Chapter 2

Eight days into his journey, Qualtan reached the Woodworm Ports. Lush plains of rolling grasslands and budding hills fragranced by wild plants became slowly dotted with old, rotting homes and litter-filled streets. What had been a solitary journey on lonely roads accompanied by the sun and moon was now shared by a growing number of carriages and merchants. By the time he had reached Salarza, one of the main cities of Woodworm, movement had slowed to a halt. Aurelus had warned Qualtan of the Ports and for good reason. Woodworm was known as a place of ill repute. Controlled by a hodge-podge of petty barons and merchant lords, the Ports were well known as a place for distribution of illegal cargoes through a network of smugglers, mercenaries, and pirates. Every vice could be found here for a price. Tolerated as a free haven by surrounding nations (mostly because of their own use of its illegal services), it had become a sanctuary for all sorts of criminals and rabble. Guilds of thieves and assassins were prevalent here, most notably the League of the Sharpened Dagger, the Society of the Red Sash, and the dreaded Association of the Black Garter, known beyond the Ports for their expertise with poisoned weapons and the use of the garrote. Lawlessness and kidnapping were common here, and it was said a secret slavery ring eagerly searched for likely prospects to be sold to a variety of paying customers, both human and non.

As the crowds ebbed, Qualtan passed through the guarding gates of the city’s outermost wall. The streets were muddy after a recent rain, and wagons struggled in the muck. Qualtan was immediately taken aback by the sight before him. The bodies of six humans and one orcne were hung on a platform; a token warning to any who entered that offended the ruling bodies or their infamous secret police. Half-naked children poked at the swaying shapes with sticks, while others threw rocks at the large, black birds that feasted on graying flesh. Looking about, Qualtan was nearly overwhelmed by the frenzy of the scene. Parties of soldiers from foreign lands passed by, en route to unknown wars. Tradesmen of all sorts plied their trades. To his left, Qualtan could see row upon row of barges and galleys from a variety of countries and nations loading and unloading crates of unknown treasures. Qualtan stopped his horse to observe the great sea beasts, resting in their piers between long journeys.

Eventually, a group of sailors yelled at him to pass by as he was in the way. Continuing on, Qualtan was amazed at the number of humanoids that seemed to co-habit here, apparently accepted by all. In addition to companies of elves and dwarves, there were bands of orcne led by darksome humans. The crowds made way for some head of state, surrounded by armored guards and a trailing ogre bodyguard that sniffed and growled at staring passersby. Qualtan was shocked to see a troop of docma, savage creatures with heads similar to those of dogs’, saddled on giant wolves towing carts full of pelts and fur for trade. The young warrior had never seen such beasts before and stared in surprised awe. Two of the docma looked back, baring teeth and gripping their spears in a show of bravado. The riotous pushing and shoving within the great crowds, in contrast to the calm quiet of Littlebig, had Qualtan feeling slightly panicked. He opted to ride his horse off to one side, away from the sea-hugging main avenue, towards its inner roads. Surely, he thought, there was an inn somewhere that could offer a little less chaos! That hope proved difficult, as although the majority of the crowds were bent on congregating around the incoming ships, the inner paths did little to ease his concerns. Dark, crumbling buildings sat occupied by lone, hooded guards sitting by barred entrances. Goats and pigs cajoled in the streets. Dusty, somber men emerged from drinking establishments. Shouts and cries seeped out from a windowless shack, but when two bearded men slammed open its doors to hurl a drunken patron out into the street, Qualtan could see the women dancing on tables inside. Tiring of his search, he eventually decided upon an inn that seemed somewhat reputable. A frothing, yellowish pitcher emblazoned on a creaking sign bore its name: the Golden Tankard. As Qualtan stabled his horse, a group of seeming adventurers passed him on their way to gathering their own steeds. He observed the group’s members: a tall, robed gentleman leaning on a wooden staff, a clean-shaven warrior encased in striking silver armor, a female elf, nearly hidden from view within a purple hood. Thinking perhaps he had an opportunity to meet others similar in journey to his own, he hailed them. They merely stared briefly and looked away. Somewhat disappointed, Qualtan paid for a room and stretched out on a clean, wooden cot.

“Suspicious folk here to be sure,” Qualtan said, looking outside his window. Although he had taken the occasional trips with Aurelus to other places such as nearby Buryon and the grand cities of Turinthia, the Woodworm Ports were something different indeed. Seeing a gang of hooded youths racing through the streets below, he closed and latched the wooden shutters to his window. Sighing in relief, he removed the plain silver breastplate that he wore. The metal guards that protected his arms and legs were unlatched and thrown to one side of the small room, along with his grey hood and cloak. Running his hand against the small line of black hair that adorned his upper lip, he once again reviewed the scrolls his uncle had provided. Comfortable that he knew his way, he put them back into a pouch and removed a small locket. Opening the metal ornament, he stared long and hard at the two small images painted within. They were portraits of his father and mother. His mother was vaguely familiar—visions of a warm face with brown eyes and long, brown hair brought him a soothing remembrance. He had still been a babe when his uncle had taken him. His father he knew only through tales. Blue eyes peered back at him, so like his own. His father, Eucradus, had been a mighty warrior of great repute. His grandparents had been lesser officials of a city-state that eventually was absorbed into the Turinthian Empire. Eucradus had been sent away early to serve as a page for a lord on his way to becoming a knight. He had grown powerful and skilled, just as his brother Aurelus had in the arts of wizardry. When Aurelus returned from his studies, it was not long after that he had endowed Eucradus with magicks and sponsored him in the Tourney. His mark was legendary after that. Winner of the Tourney to carry the Goldenflame. Champion of the Council of Arch-Mages. Leader of battle after battle against the forces of Those That Stand in Shadow. He had personally battled two of the Dark Ones himself, battering them to their knees, Aurelus had said, to produce their capture. His uncle would tell him many a tale of his father’s glory when he was young, wooing him to sleep. Qualtan thought back to the time Aurelus had taken him to the marvelous city of Tringolm, capitol of Turinthia. What wonder he had felt at its sight! Like a great jewel it sparkled with beauty. But the one image he had kept from the journey had been the Parade of Heroes—a procession of statues carved in the likeness of the fabled that had shown great courage and bravery during the long years of the Great War, as well as other notable events. Aurelus had pointed out the statue of Qualtan’s father, Eucradus, cast in bronze. As a child, the sight of that giant image of his father, arms extended forward, hands resting on the pommel of his sword, had filled him with pride, if not a little fear, as those lifeless eyes stared down on him. He closed the locket, eyes slightly wet, nodding to himself in resolution for his chosen course.

The morning sun rose quickly. Securing his belongings, Qualtan made his way to the common room below, hoping for a quick bite of breakfast and some information before departing. As opened shutters let sunlight through, the main chamber looked dingy and smelled of grease and smoke. Idle customers sat here and there, lost in their own silent thoughts. Qualtan approached the innkeeper, a burly man with eyebrows so thick they met to form a continuous line above his dark eyes. Despite the early hour, there was already a bustling of activity. Pots clanked in the kitchen, and custodians of the inn swept and cleaned. From behind a counter where he fidgeted with barrels of beer, the innkeeper turned his attention to Qualtan.

“Good morning to you! Up early enough for the day, eh?” the innkeeper said, a gold tooth shining prominently from a wide smile.

“Early enough indeed. I was hoping for a spot of breakfast, as well as your help,” Qualtan replied, putting down a handful of gold coins.

The innkeeper greedily eyed the coins. With a great, hairy paw he reached over and pulled the currency into his soiled apron. “Of course!” The innkeeper banged his fist against a wooden shutter in the wall behind him, yelling as a hand quickly slid the hinged doors apart. “Breakfast for this kind sir, and be quick about it!” he said to a hustle of feet. Satisfied, he turned and beamed another smile at his paying guest.

“Aaaah! Thank you, sir! ‘Tis a pleasure to speak with a man who pays in gold!” he said, with a wink. “I trust the room was pleasant?”

“Pleasant and comfortable,” answered Qualtan. The innkeeper came around the counter to lead Qualtan by the arm. “Thank YOU, sir! We try, for sure, to please our guests!” Escorting Qualtan to a large table, he grimaced at his other customers. “Most of the ilk here tries to pay with foreign money. Do I look like a money-changer?” he said loudly. “Now what help can I offer?”

“I’m seeking travel on the Flotsam River,” Qualtan said as they approached an occupied bench.

