The Sword of Darrow

by Hal Malchow

  “You can’t go there anyway. It is a six-day journey across the plains. And you can’t travel without the goblins’ permission.”

  “Do you have permission?” Darrow asked.

  “I do not. And I do not live on the plains.” With that, the dwarf grabbed his belongings and scurried away into the forest.

  Two days later, not heeding the dwarf’s warning, Darrow was walking through the plains of Sonnencrest. The fears of the taster had not come to pass. No goblin had stopped him and for good reason. Who would fear a boy, small and lame, who walked alone with little more than the clothes on his back? But he had expected to meet his uncle by now. He had no more food and his stomach ached with hunger.

  He spied an old woman, moving slowly, with a heavy load on her back.

  “May I help you with your sack?” Darrow asked, hoping his assistance might lead to an offer of food.

  “I’ll take any help I can get,” the woman replied practically throwing her bag to the ground. Darrow leaned over to grab the sack. It was heavy, but with one heave, he was able to swing it across his shoulder. But almost as soon as the bag was on his back, Darrow jumped to the side, dropping his load.

  “It’s moving,” he exclaimed.

  “Of course it’s moving. It’s snakes, you idiot!”

  “Snakes!” Darrow was confused. “Why?”

  “Haven’t you heard?” the woman replied, with a tone of disgust. “The goblins love them. Snake soup. My boys catch them, and I sell them. It’s not much, but it’s a living.” She stared at him curiously. “Where have you been these last ten years?”

  Darrow once again positioned the wiggling sack on his back. “I live in the mountains.”

  “I guess there ain’t many snakes there. So where are you headed?”

  “Hexenwald.”

  “Well, snakes will be the least of your worries there. Have you ever heard of a griesonaut?”

  “Griesonaut?”

  “What mountains do you come from?”

  “The ones to the south.”

  “Well, you might want to learn some things they’re not teaching over there. These griesonauts look like lizards, ’cept they’re long as a man. They have fur and webbed feet. They hide in the bogs. But they travel to the edge of the forest to grab dogs, children, or even grown women. Then they carry them back to eat. People won’t live near that forest anymore. There’s no controlling those creatures.”

  She paused and looked Darrow up and down.

  “A runt like you would barely make them a good meal.”

  Darrow considered the griesonaut attack and the tactics he might use. Thinking of none, he spoke again.

  “Have you heard of a wise man named Asterux?”

  “He’s no wise man.”

  “How do you know?”

  “’Cause he’s a wizard.”

  “A wizard?”

  “He has powers. Good powers, so I heard. He must be dead.”

  “Why is that?”

  “If there was any magic for the good, do you think we’d all be catching snakes for them goblins?”

  Darrow stopped, absorbing this news. His uncle was a wizard, but he might be dead, and the forest was a very dangerous place. Well, no one said it was going to be easy.

  “Can you tell me how I can find him?”

  “No.”

  “Not even which part of the forest?”

  “No one knows.”

  Her tone was so sharp. For a long time, they walked without words, but Darrow was hungry for conversation.

  “What did you do before the goblins came? Did you always catch snakes?”

  “I don’t catch ’em. I just sell ’em. In the old days, I told fortunes.”

  “Will you tell mine?”

  “I don’t tell them anymore. They are all bad. Yours? You are traveling alone into the Hexenwald Forest with no weapon, looking for a wizard you will never find. You don’t need me to know your fortune.”

  Darrow smiled at this warning.

  “If things were so predictable, we wouldn’t need fortune-tellers, would we?”

  For the first time, the woman smiled.

  “Give me your hand.”

  Darrow set the snakes on the ground, gripping the bag with one hand. The woman did not look at his palm but wrapped his hand between both of her own and closed her eyes. For a long time she stood silent, then she opened her eyes. She was shaking.

  “What did you see?” asked Darrow earnestly.

  “Beware of the words of a loved one, for they mark the path of death.”

  Darrow gulped. “And what will be the outcome?”

  She grabbed the bag from Darrow’s hand and turned to walk away.

