Spies Among Us

by L. L. Bower

  Crisa raises her wand, but I raise my hand to stop her. “Save your strength for Galdo,” I say. She nods and backs up. I step in front of her and protect her with my sword and shield.

  A goblin swings his mace at me. The honed spikes on the mace’s ball rake across my unarmored right hand, creating several lacerations. I let out a moan. Blood spurts from these wounds, but I ignore the pain and grip my sword tighter. I continue fighting, knowing these cuts will heal rapidly, thanks to the fairy’s touch. I can already feel the skin tighten as the wounds knit together.

  The clang of metal on metal echoes through the forest as the goblins’ axes, flails, swords and shields connect with our swords, metal clubs and axes. Even though the goblins don’t have armor, their shields deflect many of our blows. While we have to bend over to strike them, they can hold their shields up high and still strike our legs and stomp on our feet.

  I’m frustrated that this skirmish is taking so long and hampering us from getting to the prison. We’ll lose our element of surprise if we don’t arrive before dawn.

  I ask for the Creator’s help to produce a full-fledged and instantaneous thunderstorm. I concentrate on the few clouds in the moonlit sky and imagine them gathering over our battle scene and increasing in size.

  The sky starts to rumble. In a few moments, sheets of marble-sized hail and wind pelt the goblins, and us. Our helmets and suits of armor protect us, but the goblins have to cover themselves with their shields. The loud plinks on their shields and the disruptive wind slow them down some, but still they slog forward, slashing and swinging.

  Now though, we’re able to execute debilitating blows because, with their shields overhead, the goblins’ mid-sections are open to attack. Brutus snaps his jaws and bites several of our enemies in the ribs. The rest of us hunch over to slash at their chests with our battle axes and swords.

  To further frustrate them, I change the hail to a blizzard that falls only on them, by the power of the Creator. The resultant blinding white-out stops them in their tracks. Mordea and Tumea stomp forward, while Caroom, Lawra, Grog, Brutus and I follow. Crisa brings up the rear.

  When we pass the goblins’ front lines at the edge of my snowstorm, my breath becomes small white puffs. Even though we can’t see the goblins due to the blizzard, we hack away in their direction.

  I shouldn’t say “we” but “they” because Grog and Brutus now block me, so I can’t reach the action. I wish they’d quit being so overprotective. How can I fulfill my role as champion if I can’t actually be a champion?

  Cries of pain reach my ears, and then someone shouts in a language I don’t understand, I assume Goblinese. The voice sounds commanding.

  Their leader must have ordered retreat because a stampede of small feet subsides away. I will the storm to stop. When the snow clears and the moon again casts its light, at least twenty goblins lie on the ground, bleeding into the muddy snow. Five are dead, and others are at various levels of injury.

  Mordea and Tumea stand over the fallen injured, ready to finish the job, but I stop them. “Don’t stoop to Galdo’s level. We’ve made our point. Leave the wounded to be cared for, and let our enemies bury their dead.”

  Tumea puts a hand on his hip. “That’s more consideration than they’d give us.”

  “And that’s why we’re going to win this war. We’re not darklings. We live by higher standards.”

  Tumea shrugs, his armor rattling with the effort, and walks away. I don’t like his bloodthirstiness. Yes, war is brutal, but we should never forget our humanity, or numanity in his case.

  Mordea cocks his head to one side. “Did Galdo send those goblins? Does he know we’re coming?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think so. He’s had dark patrols scouring these woods for months. But we should be on the lookout. I’m sure they’re not the only ones prowling around tonight.”

  Crisa stares at Brutus. The tomtes and oreads wouldn’t recognize that those two are communicating, but I’ve been around them long enough to know what they’re doing.

  Crisa says aloud, “I’d like us to detour before we head for the prison. It’s not more than five minutes out of our way, and it might make the difference in our success today.”

  “Okay, lead on,” Mordea says.

  Brutus takes the lead and follows a narrow trail through the pines off to our left that I hadn’t noticed before. I motion for Crisa to walk beside me and then slow my pace, letting Brutus, the tomtes and the oreads get well ahead of us.