“Aah! Let me see. Here, now!” the innkeeper said, shoving a snoring man who lay sprawled over a table. “Sleep it off in your room! I have paying customers to take care of!” he said as the man groggily complied after another rough push.

“My apologies, my lord!” the innkeeper said as he and Qualtan slid into the rather dirty booth. The innkeeper removed a stained towel from his back pocket and wiped down the table and bench with little result.

“It’s easy enough. Leave the city at its south most point. It is two days to Moresmouth. From there you just follow the ships! There are docks aplenty on the road that follows the river west. The road don’t last forever, though, so you’ll have to catch a quick ride before it ends. Be wary of the docma, as you seem to be traveling alone.” The innkeeper eyed Qualtan curiously. “The river is big enough at the start—a few miles across I would say, big enough for ships to come and go. But it narrows sharply after awhile, and the ships will be jostling for position at that point. The river gets nasty once the ships end up in single file—the shores on both sides hug close then, and the docma are plentiful there; they usually target the boats from either side, hoping to get at supplies, or meat.” The innkeeper sat enigmatically, looking at Qualtan. “You, eh, buying or selling?” he asked knowingly.

Qualtan smiled back. “A little bit of both,” he said.

The innkeeper favored him with another wink and smile. “Traveled far, then?”

“Littlebig,” said Qualtan.

“Ah! I know the place. Cozy town, that is! Friends waiting for you, then?” he asked.

“Friends that know the person I represent,” Qualtan said, not willing to budge. Aurelus had warned him well about saying too much to strangers in the Woodworm Ports.

“Hah! I figured as much! A young lad like yourself, pardon my saying, sir! Mention my name to those you work for—let them know poor old Huel helped you out nicely enough!” he said. “I’m a friendly person and keep my mouth shut, if you know what I mean!” He nudged Qualtan with his elbow. “Aah! Your breakfast, sir!” the innkeeper said happily as one of his workers approached them with a dull tankard, a greasy platter of ruined eggs, and some old, hard bread.

“My thanks, innkeeper Huel,” Qualtan said, eyeing the meal guardedly.

It was as Huel had said. Grateful to be leaving the city, Qualtan could easily see a flat expanse of roads to one side with the sparkling sea coast on the other. There were still trains of merchants to follow but to a smaller degree, for which Qualtan was thankful. The open space led Qualtan to sigh with relief. He did not feel a need to be overly guarded here, for there were no mobs of passersby pressing up against him. Derelict homes and abandoned farms lined the road and his nights were spent in poorly kept stables. Upon reaching Moresmouth, Qualtan could see the small city was shabbier still. Beggars roamed freely. Idle men and women sat in groups playing dice or staring back menacingly. Qualtan became used to the dour stares he received from other horsemen upon the way. A large group of women sitting in front of a building from which laughs and music streamed forth pointed and laughed as he passed. Workmen cursed as they shoveled ditches and patched roads. A brightly dressed minstrel, looking quite out of place in Moresmouth, sat on a stool, playing his harp. A crowd of angry merchants leading a line of wagons shouted in exasperation at a broken cart that blocked their path. Qualtan was not eager to remain in Moresmouth for long.

To yet another inn Qualtan retired, although this one was rowdier by far. Throngs of customers laughed, yelled, and swore at one another. A circle of patrons were playing cards, roaring at every turn. A duo of drunken sailors nearly crashed into Qualtan’s table as they stumbled by. A weasel that crouched around a bearded man’s neck hissed at anyone that grew too close. A drunken woman began speaking to Qualtan, but quickly moved on when she received no response. Qualtan was growing impatient with the crowd. How could people live in such an unruly state? A large woman sitting in a corner was engaged in a drinking contest with a smaller man, who quickly fell over in defeat, accompanied by cheers and boos from betting observers. Qualtan checked himself inwardly, realizing he had traveled little and was a novice at what lay outside the comforting fields and cozy cottages of Littlebig. There is much to learn, he thought.

Growing weary, Qualtan rose to go to his room, thinking happily of leaving Moresmouth behind in the morning. As he made his way through the assemblage, the gaggle of the inn suddenly died down at the appearance of a new visitor. Moving closer to a free space, Qualtan noticed the interest gained by the newcomer. After purchasing a drink from a staring innkeeper that waved him off, the newcomer huddled by a bench in a dark corner. “Pig!” hissed someone in the crowd. “How dare that pig enter into our house?!” remarked another.

“What is it? What’s the matter?” asked Qualtan.

“What’s the matter? A cursed half-orc, that’s what the matter is!” replied a drunken man.

As Qualtan approached, he was able to make out the figure that had caused so much commotion. The stranger was short, at least to Qualtan’s frame of over six feet. He was lean, yet solid; his hardened muscles showed through his silken shirt. His face was long, with a sharp nose. His ears were pointed like an elf’s, and his eyebrows were long and arched. His shiny black hair was arranged into a long ponytail. A scraggly beard shadowed his lower cheeks and chin. His features contained little of his orcne blood, except for a somewhat pronounced forehead and sharp canines that showed as he took a deep draught of beer. He wore a huge belt that seemed to hold a great number of small implements. Knives, perhaps, thought Qualtan. These same items wound their way around a circular neck collar. But what most caught Qualtan’s attention was the unique mounted device the half-orc wore over his right wrist. It was so intricate in design, Qualtan could not guess at its purpose.

Qualtan felt remorse at his own interest in the half-orc, no different than that of the crowd’s, he thought ruefully. He had never seen one before, and half-orcs did not carry positive reputations. They were scorned by most, even here in Woodworm, where usually hated orcne could walk unmolested, or at best be tolerated, for short periods of time. Half-orcs were thought of as even worse than their part-brethren. They were said to carry the most awful traits of their orc parentage and whatever species they shared. Thieves or muggers, assassins or killers, these were the occupations attributed to half-orcs. The hate projected towards them was based more on what they represented than what they really were: no decent creature would ever pair off with an orc. That distinction reflected a darker assumption.

“This is a public gathering place, dog, not for the likes of you!” yelled an emboldened member of the crowd. The half-orc stared back briefly, and then returned his attention to his drink.

The rebuff only served to inflame the crowd. A large man with a wet, red shirt and long, leather boots swaggered towards him. Perspiring from the heat, the large man motioned three of his friends to join him.

“No response, eh? Perhaps those big ears o’ yours need clippin’!” the man said, bringing his compatriots to laugh.

“You’re not welcome here. Finish your drink and leave!” said another.

The half-orc looked at the men squarely, eyeing the situation.

“Get out of my face,” he finally said.

The four men whooped, to the cheers of those around them. The leader of the men pointed his mug at the half-orc and looked at the gathering for approval. “Did you hear that, now? The bloody mistake told me to get the hell away,” he said.

“I’m so frightened I might just fall down on me ass!” another of the four men said, smacking his buttocks. The crowd jeered. The half-orc noticeably tensed. Qualtan slipped in closer with growing concern.

“I’ll leave when I’m finished, and not a moment before,” replied the half-orc, sipping from his tankard. The leader of the ruffians approached, nudging the orcne’s mug.

“Drinkin’ out of a proper mug, eh?” the leader said, his red-rimmed eyes glaring angrily.

“No swordplay!” yelled the innkeeper from behind the line of observers.

“Fine. I will leave. Go take a seat,” said the half-orc coolly.

The man suddenly backhanded the half-orc with his mug, plowing him onto the floor. Having partially blocked the blow with a quick raise of his arm, the half-orc was still pushed back from the force. “You think you can tell me what to do?!” the man said. “At him, lads!” he yelled to his friends.

The other three men closed in as the mob cheered. With his mug, the leader struck again at the rising half-orc, but this time the stranger successfully parried the blow, followed by a smarting punch to the nose with his fist. The leader hollered in pain, but the other men rushed the half-orc, pinning him against a wall. Four young men encouraged by the battle hooted gleefully and ran to guard the inn’s doorway, lest any guards of the town take notice and investigate.

The leader rose, wiping the blood that streamed from his nose. As his comrades punched and pummeled the struggling half-orc, he pulled forth a dagger from one of his long boots.

“Oooh, my friend. You’ll pay for raising a hand against your betters!” The man advanced on his restrained opponent, weapon in hand.

Suddenly, someone shoved his way past the throng. “Release him!” yelled Qualtan. His anger at the scene had boiled to the surface. Half-orc or not, there was no need for this. The leader did not hear him, so Qualtan yelled out again.

