Spies Among Us

by L. L. Bower

  She lifts the waterproof flap on her pack and unzips it. She starts stuffing in supplies as she says, “One more thing. I’ll use a cloaking spell to protect us part of the way because we’ll be traveling through troll country.”

  Chapter 19 – Troll Country

  “No, not trolls!” I stare at Crisa. “I’ve seen enough of those ugly creatures to last a lifetime.”

  She’s startled by my outburst, so I sheepishly admit, “I guess trolls are no worse than ogres or minotaurs. But I find them revolting.”

  “I know they’re nasty, but traveling through their land can’t be helped. Fortunately, because the royal palace is inaccessible and its location a secret, the trolls don’t know how close they live to the fairies.”

  I still remember my encounter with trolls on the road to the village of Lambert. Like tomtes, they have a single eye, although theirs glow green. Unlike tomtes, trolls are intimidating in size, taller and bigger around than grizzly bears, with jagged, rotten teeth. I wonder if tomtes could be the light equivalent of trolls.

  Also unlike tomtes, trolls have piggish snouts with enormous nostrils, furry faces and the stench of rotting fish about them. They turn to stone in direct sunlight, so they’re nocturnal. Only on very cloudy days will they venture outside, and only with their skin completely covered.

  From Crisa’s tutelage, I remember that trolls live in dark places, like under bridges and inside caves, and don’t care about anyone but themselves. They don’t bathe, so you often smell them before you see them. And they steal their food, rather than grow it. If any one group truly represents the “dark” side of Fairyland, it’s trolls.

  Crisa adds, “We’ll travel through their country by day, when they’re not out. Still, we’ll use the cloaking spell so we don’t risk discovery by other creatures. Some creatures that live in that area are even nastier than trolls.”

  “Like what?” Could anything be nastier than a troll?

  “I’d hate to ruin the surprise.” Crisa grins. “Besides, we may not encounter any dark creatures during daylight hours.”

  “That pile is yours.” She points to one of the three neat piles of supplies to be packed. “Over there,” she tilts her head toward a piece of paper on the counter, “is a copy of the list to follow.”

  As I start to stuff my backpack with supplies, she puts a finger up as if she’s just remembered something. “There’s one more essential item we need to pack, not on the list.” Walking to a cupboard on the other side of the room, she brings out a cobalt-blue box. It glows and is encrusted with what looks like red, green and yellow jewels.

  “What in the world is that?” I ask.

  “It was my mother’s. Human females call it a jewelry box, but for a sorceress, it’s much more than that. While it does contain jewelry, all the items in this box are imbued with magic for specific purposes.”

  She sets the box on the counter with the rest of our packing materials.

  “I have a dumb question,” I state as I continue to place items in my pack.

  “I know. You’re going to ask me why I don’t conjure up this stuff as we need it, so we don’t have to carry everything on our backs. It’s a reasonable question.”

  There she goes again, reading my mind. I’m relieved she’s not annoyed by my constant curiosity.

  She zips up her pack, now that it’s filled. “There are two reasons for not conjuring our supplies. One is that using magic for mundane reasons drains the energy I may need to defend us. The second is that using magic in the dark region through which we’ll be traveling could attract unwanted attention. I’m going to avoid its use, unless absolutely necessary.”

  “Okay, I get it. Thanks for being patient with me.”

  “All this is new to you. Please feel free to ask me questions anytime you don’t understand something. After all, technically I’m still your mentor.” She smiles.

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  She hefts her pack with one arm to feel its weight. “Since we’ll be climbing over uneven and rocky ground, we shouldn’t try to carry more than fifteen to twenty pounds.

  “But...” She gestures at my pack. “If your backpack seems heavy now, keep in mind we’ll be lightening it. Whatever food we consume and whatever climbing equipment we leave behind will lessen the weight. By the way, our canteens have been magicked and will refill themselves as we drink. And I’m taking enough food for three days, a day out and two days back.”

  Sounds like we’ll be traveling different routes over and back.

  “And, while we’ll carry our coats in the morning, we’ll put them on by day’s end, as we gain elevation.”

