whole back half moved like his hinge was clapping.
Merl had learned a fair bit about Gloomy Joe, and he knew the dune dog had a keen sense of what was safe and what wasn’t. A coward’s sense, Billy had called it, but sensible sense as far as Merl was concerned. Merl had a similar sense himself. He felt no fear from the village, but his trust in new and wonderful things had been shattered multiple times of late.
“Be careful, Gloomy, everything nice has gone tits up of late.”
The lantern fairies became more animated as Merl and Gloomy ambled down the hill. They began pointing. They began clapping, cheering, and blowing more and more kisses. Merl blushed as they leaned toward him, beseeching him to come closer and plant kisses on their little cheeks.
“They’re fresh ‘uns,” Merl told Gloomy, more to settle his growing nerves than to let Gloomy in on a fact that was plain to see.
Merl veered over to one, peering at the lantern. The fairy within became even more animated, her tiny gossamer wings fluttering as fast as a dippin’ bird’s, and her hand waved in front of her blushing cheeks.
“Greetings, Lord,” the little fairy said, and then curtseyed and bowed her head low. “Welcome to Farthing Firth,” and she backed away to the very edge of the lantern and dissolved into laughter.
Merl’s confused look lingered for a while before he continued on his way. A brook threaded along the bottom of the bowl, vanishing under a great tumble of rocks that looked like a fall. The trail he and Gloomy were on led to a planked wood footbridge that crossed the brook. Merl stopped in his tracks as a woman raced toward it.
She was perhaps four feet tall, and had her white hair drawn into two plaits that fell over her narrow shoulder and down her simple tan tunic. A pair of pants of the same color were tucked into knee-high boots that were heavily laced and bowed. She glanced up at Merl. A look of horror was firmly set upon her, yet it wasn’t fear of Merl and Gloomy—something much simpler than that. It was the type of horror that was born of being late for something you’d been praying would happen for an age and now you thought you might miss it, Merl decided, completely confused as to why she’d be in such a bluster. She skidded to a stop dead center of the bridge, brushed down her clothes, and straightened. A golden stripe with a dot under then appeared over her head, but Merl realized it had always been there—it had only just become luminous.
All around the little village, other small folk began appearing. Most had NPC written above their bonces, but some had the dotted stripe, and some had the shepherd’s crook with the same dot under it. All appeared surprised. All reminded him of something, and that was a strange event that had happened in Walinda Alepuller’s tavern a long while ago.
It was on a winter’s
morning, and Merl and his dad had been snowed in. Merl never minded the snow. In fact, he never really minded getting snowed in. It meant he’d only have to pull a fresh bale of winter grass down from the barn’s stock and dump it in the feeders so that the winter sheep could gobble it up, and he’d only have to break the ice on their drinking trough. If the stink was too bad, he might have shoveled some muck into a pile so Billy could take it later, but that was the sum of it. Getting snowed in wasn’t so bad, and if his dad was in a good mood Merl occasionally got some yarn or the other about where his dad had traveled when he was young.
That was provided he was snowed in at home too.
The night they got snowed in at Walinda Alepuller’s was a disaster for Merl. Walinda had hated it too, howling all night like some baying wolf, and calling for his dad even though his was in the same room. Merl had slept with his head covered in blankets, but it hadn’t helped much. That was the start of his nightmare, and it had lasted three days. On the fourth day, the strange thing happened. The snow stopped falling and the sun came out, except it was the wrong sun—it was the summer sun—and its hot glare melted a load of snow in the time it took for the sun to climb to its peak.
That had put a bounce in Walinda’s step as she’d realized she could make some coin. Walinda opened the doors of the tavern, and half the men in the village had spilled in straight away. The odd thing that Merl observed was them taking up the exact same spots they’d been in a few days ago, and they’d resumed near enough the exact same conversations, and that’s what it looked like was happening in Farthing Firth, and it was occurring right in front of him.