“Release him!” he cried.

The man stopped, as he and his companions took in the young warrior for the first time. “Eh?” the man intoned.

“He has done nothing to you. Leave him be,” Qualtan said.

The man snorted. “A righteous paladin, is it? Go preach to the poor but leave us to our appointed task! This here is no soulful creature but a bloody half-orc!” The man turned back towards the orcne who stood staring at Qualtan intently.

“I will say this but once, let him go,” Qualtan insisted.

The leader turned again, looking at Qualtan with more appreciation. “I will say THIS to you but once. Stay out of it,” he said, challenging Qualtan with narrowed eyes.

“Sit down! Don’t spoil the fun!” yelled a woman from somewhere behind him.

Qualtan stepped forward. The leader stood with a wicked smile on his face. He raised his dagger and jabbed it hard into a table. “You want a drubbing, boy? Come on then,” he said, popping his knuckles.

Qualtan smiled. Although unsure of this new environment, he had been tested over the years by expert fighters in hand to hand combat. Rather eagerly, he drew closer. The circle of observers began chanting the larger man’s name. Apparently, he was a regular at the inn.

“Relt! Relt! Relt!” they sang.

The man lunged with his fists as Qualtan advanced, missing once, twice, and then a third time as Qualtan easily avoided him.

“Stop dancing with the lad!” someone laughed.

“Shut up!” Relt answered back, embarrassed.

“Well? I’m right here. Strike me if you can!” taunted Qualtan. Infuriated, the man roared and struck again. This time his fist was caught in his opponent’s hand in a vice grip. Try as he might, Relt could not free himself. Qualtan maintained pressure and twisted Relt’s arm, preventing him from bending it to reach past Qualtan’s defense. Relt groaned in pain, doubling over. Qualtan whirled him around, pulling Relt’s captured arm high behind his back. With a push, he hurled him into a row of chairs.

The other three men, realizing now that Qualtan posed an actual threat, banged the half-orc against a wall and ran towards the fight. One of the men fell quickly as Qualtan kicked his knee. Another man had his blows deflected, followed by a quick elbow to his midsection and a wincing blow to his chin. The third man struck home, but his blow was like a feather to the magically enhanced warrior. Barely flinching, Qualtan struck back and the man was sent sliding across the floor, as onlookers hopped to avoid his speeding shape. During the battle, the half-orc had propped himself up, and now stood watching. The hoopla had grown silent as the young warrior was given greater respect. One young man snuck towards the dagger Relt had left impaled on the table. As Qualtan faced the crowd, looking for new attackers, the lone man pulled the dagger free and rushed behind Qualtan. The half-orc saw this and pulled a thin knife from his belt to throw, but hesitated when Qualtan, who had obviously sensed the danger, turned around. The man paused. Qualtan smiled wickedly, the anger in his breast resonating as eerily red light that now shone from his eyes. At this display the man whimpered, dropping the knife, and quickly running in the opposite direction. The half-orc chuckled. Taking advantage of the scene, he melted into the shadows and fled.

The crowd kept their distance from Qualtan but eyed him angrily.

“Please, sir. Please leave! You have done enough damage here,” said the innkeeper, almost apologetically. Others in the inn moved to assist the beaten men, lifting them to their feet as they groaned in pain. Qualtan was taken aback. “I would not stay here a moment longer, accompanied by hateful folk such as yourselves!” he said heatedly. The crowd parted as he went back to his room to fetch his belongings. After a few moments he reappeared. A group of men and women waited for him, watching him silently as he led himself towards the front door. Two men guarding the way hesitated but did not wish to test the warrior further. They parted and Qualtan left the inn.

Walking his horse out of its stable, he could hear the sounds of laughter and gaiety again rising from within the inn. “Idiots and fools!” Qualtan said aloud as he rode off into the night. They would have allowed murder and seen him a criminal for attempting to stop it, he thought in disbelief. Yet, perhaps he was the fool, for the half-orc had not assisted him, or even thanked him. Indeed, he had left at the first opportune moment. Qualtan chortled in self-deprecation. The half-orc, as well as the other inn attendees, probably thought him some naïve young gobshite seeking flattery by playing the role of rescuing hero. And yet, wasn’t that what he was? The thought did not agree with Qualtan, and he urged his steed to go faster, hoping the speed would clear his mind.

With the rising of the sun, Qualtan followed a road that marched alongside the great ships moving slowly into the Flotsam River, so named for all manner of illegal cargo that was sometimes thrown overboard there. Merchant ships could be seen bearing the sword and bone standard of the Sargossians, buccaneer/pirate lords that held sway over a small nation of islands that dotted the sea between the Second and First Continents. Coastal trading vessels painted bright red with yellow sails from the nearby nation of Bagda sailed suspiciously alongside gold and blue coasters from the Kingdom of Mezzolanke, rival naval empire to both Bagda and Turinthia, and the lone dissenter to joining the Alliance. Some vessels were accompanied by fierce war ships meant to protect their smaller charges. There were other boats that had no flag or standard. Thus camouflaged, they could have come from any number of territories, local or foreign. Hugging closer to the shore were ferries of various size and shape, carrying both passengers and freight. How many adventures had these ocean craft seen, Qualtan wondered, in the course of their journeys to and from the Woodworm Ports? Aurelus had told him many a tale of the great sea-beasts that hunted the waves, and the beings like men that lived beneath them. Amali, that great wizard that would visit the School on rare occasion, had once told him of the Yanaan—a mixture of human, snake, and other horrible creatures, that ruled the center region of the Third Continent, hidden in its deepest jungles. There were even legends of an undead flotilla that would hinder and harass ships that passed too closely upon their haunted isle, transforming intruders into their own.

Qualtan shook his head, thinking of what lay before him. Someday he hoped to take such adventures and return to tell tales of the strange folk he had met and the many cities he had seen. Becoming a knight would surely be the start of such dreams made true. Inspired by the thought, he redoubled his horse’s efforts.

Ramshackle booths and molding trading posts began to appear alongside the road. The tree line opposite the street thickened, forming a wild tangle of green. The road became muddier and less manageable as shrubbery began to outgrow it. Qualtan finally selected a dock towards the end of the road, which had become obstructed by a wall of thorny branches and thick plants. The dock itself was comprised of four wooden buildings surrounded by a stout, wooden fence. Guards eyed him curiously as he passed through. He was quickly directed by a group of men sitting on giant barrels towards a round-bellied man signing papers near a line of waiting wagons.

“And what can I do for you?” the man said in hurried fashion, as he waited for another man to sign the papers he held in his hands. Upon completion of the task, both men shook forearms vigorously and parted. Qualtan walked with the man as he observed the unloading of merchandise from a parked ferry onto the wagons.

“Passage to Flotsam’s mouth,” Qualtan replied.

“Clan name?” the man said impatiently.

Qualtan understood. As Aurelus had counseled him, the end of Flotsam River was a large lake area under the control of various groups of freebooters and smugglers. Customers with special requests would barter with them to unload, secure, and deliver their purchases to any number of secret places. The clans patrolled and enforced the boundaries of their piece of Flotsam’s End, as it was called, and brooked no intrusion from other clan members. Occasional strife would occur over such things as customers being lured to other clans, or acts of thievery. For the most part, the clans co-existed peacefully and respected each other’s territories, at least in their official capacity. There were unwritten rules of conduct and inter-clan payments that had to be followed. It had been a widely told tale when one new entrant into the clan families attempted an outright attack on one of its rivals. The clans combined to oust the troublemaker, burning their forts to the ground, and selling off the surviving members to their customers, for the clans cared not for the morality or intents of their clients as long as their fee was met.

Beyond Flotsam’s End was a huge buffer known as the Darklight Forest, so named for the fluorescent molds that grew on the trees and glowed in the night, giving the whole place a fearful reputation, and with good reason. Bands of docma lived within, sending raiding parties to harass the clans on occasion or to attack ships that passed too closely to shore. Other fearsome creatures resided there, preventing any nation’s official attempt to root out the clans by force of arms. Unofficially, it was rumored that the clans paid secret tribute to the rulers of the Woodworm Ports as well as to certain outlying nations to preserve their freedom as well as to maintain these selfsame kingdoms as their most profitable customers. Most dreaded was the evil druid Romulax that Qualtan had been charged to seek out. Even the clans feared him, and only transacted with him out of forced necessity. His lair was in the Darklight, somewhere. And it was to this place that Qualtan was soon to travel.