  “But what is my fortune?” Darrow called after her.

  “I told you. I do not tell fortunes anymore.”

  It was the morning of his fifth day on the plains. He was half a day from Hexenwald. Darrow thought often of bat spiders and griesonauts, but a short life did not frighten him. A hero’s death was far better than life in Ael.

  What troubled Darrow was the work before him. He was heading to the forest to find this uncle of his and he did not know the way. Worse, his uncle might even be dead. With or without his uncle, he would need to recruit an army, yet he knew not a single person outside of Ael. He would need weapons, yet he had never held a sword in his hand.

  The road was almost empty. Occasionally, a villager walked by and a wagon or two passed, traveling to or from a farm.

  The faint sound of hoofbeats told Darrow a horseman was approaching. Darrow continued to walk, not bothering to look.

  The hoofbeats grew louder and soon a rider appeared, a goblin, dressed in a black coat with shining green trim, the uniform of the goblin cavalry. He rode past Darrow, hardly looking at the lame boy, but not long after he passed, the horse reeled and the rider looked back. At a slow canter, he approached Darrow.

  “Where is your permission, young man?” he inquired in a voice that was a bit too polite for a goblin.

  Darrow answered without hesitation. “I have none.”

  “Then why are you traveling?”

  “I am going to see my uncle. Why should I need permission to visit my uncle?”

  The soldier was amused.

  “Give me a reason why I should not arrest you or strike you down on the spot.”

  “There are many good reasons.”

  “Give me one.”

  “What is your reward for ruling this poor kingdom?”

  “Ha! There is no reward. In this wretched kingdom, there is nothing more to steal!”

  “You are right. It must be a misery to rule a people so sad and pathetic. But what if things changed? What if these people suddenly awoke, worked hard, and became more prosperous? Surely you must be weary of a kingdom in such total despair?”

  “Indeed,” said the goblin, enjoying Darrow’s words.

  “Well, then you should know that my uncle is a wise man who wants to advise me on how our people might lift themselves up and rebuild our country. He believes your reign might be changed for the better. Perhaps you should escort me to my uncle’s home.”

  “Well,” replied the soldier, laughing out loud. “That is quite a task indeed. And where does this uncle of yours live?”

  “In the forest.”

  The soldier’s just shook his head. “Well, I suppose you’ll be no threat to anyone for long.”

  With those words, the officer turned his horse and galloped away.

  A few hours later, Darrow once again heard hoofbeats, these slower than the last. A band of goblins approached. It was not much of an outfit—two horsemen, a wagon, and several soldiers on foot. But when they reached Darrow, an officer stepped down from the wagon and again asked to see Darrow’s permission to travel.

  “I have none,” Darrow responded.

  This time the goblin asked no questions about Darrow’s plans.

  “Throw him in the cage.”

  Two goblins grabbed Darro
w while another removed a small cage from the wagon. The cage, barely big enough to hold even Darrow, was made of sticks bound together with twine. At its base were two small wooden wheels. A goblin tied Darrow’s hands. Another opened the door of the cage while a third dumped Darrow inside. They tied the door shut and attached the cage to the back of the wagon.

  The soldiers gathered around to look at the prisoner.

  “Where are you taking me?” Darrow demanded.

  “To a place you’ll never leave,” answered one goblin to the laughter of his comrades.

  Inside the cage, Darrow struggled to free his hands, but the rope held tight. His body pressed against the sharp edges of the sticks that stabbed him as the cage jolted over each bump in the road. For the first time, Darrow felt afraid. Where were they headed? Would he be kept as a prisoner? Would they make him a slave? Worse, they might simply dump him in the bogs. If he died, who would ever know?

  As the cage bounced along the road, Darrow peered out and saw a dark row of trees that rose from the plain like a black wall. Not a shrub or even tall grasses broke up the thick barrier of trees. It was as if God had drawn a line across the earth and decreed grassland on one side and forest on the other.