Merl came to the bridge. He hesitated, but Gloomy Joe wandered over, sniffing at the small woman’s boots. Now that Merl was closer, he could see she had quite the heavy brow, and a fair-sized conk underneath. Her chin was tiny, and the whole effect was to make her look a little bird-like—a little beaky. She was also doing her best to ignore Gloomy Joe, subtly steering his snout away with the tip of her boot.
Taking a gulp, Merl crossed the bridge, and as he approached her a flash of letters appeared in his bonce and the words, “Reth-Reth Reyley,” sounded in his ears.
“Hello?” Merl ventured, looking down at the little woman.
“Greetings, adventurer. My son Relf-Relf has fallen over and banged his head. The leader of our little village, Half-Half Biley, has told me to bring some wicken mushrooms, spider yarn, and south-facing moss that he might be saved. Could you fetch them for me? You’ll find them all about the Firthing Wood.”
Merl was a little taken aback, as he had been expecting a hello or something. He didn’t mind helping folk, but he wasn’t used to being asked by strangers the instant he ambled up to them, and besides, she seemed in an infinitely better position to get the items herself as she must have known the surrounding area. She would probably recognize a wicken mushroom—where he’d never seen one—would possibly know what spider yarn looked like, and would know where to look for south-facing moss. It all seemed a little daft.
“Why don’t you go get it?” Merl asked. “He’s your son.”
A look of confusion shimmered over Reth-Reth’s expression.
“No, you’re supposed—look—” She stiffened and cleared her throat. “Greetings adventurer, my son Relf-Relf has fallen over—”
“I heard you the first time, and I’d love to help, but I don’t know what—”
Reth-Reth pulled him close. Her hammer-like head twisted in anger. “Look,” she growled at him. “You’re supposed to either accept the quest or bugger off. You aren’t supposed to start arguing.”
“But I was just saying that you’d—”
“Are you daft? Didn’t you hear me? Yes, no, or bugger off. Now, let’s try again.” Reth-Reth composed herself. She smoothed her tunic down and took a great breath. “Greetings adventurer. My son Relf-Relf has fallen over—”
Merl held his hand up, stopping her in mid flow. He’d had a much better idea. “I could go and get my friend. She’s a witch. She could probably heal your son without all the fuss,” Merl told the woman.
Reth-Reth stamped her feet and grabbed his tunic again, pulling him even closer this time. Her beaky nose nearly touched his as her nostrils flared in anger. “Listen, I’ve waited here for a bloody age for you lot to return. My mother waited before me, her mother before that. I don’t want your sodding witch to heal my boy—hell, he ain’t even sick. He’s over there pretending to be a blacksmith—like we’d have one of them here. Here’s how it’s all gonna go down. You’re gonna say yes. You’re gonna go get the stuff, and the quest updates and tells you to give the stuff to Half-Half Biley. You think he should give you the gold. He doesn’t. He tells you to come see me and I give you your gold and experience, and then everyone’s happy. Got it?”
Merl didn’t have it at all, but one thing she’d said did pique his curiosity. “How much coin?”
“Six gold.”
“Six gold!” Merl screeched, trying to keep his excited voice down but failing miserably.
“What can I say? It ain’t the hardest quest in the land, so it’s hardly likely to pay well.”
“Six gold!” Merl shrieked. It might have been nothing to her, but it was a small fortune to him. Six gold would give him enough to buy a dozen sheep. Six gold would keep him fed through winter. He leaned in, now more than a little interested in her quest. “How long do you think it would take?”
Reth-Reth glanced at the village, then leaned into his ear, cupping her hands. “A phase, a hundred turns possibly, perhaps, but certainly no more. The mushrooms are about a hundred yards that way. The spiders are in the rock cairn over there, and the south-facing moss grows on the trees to the north.”
Merl glanced around. “Okay, then, I’ll do it.”