“The Buckholm Clan,” replied Qualtan.

“Fee?” asked the man, snapping his fingers as he reviewed his papers.

Qualtan dropped a small bag of coins into the man’s hand. The man weighed the bag in his hand, opening it carefully.

“Good enough,” he said. “Take that ferry, then. They will be finished with the unloadin’ soon enough.”

“How long to the river’s end?” Qualtan asked.

The man looked at Qualtan with surprise. “Newcomer, eh? Three, four days, my young friend. Enjoy your travel,” he said as an assistant appeared, tugging at his jacket.

“Now what? Hell’s bells, man, if it’s those stupid long ears again I will have their heads on a platter! No discounts!” he yelled as he dragged his assistant towards a group of elves that stood under the watchful gaze of archers positioned atop the fence posts.

The voyage was peaceful as the ferry trudged alongside the great boats that shared the river. As the waterway grew thinner, ships aligned one behind the other, stopping at various docking stations along the way. With every parked vessel, the channel grew clearer until eventually only a few craft shared the tributary. The way grew strange, for the beginnings of the Darklight Forest soon appeared. Trees of dark leaves, almost purple, began to build upon the shorelines, amassing tightly. Gloomy in the day, the forest became weirdly lit at night. The molds that hugged the bleak wooden trunks outlined the forest in a green-white glow, as travelers sat upon the deck of the ferry to point and observe. Peculiar cries resonated from within those woods, and an occasional figure could be seen running gracefully along the shoreline unhindered by the trees, keeping pace with the boats.

“Look! Docma!” a passenger cried out. At the edge of a large outgrown tree root, a group of lupine figures stood observing the passing craft. They howled mournfully as the ferry grew near. One docma hurled a spear that missed by a wide margin. The captain of the ferry ordered his men to fire a volley of arrows in response.

“Go away, little pups! We have no treats for you!” he yelled. The dog-men retreated somewhat from the arrows, gibbering in their own language as they did. A few more spears were shot, some hitting the ferry’s side and bouncing off ineffectively. The captain laughed, reassuring his charges as he moved about the deck with torch in hand.

“Harmless beasties, when kept at a distance! I have a nice docma pelt in my cabin from the time a pack of them had the nerve to sneak up on longboats! Anyone care to see it?” he asked. A few occupants agreed, following the captain back inside. Qualtan decided to remain above, observing the docma. As the boat passed by their location, he could see the lead dog-man watching them, howling towards the moon. Despite the shade of night, the glow of the trees and shine from the moon detailed its form. A large snout was pulled back, exposing fangs of the largest size. Despite being furred, it wore a padded vest and downy skins from other animals around its waist. Its call brought a chill down Qualtan’s spine, as it seemingly ordered the others of its kind to disperse back into the forest.

The remaining days on the river brought forth no additional docma to harangue them. At the last, the river unfolded into Flotsam’s End, a small lake ringed with various fortresses of the clan lords that reigned here. Ships dispersed towards the various ports they had come to visit. One stronghold was unique indeed—a half sunken ship, angled in towards the beach line. Roughly hewn tree posts created a wall on both sides of its aging bulk. The craft’s naked masts pointed towards wooden staircases that decorated a rocky hill. Above the hill stood the fortifications of the Buckholm clan. Flags decorated the protective barriers of the aging craft. A fist with a small knife behind it was displayed as the charge on the flags, the emblem of this particular clan. Qualtan’s ferry slowed to a halt as it parked on customized docks near the dead vessel. Armed men stood by, along with waiting laborers, as both ferry crew and patrons disembarked. Each customer produced a document that was verified by one of the armed clansmen. Once approved, the visitor was allowed entrance accompanied by a troop of escorts as the other staff members began unloading any materials that had been delivered.

When it was Qualtan’s turn, the clansmen in charge confronted him. The lead man was heavily scarred with many silvered teeth replacing lost ones. A long, red cloth was tied around his head. Jeweled bangles embellished his wrists. He looked Qualtan up and down, and bowed in a rather crude attempt at courtesy.

“Welcome to the Clan of Buckholm. Your business, sir?” he asked.

“I have come to see Dock Master Buckholm,” Qualtan replied.

The men surrounding him smiled at the request. The lead man smirked rather rudely. “Dock Master Buckholm is expecting no visitors today. Who might you be?”

“I am Qualtan, son of Eucradus, nephew to Aurelus,” he stated with no small measure of pride. The men, however, stood unmoving, laughing out loud. If Qualtan had assumed his address would have been favored it was not forthcoming. The feeling of deflation came quickly.

“So?” was the only reply.

Somewhat taken aback, Qualtan pressed on. “I seek passage into Darklight Forest. Your Dock Master has done business with my family in the past and is indebted to favor.”

The men replied with even more laughter. “The Buckholm clan indebted to favor, are we?” the leader said, looking to his comrades in shared surprise. “Your arrogance brings me to anger, young one. There is no business done in the Darklight Forest, and we are busy here. The truth now, before it goes ill for you!” He nodded to his fellows who gripped their swords.

Qualtan searched in his bag and pulled out a yellowed roll of paper. “Well, before it goes ill with me, I should share this with you, I think,” he said, handing the scroll to the leader of the guards.

“Your Dock Master’s father was indebted to my uncle for his help in freeing the Docks from an army of orcne and trolls that nearly laid waste to it, in years past during the Great War.”

The man squinted at the scroll. “True, the dock men did face that battle. The battle of Tooth and Nail, the elders called it. That story has been sung ‘round the camps since I was a sea-whelp. But what proof do you bring? The claim may be proper, I’d wager, but the real story may not be.”

“That map bears the signature of Feorn, Buckholm’s father. It shows the hidden lots that were used to protect your clan’s treasures during that battle.” The men gathered around with sudden interest as their leader looked it over.

“I would say these treasury holes are still in use today, wouldn’t you?” Qualtan said, eyeing the leader whose face had bulged with surprise at the document. One of his men looked in closer, pointing to a particular area on its face. The leader retorted, pulling it away. “I’ll be handling this, if you don’t mind!” he said angrily.

“No one knows of this! Not even most of my men!” he said to Qualtan. “A man would be killed for having this kind of information.” Their stares met, and neither backed down from the brief challenge.

“Does this, then, prove my business?” Qualtan asked. The man frowned, looking back at the document, which he held with new delicateness. “The age is right, or I’m a minnow.” As others attempted to sneak a closer look, he flipped the map over with a threatening gaze and returned it to Qualtan. “All right. I’ll be taking a risk with you and bring you to Buckholm. No one but family or friends would have this, unless it had been stolen.” He eyed Qualtan again, smiled briefly, and then frowned. “Enough! Make way! We have work to do!” he said to his men, pushing some of them back. He marched off in a huff, and Qualtan, holding back a laugh, quickly followed.

They trotted into the expanse beyond the protecting walls, a busy area of warehouses and guard shacks. “We keep most of it in the ship itself,” the lead man said, pointing to the beached hulk that was full of men and movement. Women and children also worked about. “That ship was from our clan descendents when they first came to this place,” he said. “My name is Dewark. And you are a nephew of the great Aurelus, eh? It was thought he was above having such kin, leastways of the mortal ilk, if you get my pitch.” He shook Qualtan’s hand as he led him towards the staircases hammered into the looming hill. Qualtan laughed, relieved somewhat of how quickly the confrontation had been resolved.

“My uncle is as human as you or I. He had a brother,” Qualtan began.

“Yes, yes, Eucradus, you mentioned. Great warrior from what’s been said. I thought wizards had no relations, brother or otherwise,” he added, with a devious smile. “Still, your uncle did us great justice. If not for him, all of Flotsam’s End would have been razed to the ground, or so I’ve been told.”

Panting, Dewark led the way, leaping over steps as they climbed the stairwell to the top of the hill. Guards at its head saluted to him. He stood for a moment, bowed over, attempting to catch his breath as Qualtan appeared behind him. Looking at the young warrior who seemed to have little difficulty, Dewark pulled himself up. “Accursed stairs!” he gasped.

A small castle graced the rocky top. Colored tents lay here and there, as soldiers and guards idled the afternoon. “Do some work!” Dewark said disapprovingly, to which the men merely guffawed and pointed back.