  “My coat was damaged when my home was destroyed. I don’t have one.”

  Crisa smiles. “No problem.” She waves her wand, and a beautiful new coat appears on the counter. It’s long, hooded and black, which will help me be stealthy. I rub my hand across the fabric and can tell it’s waterproof.

  “Try scrunching it.”

  I roll the coat up into a ball and discover it’s full of air pockets that collapse when pressed. “Cool.”

  “It won’t take up much room,” she says, pride in her voice. “And the air pockets insulate you.”

  She’s portioned out our meals in plastic bags, each labeled with our names and the particular meal, as well as a canteen of water for each of us, all of which I place on top of my pack. I’ve already stowed my climbing harness, gloves and climbing shoes, a rope, a blanket, my newly conjured coat, some dishes and utensils, and a change of clothes, including underwear, pants, socks and a sweater. She’s also given me a hunting knife, which she says, “Covers so many uses, like cutting firewood and bark, chopping through underbrush, and even digging.”

  I secure the knife in an external pocket. With the pack full, I zip it up by laying it flat on the counter.

  Then I place Rampart’s food, water and dishes in his pack, while Crisa zips up her pack. In the wolf’s pack, she’s already placed extra climbing equipment, clothes and a coat. She’s also included a climbing harness for Rampart, shaped like ours, as well as a pair of gloves and climbing shoes, which means he’ll climb in human form.

  Before I can zip up the wolf’s pack, Crisa calls, “Wait!” She comes over and tucks her magic blue box in the top.

  Rampart finished his hamburger a while ago, but still licks his muzzle like he’d like some more. Crisa communicates something to him telepathically, and he nods.

  “What did you say to him?” I ask as I zip up Rampart’s pack.

  Her expression is serious. “I told him to guard that jeweled box with his life.”

  Whatever’s in the box must be essential to our survival. Now, I’m worried. What is it about this trip that Crisa hasn’t yet told me?

  “Are you expecting trouble?” I ask.

  “Better safe than sorry—isn’t that what humans say?”

  I nod.

  “Oh, I almost forgot. The centaurs left something for you at my doorstep this morning. As soon as they found out we were leaving tomorrow, the pixies put a rush job on it.”

  She walks over to a cupboard, opens it and pulls out something long, thin and dark. When she brings it over, I recognize a beautifully crafted scabbard. When I awaited Noblesse’s sheath, Brambel told me pixies aren’t responsive to “deadlines.” For them to have finished this sheath in less than a day is probably unheard of.

  I smile. “Ah, this is good. The sheath I have for Nobliege is clunky. I wasn’t looking forward to having my second sword bang against my side the whole way. Now I can carry them both with ease.”

  For hiking, I’ll strap my swords across my chest, which the magic in the pixie-constructed sheaths accommodates well. That will keep my swords out of my way, yet still at the ready.

  I slip Nobliege into his cover, and of course, he fits perfectly. He sighs when he’s home in the scabbard, just like Noblesse did. At times, my magic swords exhibit consciousness. I’ve experienced their response to my th
oughts and desires when I’m wielding them, like an extension of my body, and even appropriate noises from them in a sticky situation.

  Crisa conjures a scale to measure the weight of our packs. She hangs each from the scale’s hook. Mine weighs twenty pounds, while hers measures nineteen pounds. Rampart’s tips the scale at fifteen pounds.

  “Let’s test fit Rampart’s pack,” Crisa suggests. We slip the straps over Rampart’s back and secure them.

  “Is it too heavy?” I ask.

  He shakes his head and gives a little bark, which means “no.”

  We test our packs too, and I adjust the straps so that it sits well up on my shoulders. Crisa does the same.

  After we take off the packs, Crisa remarks, “Looks like we’re set to go.” She flicks her wand, and our loaded backpacks sail out of the kitchen, toward the entryway.

  “What time are we leaving?” I ask.

  “Well before the sun is up in Fairyland time. In your time, about 5:30 a.m. I want to get out of the mountains and away from Galdo’s spies before sunrise.”

  I now have the rest of the afternoon free.

