Southern Fried Fantasy Adventure Story (eBook)

2

More than Meets the Eye

Progress was slow through the undergrowth at first, until Ivy at last allowed Galan the use of his brush blade. She had told him that the cutting of trees and even meddlesome vines was precluded in the area immediately surrounding the sacred grotto. Covered in sweat, his arms scratched and bleeding from brambles, Galan was already over it by the time he could start fighting back.

Somehow they did manage to locate the creek bed. They’d been forced to come at it from the road; taking up the path at the sink was disallowed by the attendant elves. Now that they were on it, however, with its sandy bottom exposed, the way was easy enough for them to keep on. Occasionally they paused, to huff and puff or battle a snake, but mostly they pressed on—Galan encouraging himself with expletives as Ivy quietly persisted.

After almost two miles of it, the thick jungle finally gave way. The bramble lightened, and they entered a pine forest, the blackened lower tree trunks of which indicated a recent wildfire. Stowing his blade, Galan slumped to the still-dry creek bank. He fished out his water skin and tipped the last of the liquid into his thirsty maw. It wasn’t enough, and he was just starting to complain when Ivy gestured for his silence.

From nearby—the direction toward which they travelled—came noises of a party approaching through the woods. The members of the group muttered amongst themselves, indistinctly, yet loudly enough to betray they were not elves. They weren’t hunters either, or if they were, they weren’t very good ones. Galan and Ivy sought trees for cover, stealing peeks through the spotty undergrowth, trying to see who it was. At first, they caught only disconnected views of armor, weapons, and shields. Was it some sort of war party? Yet there was no war in these lands, nor had there been for many, many years—before Galan’s time, and that of his father, even of his grandfather’s father.

When the party was nearly upon them, it stopped with a belch or word. Whatever had issued the guttural sound was certainly neither human nor elf. A sniffing ensued, first a solo, then ensemble; the resulting symphony of snouts participating made it clear Galan and Ivy were outnumbered. After a moment, orders were barked, this time in broken human. The troop began to fan out. Fearing they were discovered, Galan and Ivy peeked to confirm it.

Goblins!

Galan drew his sword, his eyes darting amongst the fell creatures. Ivy spun her staff beneath an arm and leaned into a stance with her left hand extended.

Galan had never seen a goblin, nor had Ivy, but each could be sure of what they faced; it was unmistakable; twisted, stooping humanoids—smaller than a man, but still larger than an elf—goblins were like trolls: universally evil and universally reviled. Unlike their stronger and more cunning troll counterparts, however, goblins were truly a race and one that always operated in groups. To see one was to see many, and always with a purpose, a purpose never their own. Goblins were the fools, the minions of an overlord.

Galan and Ivy were beset in a flash. With a wicked “Yeowl!” the one closest to Galan—armed with a primitive hand axe and wooden shield—made for him. The swordsman was ready. It didn’t matter when the goblin blocked his firm two-handed blow: the flimsy shield was cut in two, as nearly was its owner, who died instantly from the blow. But Galan had no time to celebrate. There were two more closing in.

Four of them were after the elf maid. Spotting a tree between them, Ivy began to chant, and with a gesture directed it to lend her its branch. With first a creak, and then a sway, the mighty arm—a foot in diameter—began whirring through the air like a child’s ball bat. One nimble goblin avoided it by dodging behind the trunk of the animated arbor. Another ducked. The two least skillful, however, were struck forcefully in the chest and instantly swept away.

Blocking a rusty sword, Galan glanced at his lithe friend to ensure she was still on her feet. His latest opponent was an amateur with a blade, though in its breathy stench, it was pure professional grade. The thing’s foul odor was unbearable.

Ivy’s artful dodger and his ducking friend were proving pesky—they were too close now for her tree limb to strike them, a manipulation that in any event required her full concentration. With a subtle nod of thanks, the elf released her woody assistant and made quick to defend herself.