Entering the main hall, Qualtan could see the many flags and standards of nations old and new that graced the lofty ceiling. A large flag of the Buckholm clan covered the back wall. A half circle of tables surrounded smaller benches within. At its center sat a man in a chair bigger than the rest. He was powerfully built with huge arms and bulging neck. He wore a red leather vest studded with silvery knobs. Other men surrounded him as he issued directives. His face was lost in a ball of tightly curled hair that was nearly as red as his vest. A black patch covered his left eye as his right moved quickly, taking in the various documents being presented to him. A rush of children running by softened his countenance. He grabbed a little girl, playfully patting her with false reproach. Taking notice of Dewark and Qualtan, his face again grew stern, and he lowered the child and let her join her waiting companions. As Qualtan neared, he could barely discern a jeweled earring on the man’s left ear, hidden in that great mat of hair.

“My lord!” said Dewark, humbly bowing low.

“What friend is this you bring to me?” the man said, looking at Qualtan.

“This is Qualtan, my lord. Nephew to Aurelus, the great, and son to Eucradus, the legendary warrior of…” He was interrupted by the clan’s master.

“I know the tales. The wizard Aurelus, eh? Quite a claim, indeed. Young lord, do you know who I am?” he asked.

Qualtan bowed. “You are Dock Master Buckholm, son of Dock Master Feorn, and ruling master of the Buckholm Clan. My uncle saved your father once and has humbly asked of you to repay that debt with your assistance to me.” He gave his map to Dewark, who quickly presented it.

The Dock Master pored over the map with his good eye. “You have the last name right. Feorn Buckholm was indeed my father. I am Arkonis Buckholm. Hmmm. Dock Master Feorn’s hand, it truly is!” he exclaimed. He rolled up the scrollwork and looked up at Qualtan. “The Buckholm clan does not take part in obligations for we indebt ourselves to none. Truly, ‘tis a sign of great disrespect for a stranger to enter our house demanding payments for debts we know nothing of.” His hand rested on the pommel of a great sword that was tied to his belt. Qualtan was unsure of his reaction and wondered if he had misspoken. The other men to whom Arkonis had been speaking also moved forward, grim faces taking in the newcomer. Dewark nervously stepped to one side, as Qualtan began thinking of how best to defend himself. Suddenly, the sour look on Arkonis’ face stretched into a creased smile. “But in this case, the debt is well known, and well met indeed!” He extended a hand towards Qualtan. “An honor indeed to meet the nephew of Aurelus! Welcome, my friend!” he said, gripping Qualtan’s arm mightily. He laughed and followed the gesture with a great hug to which his men relaxed, laughing as well.

That night, Arkonis hosted a large, raucous dinner. There were eighteen members of Arkonis’ family present as well as his closest advisors and his many children. Musicians plucked at harps and blew into flutes, while others beat on small drums and twanged violins. It was a sumptuous meal; blazing pig, piles of fruit, soups fragranced with exotic spices, and a variety of sweetmeats. Qualtan was amused at the friendly and jovial nature Arkonis presented to those around him. Gone was the intimidating, one-eyed smuggling lord Qualtan had first encountered.

“So you have come for Romulax. Dangerous indeed! His path is well known to us. We are contracted to him, leaving supplies at a certain point within the forest that marks the entrance to his home. We leave what has been requested at his doorstep for his … creatures … to remove. He leaves his payment nearby. None have seen him, his servants, only in shadow. Although we fear his trade, we dare not drop it. Another clan attempted to ignore his needs and paid dearly for it. When he then approached us, we had no choice,” said Arkonis.

“Why did you not fight back then?” Qualtan asked. “Surely with all of your men…”

One child with brown curly locks rushed up to Arkonis holding a plate full of buttered cream and candied bread. He fed Arkonis a piece of the caramelized bread, and the elder man playfully bit at his son’s small fingers. The boy cried out in mock surprise and quickly rushed off to join his siblings at a corner table where his mother presided.

Arkonis paused, wiping grease from his bearded face. “Twenty men were sent to avenge the Gumthault Clan, their fortress on the hill just beyond ours. Twenty men were returned in their longboats, their heads missing. I have children, you see. Isn’t that right, Nano?” he said to his wife, who laughed and nodded. Arkonis leaned towards Qualtan who sat beside him at the head of the table. “I would risk the wrath of any man. But what lies within the Darklight is no man. If you were one of my own I would advise against it. Quests for wizards and such! Foolhardy burdens! See this patch of mine?” Arkonis said, pointing to the covering over his left eye. “A foolish fight in my youth took it from me. A fight in an inn, started over some woman. Ah, the recklessness of young men, eager to brandish their swords! Many a battle I’ve been in, but the end result is this. My home, my wife, my seven children! We molest no one, and only defend what is ours.”

Qualtan thought for a moment. “Sometimes there are those who need help when they cannot defend what is theirs.”

Arkonis looked at Qualtan, and smiled. “Hah! I like you, lad, I really do! A credit to your father, surely! You remind me of my eldest son. Throm is his name. Didn’t like the family business, you could say. He’s a soldier now in the Badlassian army. I wait for his invitation to visit soon one day. He has a wife now.” Arkonis’ voice trailed off. He regained his composure and patted Qualtan gently on the back. “Your father was killed, was he not?”

“Yes. A great man,” Qualtan answered. “He fought to the end against Those That Stand in Shadow.”

“Indeed! Though most of these nabobs know nothing of history!” Arkonis said, throwing an apple towards Dewark.

“I never knew him,” Qualtan said quietly.

“Do not fear, lad. I’m sure he surely knows you, watching over you as any good father would!” Arkonis seemed earnest in his words, and Qualtan appreciated this. It was apparent Arkonis missed his own son, and that their relationship was somewhat strained.

“If I can assist you through my labors, I will,” Qualtan said.

“Hah! I like you, lad, I really do. A credit to your father!” The Dock Master sat back, entreating the dinner party. “If you succeed, we shall be in your family’s debt once again!” he said loudly as cups were raised in tribute. Dewark, who sat nearby, extended his arm and grabbed Qualtan’s shoulder approvingly.

“Never fear! I will lead you!” Dewark said, patting Qualtan’s arm.

“He’s the man to do it. Nose like a mole’s, eyes like a hawk’s. Dewark’s a ferret, all right. My best man,” Arkonis said, pointing towards Dewark, who nodded at the compliment. Suddenly, the musicians’ instruments picked up in tempo. Women began to clap, pulling men from their seats to dance in a ring of movement. Arkonis’ wife laughed and as they moved rhythmically around the tables took hold of Qualtan and brought him into the festive fold. The revelers made merry and cajoled into the night.

The sun rose soon enough. A small watercraft awaited Qualtan, powered by paired teams of rowers. Its sail was down; its lone mast topped with a waving flag of the Buckholm clan. With Dewark barking commands, they slowly departed, Arkonis waving them off. The voyage was brief. One day had passed before the boat disembarked its lone rowboat onto a narrowing artery of Flotsam’s End. Blackened branches arched overhead, forming a narrow corridor through the trees. Dewark and his men hacked at blocking foliage as the waterline was gradually replaced with moss-covered rocks and mud. Eventually they landed at the artery’s terminal point. All was quiet around them. Dewark took Qualtan’s shoulder.

“From here on in, lad, it’s a few hours straight through. You will find a small tower with sloping eaves. That’s the marker where we would drop off,” Dewark said, pointing to a barely visible path ahead. “Pass the marker and you’ll find large, well-trimmed hedges from side to side. That way will lead you to him, sure enough. It’s a labyrinth of sorts. We dared enter it initially, but retreated quickly when sounds of scraping and clawing came from within.” Dewark looked at Qualtan directly, concern showing through his scarred face. “Lad, be careful. This is truly a fool’s errand you’ve been put upon.”

Qualtan smiled. “Have faith. I have abilities you have yet to see. I thank you, Dewark, for your guidance and protection.”

Dewark looked doubtful. “Guidance I’ve given, but little protection is to be had. We will return in three days. You better be back by then! We will not linger here!” he warned, looking about in fear.

“I understand. Have no worry for me!” Qualtan replied.

Dewark nodded grimly and retreated to his men, gesturing for the rowboat to be pushed back into the water. “Do some work!” he yelled his oft-repeated phrase at them. Qualtan watched as they floated away, Dewark waving back at him. Qualtan returned the gesture and when they were no longer visible, turned to stare down the looming forest before him. He sighed loudly.