  At first, Grog refuses my request to precede me, but I tell him, “I need to talk to Crisa alone. While I appreciate your concern, I’m with the most powerful sorceress in all of Fairyland. I’ll be safe.”

  Grog jogs to catch up to the others, his armor clanking with the effort. Crisa and I slow down a little more to distance ourselves. I’m concerned about the upcoming confrontation with Galdo and his guards, but I can’t help but be a little distracted as I look up to gather my thoughts. Moonlight spills through tall trees that look like bluish pillars, and gauzy clouds lope through the dark sky like lazy sheep. A wolf howls in the distance.

  Something’s been bugging me, and this is the perfect opportunity to get it off my chest. I lift my helmet’s face guard and turn toward Crisa. “I need to ask you something.” Taking a deep breath through my nose, I inhale the sweet smell of the long grass around us.

  I start out slowly, before introducing my real question. “First, I must tell you how much I appreciate you for taking care of Brutus, Jade and Grog during my absence. I worried about their safety, and whether or not they’d be used by Galdo as bargaining chips to control me. When Grog told me you’d created a protective dome for Jade’s training and kept all three of them under your protection, I was relieved.”

  Her voice grows soft. “You’re welcome. I’ve grown to love those three over these past weeks, and I think their safety means as much to me as it does to you.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way, so I don’t have to watch out for them alone.”

  I push a branch back and blink a few times before I broach the next topic. “By the way, what happened to Mister Ed? Nobody’s mentioned him.”

  Edouard, or Ed for short, was a majestic white unicorn that traveled with us for a while when we were training the light ones. He was given to us by Clidea, a tomte who attacked Grog and felt so remorseful afterward that he gave the gentle animal to my bugbear friend. Crisa, who’s well acquainted with human culture, and I joked about calling him Mister Ed after a re-broadcasted 1960s TV series about a talking horse.

  Crisa sidesteps a huge rock. “Grog found him wandering near my old cottage. He was filthy and had cuts all over him. After Grog cleaned him up, he gave Ed to a young gnome he heard about who loved unicorns. She had a terminal disease and was given only months to live. He wanted to make her last days on this earth pleasant.”

  I grin. “That sounds like our Grog. Who could ever think of him as dark?” I shake my head. “What kept me sane all those gloomy weeks in prison was knowing I had so many good friends, like Grog, and you.”

  She looks me in the eye. “Don’t forget you have the Creator on your side too.”

  A mosquito buzzes my face, and I swat it away. “Yep, our most important ally. And that brings me to a question that’s bothered me for some time. I should’ve asked you this sooner, but when I saw Galdo’s power firsthand and heard of his evils and manipulative nature from my fellow prisoners, my curiosity surfaced again. I know our powers come from the Creator, but I can’t imagine that a divine being would support Galdo in any way.”

  Crisa nods. “You’re right. And I know what you’re thinking.”

  Of course you do. You can peer into my mind anytime you want.

  “If the Creator isn’t the source of Galdo’s power, then where does his strength come from?” she asks.

  “Exactly.”

  A robin lights on her shoulder. Its eyes gleam in the moonlight. She strokes the feathers on its back with one fi
nger as she walks. “I should have told you more about dark magic during your initial training, but I was trying to cram as much pertinent information into your mind as I could in the little time we had. Giving you a history of Fairyland and an understanding of its creatures was more important to your success than ancient history. And then you got swept up in fighting those harpies and training the light ones, and we had very little contact after that.”

  The robin chirps, bows its head and flies off. Crisa’s connection with the animal kingdom is amazing.

  I take a deep breath. “Between the centaurs’ training and yours, I felt overwhelmed. I wasn’t ready to hear about Fairyland’s dark power.”

  “You’re trying to make me feel better, and I appreciate it.”

  She’s silent for a few moments as we carefully pick our way around some fallen logs, and then she continues. “Galdo’s power comes from a creature called Natas who’s not affiliated anymore with the Creator. Natas is beautiful to look upon, but thoroughly depraved, the worst kind of evil.”