  € € €

  Having not spoken to Grog since we arrived back, I seek him out to see if he wants to spar. He seems distracted. “Is everything okay?” I ask, having to repeat my question several times before I get an answer.

  He scratches his head. “Grog okay.” Then he shakes his head vehemently. “No!” he shouts. “Grog not hit Calen!” Then in a quieter voice, he adds, “Grog miss Calen.”

  “O-Okay, I missed you too, old friend.” He must be talking about the weeks I spent in prison. “Do you want to wrestle?”

  “Okay.”

  I first met Grog when I freed him from a bear trap. Since I saved his life, he said bugbear law obligated him to be my bodyguard. So we traveled together to Crisa’s woodland cottage before it was invaded and destroyed. When we got to her place, she wouldn’t let Grog inside because she considered him a dark creature. In time, her attitude changed, but, until that day came, he had to stay outside.

  So he and I often sparred in the woods surrounding her home. We believed we were safe because the area was protected by magic. I used my sword, and he wielded a club or an axe. We became proficient at exploiting the unexpected without hurting each other, and we sharpened our reaction times and creative fighting skills. Then we boxed and wrestled, but Grog’s size was a definite advantage. He almost always pinned me.

  Today, though, as we practice in the large cavern with the hole in its roof, I pin him easily on the stone floor, even with my reduced strength. “Are you off your game today, buddy?” I ask as he rises from the floor.

  He shrugs. Then he tilts his head. “Hear that?”

  “What?” I listen more intently but don’t hear anything.

  “Someone talk.” Grog looks around the room.

  “Who?”

  “Grog not know.” Grog puts his hand on his forehead. “Head hurt.”

  “You might be hearing echoes from other parts of the caves. Sounds carry in here.”

  Grog hangs his head. “Grog tired.”

  “Do you need a nap?”

  “Yes, Grog sleep.” He gives me a halfhearted wave and shuffles out of the cavern holding his head. I hope he’s not getting sick.

  Next, I visit Tumea again, and we decide to spar together in the same cavern. When he learns we’ll be encountering trolls, he shapeshifts into one, so I can practice fighting a “real simulation,” which makes me laugh. Tumea ends up easily pinning me, and I worry whether, in my weakened condition, I’ll be able to successfully overcome any trolls we meet.

  After we finish, I venture outside. Rampart accompanies me through the mountain’s narrow rock exit, which he can barely squeeze through. Since it’s daytime, no snakes threaten us as we crawl through the crevice.

  When I emerge, the forest sights, sounds and smells soothe my soul. The beautiful summer day is unprecedented. Birds sing melodic tunes, squirrels and chipmunks chatter and scurry along the ground, butterflies and bees dart over patches of wildflowers, and whiffs of sweet wildflowers and pungent pine tickle my nose.

  This scene takes me back to when I was a novice champion jogging through the woods, enjoying my new, fairy-enhanced senses. I remember admiring clusters of purple, yellow and red flowers. Their sugary smell infused the air, together with the spiciness of fir trees and pines. As I was running, a bevy of cornflower-blue butterflies acted as my running partners for a short time.

  Back in the present, I decide to break in my new climbing shoes and see if I can recapture my past commune with nature by jogging. I go back inside to the entryway where my pack sits and pull my climbing shoes out of it. Then I exchange them for my boots, which I place on top of my pack. Even though these shoes weren’t designed for running, I have no other alternative. Because my muscles are flabby from my incarceration, I’ll feel more prepared for tomorrow’s hike, if I can run a couple of miles.

  I lace up my shoes and pat Rampart on the head, which I learned from Brambel is not demeaning to a wolf, although I wonder if it humiliates a werewolf. “You want to go with me?”

  Rampart barks, and I know from Brambel’s lessons that my wolf is saying, “Yes.”

  We leave again through the rock slit, and Rampart goes first. He grunts and squeezes himself through the skinny gap. As soon as I exit the cave, I take off running down a narrow dirt trail, while Rampart lopes beside me.