“Well, this is it, then,” he said to himself, and walked in.

The path was clear enough. Vegetation had been stamped upon enough times to reveal a crude road through the trees. Qualtan was amazed at how even smaller plants took on the same lingering dark tones that the great trees of the forest displayed. He knelt and pressed the velvety leaves of a bush between his fingers. No sooner had he touched the bush, then a sudden movement caught his attention. The trees had begun to sway, their leaves rattling in the wind like cockle shells. Qualtan, however, felt no breeze or wind. Perhaps the stream of air was higher up, amidst the boughs, yet he grew uncertain. As Qualtan continued on, the waving of the tree branches grew wilder. Was the wind truly to blame for their movement, or was some sinister force at work?

He reached out to touch one of the tree trunks, hoping to calm the effect. Having grown up with wizards, he had been given a strong appreciation and respect for the natural world. The power that mages harnessed for both good and evil, the energy infused in all life, could be felt if one was truly attuned to it. The bark was not hard at all, but soft and spongy. The tree seemed diseased and rotted, yet grew tall and full. Purplish-black swellings—the infamous mold that gave the Darklight Forest its name—enveloped most of the trees, even onto their branches. Keeping his hand on the trunk, Qualtan closed his eyes, attempting to soothe it. The rocking grew even fiercer, as Qualtan’s ministrations seemed to fail him. If a tree could recoil without movement, this tree did. He removed his hand and warily trekked on. At a brief clearing, he stopped.

Looking at the waving branches with their thickly twisted leaves, they seemed more alive and threatening than before. Clouds of black butterflies flitted past. There was a lone skeleton in the open patch. It looked up at him with a wildly satirical grin; budding purplish flowers grew from long-emptied sockets. Had it been a hapless member of the Gumthault clan, as Arkonis had mentioned, or some lone wanderer who had chosen an unwise path? As Qualtan inspected it, he noticed ebony beetles dwelled within. Everything in this forest seemed to carry the same, dark color. It was then Qualtan noticed something else. He had not heard any call of bird or cry of beast since his entrance into the forest. Nothing save the cacophony of the damnable trees whooshing and undulating in grotesque fashion. Rising, he started for a moment. The path he had followed behind him was gone! The ring of trees was complete except for the opening before him. Was this an illusion? He looked around, momentarily confused of his prior direction.

“You have nothing to fear from me, great trees. I mean you no harm!” he cried out. Their writhing gave the appearance of waves flowing round him. What if the trees truly could move? What if they rose now to attack him? How could he fend off an entire forest? Qualtan felt a brief wellspring of fear that quickly subsided. Best to move on and not wait for dark, he thought. The pathway seemed to open as he trod, parting to make way for him. He was being led in the direction the forest wished, apparently. Finally, the tower Dewark had mentioned was visible. Qualtan could see how few would dare trespass deeper with the pressing feeling of hate emanating from the trees. He stepped onto the stone steps of the tower that was hollow within, and was comforted by the brief sanctuary.

Open doorways and windows allowed free shafts of light to enter. The walls were crusted with black vines which startled Qualtan. Small pods or buds, perhaps flowers, decorated them. Their centers were liquid black fringed with small petals that seemed to flicker suddenly. The impression given was that of blinking dark eyes that seemed to follow him. Too high for Qualtan to reach or inspect, he decided to ignore the all-seeing eyes. Were they a spell of the evil druid, meant to observe intruders entering upon his lands? Beyond the tower was a great hedge. Dark black was its color, its leaves pressed against each other. The ground was gravel that issued chalky, white clouds at Qualtan’s steps. Dewark was correct; it was indeed a labyrinth. A single, non-branching path veered to one side and then another, bringing Qualtan closer to what appeared overhead as a massive, dead tree located somewhere in its center. The hedges did not move, and the silence was a relief from the noisome trees. Looking ever upward, Qualtan was amazed at how large the branches of that nameless tree seemed to become as he grew closer. Qualtan’s reverie was abruptly interrupted by the sound of gravel being disrupted, seemingly from behind one of the hedge walls. He stopped, ensuring it was not his own echoing footsteps that had so alarmed him. He stood for a moment, and was about to move again when he heard the noise a second time. He was not alone in the maze.

Continuing at a quicker pace, the clatter followed him in greater numbers. Qualtan unsheathed his sword, breathing loudly in expectation, and then stopped, preparing to meet his unknown foes.

We leave what has been requested at his doorstep for his … creatures … to remove. Qualtan thought back to the words Arkonis had given him. None have seen him, his servants, only in shadow.

The low hum of his sword gave him comfort as he waited. “I have been prepared for this,” he said to gain courage as his pursuers showed themselves at last.

A garbled cry heralded their approach into view. From the path came six or seven beasts that looked more plant than man. Inhumanly thin, they moved with quick agility, leaping and bouncing on three-toed feet. Their blackish-green skin appeared to be made of some sort of leafy substance. Their large claws were of a horn-like material, pinkish white and gleaming. Rather than eyes, their sockets contained yellow, fleshy, flower-like protuberances, or perhaps they were eyes, after all. Great open mouths showed fangs, although their brown and spiky appearance resembled sharp roots.

As they bounded towards him, Qualtan prepared himself to meet their attack. His focus was so intent on the approaching horde that he failed to notice two additional creatures that had emerged silently from either side of the hedges nearest him. They leapt, claws bared. Qualtan reacted instantly. He hewed one down while being pulled down by the other. He struck at its head with the base of his sword, and as it jabbered in pain he struck at it again, hurling it away. The others engaged. A cloud of fang and claw enveloped him. Qualtan slapped with his sword, and kicked with his feet. Talons scraped and sparked against his chest plate. One of his opponents hopped on his back like some great spider, and its thorn-like teeth bit deep into his shoulder. Crying out in pain, Qualtan shook off his foe, and as it lunged forward again he decapitated its head from branchy shoulders. The remaining plant-thing crouched in anticipation for a final attempt.

“Give way!” Qualtan yelled, unsure if the druid’s servant could even understand him. It hissed threateningly and sprung. Qualtan’s sword met its charge, and the guardian creature fell in a leafy heap. Assured there were no other opponents, Qualtan winced and felt at the bleeding punctures on his injured shoulder. He checked himself for other injuries and found claws had sliced through his right thigh, cleaving through the protective metal guard. He was stained with their ichor-like blood. Qualtan ripped a piece of fabric from his now tattered cloak and formed a quick dressing for his shoulder. Satisfied, he continued on.

After a short while, the great hedges ended. Qualtan stared in awe at what lay centered within the labyrinth. A twisted temple of bizarre and evil construct, clearly made of stone, yet entwined with a growth of gnarled trees and vines so monstrous as to make it nearly indistinguishable from them. Where stone ended and root began, Qualtan could not tell. A stairwell of carved rock carpeted by moss and leaf led to a doorway from which light flickered.

Qualtan climbed over the slippery roots, pausing when his foot would become tangled. It was then that he noticed other items comprised the steps. Freeing his foot from a momentary entrapment, he saw a skull half hidden in the vines. There were others, with skeleton bodies that accompanied them. “By the gods, what charnel house is this?” Qualtan whispered in disbelief. Clearing the treacherous path, he peered into the cave-like entrance, half expecting some beast to rise up from some hidden corner, but none did. The smell of soil was intense as Qualtan sneaked past the earthen-like corridor into a large, pyramidical room. Throughout the chamber, glowing blobs of fungi nestled in tightly-fitted crevices, giving off bright colors of red, purple, yellow, and blue. A narrow tunnel of plant-like fibers led into another chamber further back, and Qualtan followed it. It was a tight squeeze between the hardened tissues, but he was able to manage through.

The tunnel exited into a vast middle area, the center of the structure, it seemed. Its ceiling lay somewhere high above. The immediate floor consisted of a spongy mass of intertwining vines of the largest size, and they gave a little when stepped upon. What appeared to have been a giant tree that had grown within the chamber had been carved into a stairwell leading to an open doorway above. Four mounds of strange shape lay before two large, demonic totems carved from wood. The room was illuminated by rainbow hues from more of the fungi that dotted the walls and floors.

Qualtan slowly moved forward, testing the vine floor. Guardedly he continued, stopping to inspect the four shapes he had seen from afar. He frowned, looking at apparently grotesque sculptures of mad design. They were carved in the likeness of four writhing, contorted humans. Sticky sap gleamed on their surfaces and dripped from their widely exaggerated mouths. “Only hate could create something as vile as these,” he said, touching one of the figures and wiping away the ooze.