The dodger was first. He had a spear. Ivy stunned him with an uncharacteristically preternatural shout; forceful, loud, and authoritative, this ancient elven instant spell—a Word of Power, burst of Truth—was especially effective against small-minded, malevolent creatures, and thus was perfect for goblins. For the ducker, however, she had no such word. Arriving soon after, he had to be dealt with the old-fashioned way. With a flip of her staff, Ivy cracked him upside the head just as he was readying to bring his mace to bear.

By this time, Galan had dispatched two more goblins and was busy with what had to be their squad leader for all the noise it made. Unlike the others, this one had a metal shield, of human construction judging by its quality. And though the thing’s wild swings posed little threat to Galan, a skilled swordsman, by its blocks it was making a regular nuisance of itself.

“You’re wrecking my blade, you disgusting little—!” shrieked Galan, in full fury.

It mouthed back at him, but nothing the slightest bit intelligible. Back and forth they went, until Galan noticed a low thicket behind the goblin. Whooping with renewed strength, he lit into the creature with a fresh flurry of punishing attacks. The goblin dropped its sword amid a desperate attempt to defend itself, clutching its shield with both hands and giving ground. When it reached the bush it tripped backward and was done for; Galan skewered the creature, which emitted an awful howl before dying.

Exhausted, his breast heaving for air, Galan glanced quickly around for more, but there were none. Ivy approached him looking relieved. Galan smiled.

“Are you all right?” he huffed.

“Yes.”

“That was a goblin war party,” he said, wiping the ichor from his blade in disgust. “We’ve got to get a warning out. What’s the nearest town? Or should we go back?”

“Find water,” replied Ivy, gesturing to the creek bed.

“But you don’t understand. Where there’s a few of them like this, there’s bound to be lots more. We have to warn people. We have to warn the elves. They’ll need to bring in the army.”

“Goblins stop water. Goblins frighten animals.”

“I’m sure you’re right about that, but we have to warn everybody first.”

“Just go see.”

Was that a mischievous twinkle in her eye?

Suddenly savvy, Galan agreed. “All right, we’ll go see.”

They resumed their trek along the creek bed, and it wasn’t much further before they encountered more evidence of the unnatural. Above the treetops great plumes of smoke rose and, at a clearing, they discovered why. A fort!

Some two hundred yards from them, a pine tree palisade had been constructed and capped at its corners with primitive towers. Like vermin, goblins were crawling all over it. Furthermore, their creek bed led directly to this outpost, suggesting that the spring had not dried up after all but instead been trapped to water the invaders.

Instinctively, Galan and Ivy hid.

“It’s an invasion!” said Galan. “These are elven lands.”

He was right. While it was well known that goblins still existed, and were closer than anyone cared to imagine, it was unheard of for them to venture outside their pocket lands—little enclaves to the north and west, poorly defended or policed by the nobility that technically owned them.

Ivy pensively furrowed her brow.

“We’ve got to go back,” said Galan.

“Wait for night,” said Ivy.

“No. We need to put as much distance as we can between us and this fort, especially before dark. They’re sure to send out more patrols.”

“I will go in.”

“What do you mean?” asked Galan.

“In,” said Ivy, indicating the fort.

“Are you crazy!? There must be a hundred goblins in there!”

“I will see,” she replied.

“I’m not gonna let you get yourself killed.”

“Wait for night.”

Exasperated, Galan sighed and shook his head.

They waited for nightfall.

When only the starlight and moon were left to guide them, Ivy finally stirred.

“They’ll see you,” whispered Galan.

“They no see,” said Ivy, who then began one of her spells. Glowing like a lightning bug, she reached out to him.

Galan put his hands in hers, gazing deeply into her eyes. But what he saw was not her, just as she did not see him. Both looked past one another, beyond, as she spoke.

And then they were gone.

Galan shuddered. The elf that had held him only moments before—the elf he could still feel—was now no longer there. Nor was he! Looking down, Galan realized even his own hands and arms were missing. Snatching himself from Ivy’s grasp, disconcerted, he splayed out his palms before his eyes.

“Where are you?! I can’t see myself!”

“I am...