  As the wagon entered the forest, the sun disappeared. The tree trunks were thick and closely spaced. Above them, branches spread out and overlapped in every direction. The road was no longer a road, only a trail, barely wide enough for the wagon. But what struck Darrow about the forest was the silence.

  On that afternoon, almost at sunset, the forest made no sound. The goblins themselves ceased speaking as if their words might awaken some demon or stir evil forces against them.

  Darrow pushed his back against the bars to test their strength, but they would not move. He tugged at the rope that tied his hands again, which caused the knots to pull tighter against his skin. In his mind, he searched for a strategy, but the best he could do was to resolve to run when they let him out of the cage.

  As the wagon moved deeper into the forest, the goblins lit torches. They moved with soft and careful steps, eyes and ears attuned to anything that might pounce from the shadows around them. Suddenly, Darrow heard a noise, a low whistle, pulsating and sinister.

  The goblins drew their swords. Like statues they waited, unwilling to offer a sound that might draw this unknown creature into their midst. The whistle grew louder, its rhythm haunting, and in the flickering torchlights, eyes met eyes looking for reassurance but finding none at all. For the first time, Darrow was thankful for his cage.

  “A spirit,” thought the captain, but he did not share his thought for fear that his men would turn and run. Then, as suddenly as it began, the sound was no more. There was no point venturing further. The captain gave orders to camp for the night.

  Whatever the noises or the creatures who made them, Darrow knew the forest was his only chance. It mattered little that his hands were bound. All he needed was an open door. Then he could flee with every bit of strength inside of him.

  An hour passed before a goblin walked back to Darrow’s cage. He held out a piece of stale biscuit and shoved it into Darrow’s mouth. Darrow pleaded to be let out. The goblin walked away, pretending not to hear.

  Night arrived and the forest grew blacker still. The silence of the afternoon gave way to a great cacophony of sounds, alien and strange. Unseen creatures competed with one another with their shrill and peculiar cries. The goblins huddled close together. Conversations were few. Before sleeping, they constructed a circle of small fires, each almost touching the next. When the circle burned brightly, they gathered inside.

  “Bat spiders,” thought Darrow. “The fires will keep the bat spiders away.” Nervously, he eyed the openings at the top of his cage.

  Sleep came to the goblins and their high-pitched snores blended with the cries of the forest to create a boisterous chorus of the evil.

  For Darrow, sleep was not possible. In any position he tried, he was pierced by the sticks that supported him. Tired but awake, nothing but black before his eyes, each moment lingered in a great expanse of time.

  “Mareeeokkkie, mareeokkkie, mariokeee!” The hideous shriek jolted Darrow. He heard claws scraping a tree within reach of his cage. Low and far away, a mournful call sounded: “Mockabee, mockabee, mockabee.”

  A deep desperation gripped Darrow’s being. He was so terrified that one sound went unnoticed. It was the beating of tiny wings, a faint hum that hung outside his cage. When he noticed it, he feared a giant insect might be preparing to attack. Straining his eyes in the faint light of the goblin fires, he could barely make out its outline. But there was no insect at the door of his cage.

  It was a tiny bird.

  Darrow waved his hands to scare it. But the bird paid him no mind. It hopped onto a stick on the door of the cage. For a moment it paused, looking left and right. Then, in an explosion of energy, the bird was hard at work, pecking, pulling, twisting, as if some special delicacy lay hidden below.

  Perplexed, Darrow strained to watch. What he saw was barely a shadow. But the shadow moved in rapid jerks, straining with all its small weight against some object on the cage. Darrow’s eyes focused hard.

  The bird was pulling at the rope.

  The rope was strong and thick and the bird was tiny. Fascinated, Darrow watched with increasing wonderment. Peck, pull, twist, pull, peck—bird continued for what seemed to be an hour.

  One of the goblins rose from his slumber and trudged to a nearby tree. Before returning to his blanket, he took a stick and stirred one of the fires. A few flames burst forth. In this flash of light, Darrow looked closely at the bird. It was yellow and barely the size of a chicken egg. The rope against which it struggled was almost gone.