“Hate indeed, at those that enter my abode,” a dry voice responded. Qualtan quickly looked up to see a figure upon the stairwell, observing him with a large grin of sharp teeth. How long he had stood there Qualtan was unsure, but if he hoped for surprise, Qualtan would not give it.

“Romulax!” Qualtan cried out. The being merely groaned menacingly and began walking down the stairs. Its gaping, slathering mouth was hideously large, taking most of the face. The rest was hidden behind a lavish headdress ornamented with tasseled arms. Tiny pearls of light shone through the darkened eye sockets. Robed in green, the hands were not visible, hidden within the dangling sleeves. The skin that surrounded the great maw was pale green.

“Identify yourself!” Qualtan said, his sword now before him. The being continued its approach, teeth chattering and clicking. One of his arms revealed itself. It extended from the sleeve, stretching unnaturally. It was long and woody, as if more branch than human appendage. The hand itself was huge, brown, and horned. Qualtan’s heart raced, unsure of his next move. “Your terror is over! I have come to stop you!” Qualtan yelled, with trembling voice.

“Stop me!” Romulax retorted. He raised his giant hand of wood, and a spray of thorns erupted. Qualtan quickly created a magic shield with his sword to deflect the bombardment. The druid hesitated and Qualtan sprinted forward, roaring his challenge. From Romulax’s other sleeve, a vine-like tentacle whipped forth. With unerring accuracy, it grabbed hold of Qualtan’s sword arm as the eyes beneath that baleful mask began to glow brighter. Qualtan struggled with the tentacle that kept his weapon raised up high, and he pounded with his free hand, twisting and turning to no avail. The tree-like hand also telescoped forward, grabbing the wrist of Qualtan’s other arm. Despite his strength, he could not pull free. Romulax moved in closer.

“Your meat will join the others who have come before you,” he sneered and opening his mouth even wider, puffed a stream of yellowish pollen that struck Qualtan squarely. With a final effort, Qualtan wrenched free from the grip of Romulax. The druid’s arms retracted back quickly, but the pollen’s impact had been made. Qualtan staggered.

“You will die quickly,” Romulax laughed. “And we shall dine well.” Qualtan’s vision became blurred and he staggered. Romulax raised his giant hand, and the vines that served as a floor released their grip, forming a hole that Qualtan quickly fell through. The last Qualtan heard was the fearsome druid’s maniacal laughing at his defeat.

It was a thirty-foot plunge before a layer of tough roots broke his fall. Utter blackness engulfed Qualtan. As he lay still, he was unaware of the large, swollen root-like form that stood to one side, surrounded by saggy, noosed appendages that dangled from it. Skeletons littered the area, vegetation taking seed inside their calcium-rich bones. Two such skeletons hung limply from taut noose-vines atop the root-like structure. Slowly, one of the appendages loosened, unraveling towards the floor.

Another followed. They moved about, as if sensing for prey. Upon reaching Qualtan’s still unmoving form, they grew tight, wrapping around his legs. He moaned dully as they dragged him closer to the main body of the root. They paused, as if gauging his weight. Then, with a great pull, Qualtan was hoisted up towards the crown of the root. His eyes began to open as a feeling of weightlessness stirred him. A rib-toothed maw opened above the root, as Qualtan was positioned above it. Realizing his immediate danger, Qualtan opened his hand and called forth his sword. It flew to his grasp from the pile of bones it had laid upon. Qualtan slashed at the arms that held his legs. They quivered and released him. He fell directly atop the thing’s mouth. The teeth chomped hungrily for its latest meal and Qualtan balanced himself, striking the mouth with his sword. It squealed and other appendages darted forth to envelope him. He sliced through them until a larger, broader vine swatted him off his perch. He twisted, landing on his feet as additional vines whipped towards him.

Wrapping securely around his waist, they again yanked him back. For each vine arm he cleaved, another took its place. They grabbed hold of his arm and hugged him tightly. This time a wider mouth opened vertically on the trunk of the beast. Qualtan’s eyes widened as inside it, he could see two putrefying corpses still being absorbed by the creature. He strained mightily and with a burst of red luminance from his eyes, he wrenched himself free of the tangling mass. He rushed directly towards the larger mouth and sawed away at it until great pieces of the thing were torn from its bulk. The tentacles whipped into a brief frenzy, weakly groping at Qualtan until the monster sagged and became still. Qualtan fell back on his haunches from the exertion, gasping and coughing from the poisoned pollen he had swallowed previously. His anger grew. If Romulax had expected to find his broken remains strewn about down here, he would be sorely disappointed. His lungs burned from the pollen; doubtless, the magicks passed down to him by his father had saved him. But he would have to move quickly now. Despite the pain, Qualtan forced himself up and looked about. Above him vines intertwined into crisscrossing nets too high to climb. His sword glowed softly at his command, and he searched for an exit. The walls were comprised of great roots and clods of dirt with many spaces between that seemed to branch off into varying direction. He braced himself and with his strength pulled wide an aperture. It creaked and groaned, buckling under his pressure. The roots gave way, and Qualtan was able to squeeze through.

He squirmed through a web of roots, at times becoming stuck but always managing to extricate himself. He became mired in their sap until he managed to spill into a clear passageway. He sat for a moment in the dark, resting as much as he dared. He could see a network of wildly formed corridors. The smell of sod was overwhelming. The walls were coarse and splintery, twisting and turning in bizarre fashion; Qualtan had to contort himself in varied positions to pass through.

A sudden shadow made Qualtan crouch within the tunnel. Two long-limbed bodies scampered past. Qualtan took an opposing hallway. At a juncture of tunnels, again the flickering shadows darted and Qualtan surmised the creatures that guarded the entrance to the druid’s home also laired within it. Qualtan’s body was sticky and wet; he longed to cleanse the tar-like substance from his being. Footsteps thumped behind him, and he quickly ran as best he could in the warped pathways. He hid by a curved arch and waited.

His guess had been correct. A pack of the selfsame creatures that Qualtan had dealt with earlier passed by, one by one, shoving their brothers ahead of them. The last one paused and stared towards Qualtan. Qualtan tightened his sword grip as the creature peered about. Seemingly satisfied, it vanished from view.

Qualtan waited for some time before moving away from his sheltered position behind the curving wall. No sooner had he turned a bend when a leering, green face jumped out at him. The last creature had sensed him and had waited for him to leave, using the opposing side of the angled wall to hide just as Qualtan did. It slashed a frightful claw at Qualtan’s face and he instinctively pulled back. Sharpened fingers that would have torn out an eye raked soft cheek instead. Taken aback by the savagery of the attack, Qualtan grabbed the beast’s ears, if ears they were, and rammed its head into the abrasive wall. Its body sagged to the floor; its face smeared on the offending woodwork. Qualtan flinched. The sap on his body was causing the rapidly healing punctures on his shoulder to sting badly. The streaks of red now on his face only served to add to his discomfort. He crept back up the passageway. After two narrowly missed encounters, Qualtan entered into a plant nursery. Clear light at last entered freely. Qualtan squinted in pain after having been in darkness for so long. Above, openings in the vines and branches were framed with panels of clear glass. This room must be at the very top of the structure, Qualtan mused. There were pools of water from which Qualtan gratefully drank, as well as use to clean the wounds on his face. Crowded beds of plants were nurtured here, but Qualtan knew this was no typical garden. Most, if not all the occupants, were known for their poisonous aspects. Some Qualtan knew from his learnings: there was black-fruited Shade and red-berried Orc’s Snout, their crop deadly to eat. Black roses, signifiers of death, grew profusely. Grief’s Hood, a thickly leafed plant with cowl-shaped flowers, was potted on platforms overhead. Put to paste, the flowers were well known for their deadlier aspect to any assassin’s trade. Trumpet-shaped toadstools nearly as tall as Qualtan aerated the room with their cloudy spores.

Navigating around the lush tenants of the chamber, Qualtan paused and rushed to hide. From his vantage point, he could see another figure that seemed to float more than walk. Qualtan’s eyes narrowed as he realized it was Romulax attending to some task. He began to move away, and Qualtan quickly followed. Romulax paused before a doorway covered by dangling vines. They parted at his command, draping back as he passed. The throbbing of his shoulder gave Qualtan added determination to finish this confrontation once and for all. He stood before the curtain of serpentine vines. He pressed a free hand to it and was instantly ensnared by the tendrils. They began to wrap around his arm, but with a quick tug he pulled free and hacked at the vines with his sword. They immediately deflated and squirmed, opening the way.