  “Is this Natas divine too?” I take her hand and help her over a fallen log.

  “He’d like to think so, but he’s another created being like you or me. Unlike us, he was once the Creator’s right-hand man and closest confidante.”

  “What happened?”

  “One day, Natas decided he wasn’t taking orders anymore, that he could be as great and powerful as the Creator. So he and his friends decided to attack the Creator and seize his power.”

  I shake my head. “I’ll bet that didn’t go over well.”

  An owl hoots in the pines near us. Crisa, who’s able to speak all animal languages, hoots a reply before continuing her story.

  “You can say that again. The Creator threw Natas and his co-conspirators out of his dwelling place and locked the door. Well, of course, that angered Natas even more, and ever since he’s sought to destroy the Creator’s plans and any light beings associated with him.

  “Don’t be deceived though. He may be devious and degenerate, but he’s also clever and powerful, capable of propagating much darkness. But he won’t win. His power is no match for the Creator’s.”

  This new information explains a lot. I couldn’t believe the Creator was the source of evil or dark magic. I also wondered why he allowed evil to happen, but it sounds like he doesn’t control Natas. Or he allows him a limited amount of freedom. Why doesn’t he crush Natas out of existence?

  In my head, the Creator says, “I designed humans and numinals to make their own decisions. I desire for all to come to the light, but each individual has to decide his or her own path, including Natas. I can eliminate Natas at any point in time, but I always hope he’ll turn from his evil ways, as I do with every dark one.”

  “Thanks.” I smile. “I know you don’t have to explain yourself to me, but I appreciate it.”

  Brutus stops near a cluster of trees. He raises his nose and sniffs the air.

  Crisa calls to him. “Is this the spot?”

  My wolf yips and pads over to a tree that has claw marks scratched into the bark that form a “C.” Beneath the tree is a small pile of stones.

  He sniffs around the tree, then pushes the rocks away with his nose and begins digging. With a metallic clink, his claws strike something. He paws the ground some more and then picks up an object with his teeth.

  “Good work, Brutus,” Crisa says. “Now we can listen in on the prison guards.”

  She addresses the rest of us. “Brutus and I took that communication device” she points to what Brutus is holding, “off Korga, an ogre, before we disabled him. I know Ogrish and can sound like an ogre, if need be. With that device, we can have two-way communication between the guards and us. I may be able to mislead them.”

  Brutus gives the device to Crisa, who puts it in her leather pouch.

  “Excellent. We can create a lot of confusion then,” Mordea say. “How will the centaurs know when we’re ready to break in?”

  Crisa turns to Mordea. “I’m to send a signal for them.”

  “Other than being pink, what kind of a signal is it?” I ask.

  “You’ll see.” She chuckles. “I want you to be amazed.”

  We trek on through the forest toward the prison as wan sunlight peeks over lingering clouds on the horizon, painting pale orange and pink streamers into the sky. I feel like we’re being watched, but upon scanning the area, see nothing. Brutus doesn’t growl, and Noblesse doesn’t vibrate.

  I call forward to Grog, “Would you come back here with me? I’ve got a feeling we’re not alone.”

  “Sure, Boss.”

  I scowl at him. I should never have taught him that word.

  “Me mean Calen.”

  We reach the edge of the forest, still feeling like we being followed. But I recognize the outcroppings of rock and scrub around the underground caves. Maldina, the black dragon, is nowhere to be seen.

  “We’re here,” I declare. To Crisa I say, “This is the area where we found the black dragon guard.” I look down at my wolf. “Brutus, can you scout for us?” I point to the cave area. My wolf strides out into the open, while the rest of us remain secreted in the forest.

  When no dragons or other guards approach Brutus, Mordea suggests, “Let’s ask the Creator to help us in this endeavor.”

  We all bow our helmeted heads, and each of us prays silently. I ask for protection and guidance in what we’re about to do.

  “Are we ready?” Mordea asks, after a few moments.

  I give him a thumbs-up, a human gesture. He looks at me and tilts his head. I smile. “Let’s do this.”

  Mordea and I lower our face guards.