  Darrow could not believe his eyes. He listened closely as the goblin stepped back to his bedding. When he was sure that no one was awake, he turned and leaned against the door. The rope snapped quietly. The little yellow bird rose into the air, where it fluttered for a moment and then darted away.

  Slowly, not wanting to make a sound, Darrow pushed open the door of the cage with his feet. A small creaking noise made Darrow freeze. He eased his feet to the ground, leaned forward, and emerged from his cell. For a moment he paused, looking for a path. Seeing nothing, he ran straight into the blackness of the forest.

  Not ten feet from the cage, he collided squarely with a tree. The encounter made a loud noise, and Darrow fell backwards, landing on his still-tied hands. But in an instant he was back on his feet, hurtling blindly ahead. Thorn bushes tore at his legs and feet. A branch struck his forehead, sending blood running down his face. His foot hit a rock and he hurtled forward, landing on the forest floor. But each time he fell, he lifted himself and raced forward again.

  When he had traveled what seemed a full hour, he stopped to listen. Nothing. He resumed his escape, this time more slowly, moving sideways so that his shoulder, and not his head, would strike against the trees. When he had traveled more distance still, he stopped and groped with his hands until he found a sharp rock. He rubbed the rock against the rope that bound his hands. His hands were free.

  With his fingers reaching in front of him, he could feel his way through the forest and he made better time. Now and then, he tripped or struck a tree or branch, but his steps gained purpose and he moved steadily ahead. He fell again. He lay still for a moment to catch his breath, and before he could stumble back to his feet, he was sound asleep.

  When he awoke, birds announced the morning and a dull gray light filtered through the treetops. There was no trail. He had not the slightest idea of where he was or where he should go. What he wanted most was water. He scanned the expanse of the forest and started again with no particular strategy or design. Stepping through brush and around trees and rocks, he made slow progress. After a while, he heard a trickling noise and followed the sound to a small brook. He drank frantically and ate the only food he could find—bitter onions that he pulled from the ground.

  Guessing that the
brook might lead to a path, he began walking against the water’s flow. Eventually, he came to a primitive bridge that crossed the brook, linking two sides of a path. Darrow chose a direction at random and trudged forward down the road. He was tired and hungry and after a while, he stepped to the side of the path and slept again.

  When he awoke, two goblins stood above him, swords drawn. Once again, his hands were tied, this time in front. The soldiers marched him before them, jabbing him from behind, laughing at their pathetic captive.

  “Slave boy, thank us for saving your life!”

  “Anyone asleep in this forest is too stupid to be a slave.”

  “We’ll send him to gather mushrooms in the bogs. That takes no brain.”

  “The job of a lifetime! A week at best!”

  “Two days! This one is too lame to escape.”

  As the insults flowed, Darrow held his head high. He would not show fear before these soldiers. He would not lose hope.

  But suddenly one of the soldiers cried out.

  “He’s gone!”

  Darrow turned to look at his captors.

  Stunned, their eyes searched the path and the forest around them. But something was wrong. He was standing directly before them.

  One of the goblins ran by him down the trail.

  The other cried out, “I’ll check the forest,” and left the path, poking amongst the bushes with his sword.

  Darrow watched in wonderment until he looked down at his feet.

  They were gone.

  His feet. His legs. He could see nothing of his entire body.

  “I must be dead,” he thought. But dead or alive, he wanted to be as far from these goblins as possible. So down the path he ran. And after running for what seemed a long time, he stopped and sat on the trail, simply too exhausted to continue. He reached down to touch his leg. It was there. Frantically, his hands patted his body all around finding everything in its proper place, though he could see none of it at all.

  He decided that perhaps he was not dead at all. He looked down and saw his body shimmer back into visibility.

  In the distance, he heard a bell and the braying of a mule. He scrambled into the forest and ducked behind a bush. A wagon came into sight, painted with yellow birds and driven by a fat young woman with black hair and a large crooked nose. She turned to look in his direction. For the briefest moment, he thought she smiled.