Qualtan entered into yet another hallway, one that zigged and zagged in steep inclines and deep declines. The tunnel became a bridge that stitched its way through a large gap, disappearing into a heavy breach of light pouring in from above. Passing through the brightness, the tunnel ended at what appeared to be a great slit inside of a wall. Within, the way grew dark again. Qualtan could hear strange incantations directly ahead. Slowing his pace, Qualtan exited from a narrow corridor into a high-ceilinged chamber, apparently the highest point in the druid’s home. Romulax stood, his back towards Qualtan, swaying and rocking, his wooden hand reaching out before him. As Qualtan could see, the wall that Romulax faced was a squirming, pulsating quantity of roots that extended in all directions. Directly in their center was a large, thumping organ. Emanations of energy streamed from it into Romulax’s outstretched hand. He seemed to be in an ecstatic state, his head held back in glee as he took in the vile power.

“Romulax!” Qualtan roared.

“Alive?” cried a surprised Romulax. He unleashed his tentacled arm towards Qualtan, but he missed as the able warrior leapt into the air and avoided the attack. The druid continued to press, elongating his other wooden arm in an attempt to smash the invader. Again, Qualtan rolled to one side as the chamber shook with the giant fist’s impact against the wall. Romulax lashed out with his sinewy arm. This time Qualtan met the attack and sliced through the offending member. The arm instantly retracted as Romulax roared in pain. He spat out the yellow pollen that had worked so successfully before. But Qualtan’s magic shield protected him. The injured druid retreated.

“You should be dead, curse you!” he raged. “The pollen should have killed you.”

Qualtan smiled. “Dead I should be, but here I remain. That bulbous root is the source of your power,” he said, pointing to the throbbing member on the wall. “When I have destroyed it, I will have destroyed you.”

The great thorny hand again attempted to ensnare Qualtan, whose magic shield held firm against it. Both combatants struggled to gain advantage. Eventually, Romulax weakened and he was pushed back, falling to the floor.

“No!” cried the druid, attempting to rise. Qualtan grabbed Romulax by the collar, lifting him up. But as he did, Romulax hissed. The lanterns that were his eyes blazed powerfully and Qualtan recoiled as if he had been burned by some great heat. Suddenly, he felt a great pressure take hold of his being. His body shook tremendously and he fell to his knees. Pain stabbed at him from all sides, as Romulax reasserted himself. His fiendish grin grew even wider as Qualtan could not turn his eyes away from those orbs of light. The druid laughed and gestured over him with his wooden hand. Blood began to trickle from Qualtan’s ears and then from his eyes. He felt as if he was slowly being squeezed from some unrelenting force and try as he might, he could not escape. From behind, he could hear the movement of Romulax’s guardians as he summoned their aid. Veins bulging, muscles bursting, Qualtan let loose a cry of animal rage. With a final burst of effort that completely surprised the druid, he snapped forward, hewing off the gesticulating member with one blow, backhanding Romulax in his return motion, and sending the hapless druid twisting onto the floor. Qualtan cried out and fell as well, having endured the final spell cast of Romulax. Exhaustion poured out of Qualtan as rivers of sweat. Yet he could not linger, for the creatures of Romulax appeared at the doorway. He threw himself at the bulging wall and began to climb. A veritable legion of Romulax’s guards appeared giving chase. He kicked at one that grabbed at his ankle, and tore another from its climb adjoining him. He looked down and saw the floor was now carpeted with gnashing teeth and clacking claws. Another guard jumped onto the wall and leaped towards Qualtan. It missed, falling past, but in its wake it sliced through Qualtan’s side, tearing free the metal plate that protected his back.

“I have grown tired of you!” Qualtan yelled at the mob that climbed fast below him. “And you shall harry me no more!” With that final threat, Qualtan raised his sword and struck home at the enchanted root that throbbed with life of its own. It shrieked as the vines that encompassed the wall trembled with shock. The guardians chasing Qualtan reeled in pain at the ear-piercing cry. He struck a second time, and finally, his sword glowing as he called forth its power, a third. The root exploded, bolts of energy shooting out. The blast struck Qualtan and, with a cry, he lost his weakened grip, falling back into the horde below. With cries of fear, rather than attacking their hapless foe, the guardians fought over one another in an effort to flee the room, stomping over Qualtan in their rush to escape. In moments, the room was empty except for Qualtan, who lay unmoving, and Romulax, his form shredded and trampled. Qualtan dragged himself over to the body of the druid that had begun to tremble viciously. Rolling him over, Qualtan saw the change that was taking place. The immense teeth had started to retract, and his green pallor became pink. His twitching limbs shriveled and in their place were two human arms and hands.

Looking up, Qualtan could see that the only remainder left of the enchanted root was a burnt spot blasted upon the wall.

Struggling, staggering, Qualtan dizzily walked past empty tunnels, dragging the still unconscious form of Romulax behind him. He eventually found himself exiting into the very same chamber where he had first encountered the druid, high atop the stairwell Romulax had descended. Stumbling, he stopped when he heard Romulax began to murmur. “Where am I? Release me!” Qualtan frowned and tossed him down the final flight of stairs.

“You’ve caused trouble enough,” Qualtan said as Romulax rolled to the bottom. Bereft of his headgear and raiment, devoid of any evil enchantment, Romulax appeared as a common man. “You will pay for this!” he said, backing away from Qualtan on all fours. Suddenly, cries of pain issued forth from the four mounds that had graced the main chamber. Qualtan quickly pulled out his sword, though the weapon seemed heavy in his exhausted state. Expecting some final trap of Romulax, he realized the druid was instead cowering in fear. “Save me!” he cried out, groveling at Qualtan’s feet. The mounds began to quicken and move with sudden life. They cracked and snapped, and Qualtan realized at last the grotesque forms he had first seen were not carvings, but in fact were the captured druids of Romulax’s order, imprisoned in muted wood. The prisoners pulled and stretched, their features returning to normal state as they freed themselves with cries of released anguish. Romulax half rose to attempt an escape, but Qualtan took hold of him and dragged him forward. The four escapees gasped for breath and slowly rose. They were aged, two bearded men and two women, robed in light green. Each wore a crown of leaves and berries upon their heads. Qualtan shoved Romulax into their midst and he fell before their feet.

“My brothers and sisters … have mercy!” he cried, hiding his face with his arms. The druids, at last fully aware, looked up at Qualtan, who weakly bowed. They bowed in response, smiling at the man who had rescued them. Their faces grew angry when they took full notice at last of the pathetic worm that begged at their feet.

                                                                                 ***

A gloomy Dewark sat ahead of the rowers, peering into the darkness. The sun was slowly rising but the forest was still illuminated by the glowing molds. “Quiet, now!” he scolded, as the paddles splashed in mucky water.

“We waste our time here,” one of the rowers said. Dewark nodded. “Of course we do! But be that as it may, an order is an order. Now be quiet!” As they entered the dying stream, Dewark kept an eye out for any skulking docma. He felt, as did the others, that Qualtan would not be waiting for them upon their return. How could one lone warrior, and a lad at that, succeed where troops of veteran men had failed? “Wizards!” cursed Dewark under his breath. “They’re all the same. They think they know better and send men out to die at their leisure! Filling these schoolboys with delusions of pomp and glory! There is no need for it!”

“I thought you said to be quiet?” one of the men said.

“I am quiet!” barked Dewark.

One of the rowers pointed towards the shore. “Look!” he cried.

A small flame was lit, easily visible. There was movement in the shadows and Dewark could see there were multiple forms huddled together.

“Weapons!” Dewark warned.

“Perhaps the boy has been captured,” said one man.

“Or perhaps the docma are in the midst of a feast,” said another.

“Silence! Slow the row!” Dewark hissed. “Arrows!” he commanded. Two men positioned themselves in front of Dewark, cross bolts at the ready.

One of the forms on shore suddenly stood, taking notice of their approach. The shape began moving closer, away from the others. It raised an arm, waving towards them.

“Wait!” Dewark said. The two men lowered their weapons.

A tired, smiling face greeted them. Dewark snorted with surprise, and then began to hoot with laughter. “Cast me over! By the sea gods, the boy still lives!”