  The sun is a big ball of heat, and feathery white clouds sidle across the sky. Where Crisa has made her home is slightly above the tree line. So, when I leave the plateau and start down the mountainside, the trees become a pine-scented canopy, filled with birdsong. Long shadows grace the ground as this dusky terrain hides and tempers the sun’s blistering face. I’m soothed by this fresh, ever-changing space that contrasts sharply with the confines of the mountain. I whisper my thanks to the Creator for all he’s made.

  The ground is uneven, with numerous ascents and descents, but mostly descents. In about ten minutes, I’m huffing and puffing, emphasizing my enfeeblement. Sweat pours down my brow, and my feet hurt. Rampart, on the other hand, isn’t breathing hard at all.

  I stop and bend over to catch my breath, wind drying my face. Over the sound of my thumping heart, Rampart growls. I listen with my fairy-enhanced ears but don’t hear anything—no animals, no birds, not even the buzz of insects. Rampart continues to rumble low and deep in his throat. I know from past experience that a silent forest and an upset wolf are signs of a dark presence.

  I stand up. Rampart focuses on some berry bushes a distance away and crouches like he’s ready to pounce, but I don’t see anything unusual. Then leaves rustle, and a twig snaps.

  “Bend over.” I’m shocked to hear the Creator’s voice in my head.

  I fold in half, as if tying my shoe, and hear a zinging sound a nanosecond before something strikes the tree behind me.

  Chapter 20 – Attempted Murder

  Still crouching, I whip around to view the tree trunk. A quivering arrow has lodged itself above my head.

  Rampart charges into the undergrowth, but I still see nothing there. I stand and walk over to pull the arrow out of the wood. It’s silver-tipped. As I’ve said before, the only way I can be killed is by silver driven through my heart. If I’d been standing, that arrow would have done me in.

  I run to catch up to my wolf but don’t overtake him until he stops in a clearing. He sniffs an area where the grass is tamped down, then puts his nose in the air and howls. This is where the dark one waited for us to pass by.

  In the loose dirt are large, smeared footprints, the size of an ogre or bugbear. Rampart circles and sniffs the area in an attempt to pick up a scent. He huffs and growls but, after a few minutes, sits on his haunches with a deep sigh. Whoever made the prints is gone.

  Does this mean the dark ones know where Crisa’s hideout is?

  Rampart tells me, “Can’t follow” in Wolfian. So apparently the perpetrator’s smel
l has dissipated, maybe because of the wind that whips the grass.

  I ask Rampart, “What kind of creature was it?”

  He responds with a yip that means “bugbear.”

  Grog once told me that some bugbears are excellent archers. The accuracy of the shot from this far away attests to that. Berb’s assertion that bugbears are turning against Galdo isn’t true of all. At least one wants my hide.

  Things haven’t changed much from my first days as champion. The dark side still seeks to kill me.

  “Are you ready to turn back to Crisa’s place?”

  Rampart barks “yes,” then trots toward the compound. I stop to take another look around the clearing, but Rampart halts at the forest’s edge, turns around and barks for me to follow.

  Feeling vulnerable, I trail Rampart back up the mountain, a steep climb even at a walk. Maybe because my heart is still thumping, I can’t get enough oxygen. I check one side of the trail, then the other, my ears attuned to any sound. The forest has resumed its normal, noisy animal life, so I hope the threat has passed.

  Still, I’m worried that someone could follow us and discover the location of Crisa’s compound.

  Rampart must be worried too because he leads me in a circuitous route home, putting his nose into the air on both sides of our path. He doesn’t growl again though, so I relax a little.

  When we reach Crisa’s mountain retreat and crawl back through the rock crevice, Rampart lowers his nose to the stone floor and begins sniffing the chamber.

  “Rampart, it’s okay,” I say. “We’re safe now.”

  He ignores me, barks something in Wolfian I don’t understand, and sniffs from one end of the cavern to the other. Is he looking for Esmeralda?

  I make my way to the front hall to change back to my boots and stow my shoes. Rampart soon follows.

  In a long, flowing yellow dress, Crisa emerges from down the stone hallway. She looks like she’s returned from a concert rather than a hot kitchen.