  Crisa mutters something over her wand, then points it at the lightening sky, declaring, “Dazziculum Rosea.” She repeats this phrase over and over as hot pink sparks shoot from her wand and up through the trees to explode over the forest like a million tiny fireworks that last only a few seconds.

  I gape in awe. This must be the signal for the centaurs and dragons to begin their skirmish. I understand now what Pholas meant about the not-so masculine color, but it is a beautiful display.

  Crisa says, “I cast a spell over my wand, so only we and Pholas can see that signal.”

  As soon as Crisa finishes, we sneak out of the forest and into the clearing in front of the cave’s opening, which is well hidden by the long forest shadows.

  “Oh, no!” Tumea points to the sky. “We’re in big trouble.”

  I look up and watch dark shadows dart from side to side. They shroud what’s left of the stars and the sun’s pale sister. As the shadows get closer, by the new dawn’s light, I notice greenish auras, eyes that look like red rings of death, and long body hair that sticks out in all directions.

  Silent as tombs, the shadows swoop down over us, and metals glints in their hands.

  We duck and try to scurry back into the safety of the trees. The creatures block our path into the woods and swing their weapons at us. Something whizzes past my head and narrowly misses me.

  Grog, who’s twice as tall as the others, throws himself on the ground to avoid being cut by another strike from one of their scythes. Another strike catches Tumea in the arm, piercing his armor. Blood spurts through the tear. Grasping his arm, Tumea groans.

  Our assailants ascend and circle for another pass.

  Chapter 11 – An Enemy We Can’t Fight

  “Bogles!” I cry. Sweat dribbles down my back.

  We swing our swords, metal clubs and axes through the air above us, but they don’t connect with these dark phantoms. During training, Crisa explained how bogles are stuck in limbo between the physical and spiritual realms. Even though they’re spirits, they can carry and wield their very real and very solid scythes and hold other material objects, if they concentrate.

  Our weapons, however, have no effect on them. The bogles widen their grins as they redouble their dives at us. Where’s a blackberry branch, which I learned in my training causes them searing pain, when I n
eed one?

  Our supernatural powers are no help either. Having a tomte’s ability to shapeshift into a bogle or an oread’s skill in moving rocks or trees does nothing to combat these apparitions. How about my powers, you might ask? If I threw every type of weather imaginable at these ghosts, it wouldn’t stop them, not even slow them down. Crisa can’t kill the mass of them either, although she could stop them one by one, but at the expense of most of the magical strength she’ll need to combat Galdo.

  Brutus growls, snarls and then yips in an endless torrent. When the bogles hear Brutus, they squint and scrunch up their shoulders but still hover menacingly close. Brutus has the Creator-given ability to cause pain to bogles with his yips and howls, which sound like high-pitched shrieks to them.

  Next Brutus flattens his ears. He lunges, catapulting himself into the air to snap at them. They dart away to hover higher because they know that, in addition to causing pain, he, like every other werewolf, can kill them.

  Then, oddly, my werewolf howls for all he’s worth, and I have to cover my ears. So much for stealth while invading the prison. Of course, if the goblins tattle on us, the dark side already knows we’re coming.

  Brutus continues to howl and attack the bogles by leaping and snapping, sinking his teeth into a few of them, which keeps them at bay.

  While Brutus defends us, Grog picks himself up off the ground, his groans accompanied by the clink and rattle of his armor. He goes over to Tumea, who’s collapsed to the ground still bleeding and moaning, and pulls his bandanna from around his neck. After removing Tumea’s vambrace that covers his lower arm, Grog ties the bandanna above the injury until the blood flow is staunched.

  “Gather around!” Crisa shouts. “And stay close.”

  Maybe because he’s weak from blood loss, Tumea doesn’t protest as Grog hoists him over his shoulder. Their armor clanks together like cymbals, and Tumea’s blood drips down Grog’s back, leaving red droplets on the silvery metal. If the roles were reversed, I’m sure Tumea would have left Grog on the ground to bleed out. I’m astounded how such a strong and imposing creature like a bugbear can have a compassionate side.