As he said it, a huge bank of words flashed in his mind, but Merls was too excited about the gold to even bother with it. Merl had no idea if he’d ever need the gold, seeing as Frank or Desmelda—at a push Billy—seemed to pay for everything, but he thought it would be nice to have some just in case. Plus, if he’d given up the chance for such easy coin, he’d bet a dragon to a wyvern that his old dad’s hand would rise from his grave and slap Merl across the back of his head. Six gold would set him and Portius up. It would give them a good foundation to build on.
“That way?” Merl pointed, but Reth-Reth had returned to standing upright, and the golden dot and stripe above her head had dulled.
“Greetings, adventurer. My son Relf-Relf has fallen over and banged his head. The leader of our little village, Half-Half Biley, has told me to bring some wicken mushrooms, spider yarn, and south-facing moss that he might be saved. Could you fetch them for me? You’ll find them all about the Firthing Wood,” she repeated.
“Mad as a droppin’ bird. A hundred yards that way,” he mumbled. “Come on, Gloomy.”
Merl set off in the direction Reth-Reth had told him the wicken mushrooms would be. The night thickened as he left the blue lanterns behind. Soon he soon couldn’t see a thing, so Merl turned right around—and found himself facing Reth-Reth again. “I think I need to borrow a lamp. May I? I’ll bring it back when I’m done.” Reth-Reth remained statuesque. Merl reached up and unhooked the lantern. “Gonna borrow you a minute,” he said to the little blue fairy inside.
She giggled in return, but her light increased, spreading its glow farther afield. Merl headed off in the direction of the mushrooms. The forest’s floor was a carpet of thick-bladed grass that crunched underfoot. Merl scoured it for any hint of the mushrooms. He glanced back toward the river, judging he’d walked around eighty yards, and so he forged farther in.
When he estimated he’d ventured around the right amount, he began walking up and down, like he was looking for a five-leafer in a meadow full of fours. Just as he started getting frustrated, a jagged bright-white line suddenly appeared on the ground in front of him, and within it a patch of small, black, bell-shaped mushrooms appeared. Gloomy Joe started sniffing them. Me
rl blinked as he saw one lunge upward and snap at Gloomy. The dune dog recoiled, yelping.
Merl instinctively stamped on the mushrooms until he was sure they were all were dead. He reached down to pet Gloomy and saw that the vicious mushroom had attached itself to Gloomy’s nose. Merl crouched down. “It’s okay, Gloomy. Jus’ like pullin’ a suckin’ worm off yer shins.” He pinched the mushroom’s head and eased its fangs out. “There you go.”
Merl tossed the mushroom away, then scooped up a handful of dead mushrooms and put them in his pocket.
Some words appeared in Merl’s mind, no more than jumbles of letters. Fortunately, they also rang out in his mind.
“Get the Ingredients quest updated.”
“Shoulda killed it,” the fairy sang from inside the lantern. “It’s tasted blood now. They get all riled up when they taste blood.”
“Really?” Merl asked, but the fairy didn’t answer him.
Gloomy Joe pawed at his bleeding nose, and then slapped a great lick over it. They began walking back to the village. Suddenly, Merl heard a noise behind him and looked around to see the mushroom following them, except now it was around a foot tall, and its fangs protruded from its cap. Merl raised his boot ready to crush the mushroom But before he could stamp it down, the mushroom vibrated, then sprouted up another six inches. Gloomy Joe circled it. He poked his nose close enough, but the mushroom didn’t strike. Gloomy looked at Merl. They both looked at the mushroom. The mushroom appeared to be staring back at them, although Merl couldn’t spy its eyes. He was sure mushrooms didn’t have eyes, but then again, until a moment ago he was fairly sure they didn’t have fangs, yet this one had those too. When none of them moved, Merl shrugged and walked on toward the boulders.
“Guess it doesn’t mind you because you fed it and let it live,” the fairy told.
“You know this fer real?” Merl asked, but when the fairy failed to answer he accepted her reasoning, as it was the only explanation that didn’t weird him out too much.