Turin shrugged. “Not much, why? It was there when I discovered this place.”

  “And this clearing around it was also already here?” Tsuta asked, his gaze still fixed on the stump’s detailed ridges. Turin nodded wordlessly.

  Bird walked across the clearing toward his friend. The others fell in line behind him. “What are you thinking, Stick?”

  Tsuta’s attention finally returned to the group, as they gathered around the stump. “I think I can explain the magical anomaly surrounding us. I believe that, at one time, there was a mythal here, and this tree was the anchor.”

  All the elves in the group reacted with surprise, immediately re-examining the immediate area. The rest stared blankly at each other, having heard the word for the first time.

  Bird looked at Whydah and Lunish before shaking his head with a sigh. “Fine, I’ll ask. What’s a mythal?”

  Tsuta examined his hands with a look of annoyance before wiping them thoroughly on his robes. “A mythal is a powerful, persistent elven magical field, usually used to protect an area or object of significance.”

  Turin gave a low whistle. “That would make sense given the bizarre plant and animal life around here, as well as the wild magic reactions.”

  Glynfir nodded, adding “It would also explain what happened to my Counterspell,” before offering more explanation to the non-elves in the group. “A mythal’s aura inhibits certain types of magic and exaggerates others to the benefit of the locals defending the anchor. Some spells, like Dimension Door or teleport, won’t work at all within its perimeter.”

  Segwyn stepped to the ancient trunk. “You think this tree was the anchor?”

  “I do,” Tsuta confirmed. “It bears all the hallmarks. The peculiar thing is, if I’m right, that means there was an elvish settlement here at some point in the past.”

  “Why is that odd?” Whydah asked.

  Iskvold jumped in. “There is no historical mention of elves establishing any colonies west of the Glimmerstones, at least not in any of the work contained in the Vault.”

  “Nor in any of my teachings,” Segwyn confirmed.

  Tsuta’s voice carried a degree of academic lecturing. “A mythal is no small undertaking. Establishing one requires years of magical layering from multiple casters.” He patted the air at waist height, in front of him in multiple places, with open palms. “For such a magical construct to have existed here, without any record, is highly unusual. And, since it was obviously destroyed,” he waved at the blackened stump, “it begs the question of how such a battle also went unnoticed in Venn’s history.”

  Leaning conspiratorially toward the newcomer, Glynfir muttered under his breath, “See what I mean?”

  Before he could respond, Lunish joined the discussion, her eyes narrowed. “So, you created the tree charms? To scare people off?”

  The hermit druid puffed out his chest. “Pretty good, right? I figured with the weird magic, any Dominion assholes who came looking for me would see those and think twice about wandering into a coven of night hags.” His shoulders sank as he shook his head. “It didn’t seem to stop you lot, though.”

  Segwyn cleared his throat. “As fun as it would be, we don’t have time to play archaeologist, unfortunately. We’re going to have to leave the mystery of this mythal, and what could have destroyed it, for another day.” He gestured toward Turin’s cabin. “Can we take it inside and get down to the business at hand?”

  Turin stalked off toward the woodpile, calling over his shoulder. “I assume you’ll be staying here tonight, whether I like it or not? Could you at least give me a hand bringing in some firewood?”

  An hour later, the forest shadows giving way to dusk, the group perched around a single-room cottage never intended to accommodate their numbers while their host served stew from a large cast iron pot.

  Whydah peered suspiciously at the meal. “So, we’re eating those strange blue birds with the insect wings?”

  “Aye!” Turin confirmed, handing her one of the cups they recently procured in Irdri, filled and steaming. “I call them dragon chickens, because of the wings. Trust me, you’ve never had anything like them. I’m sorry you had to bring your own dinnerware, but as you can imagine, I don’t get many guests.”

  “Dragon chickens?” Tsuta’s tone was disproportionately disgusted. “You’re as bad as he is at naming things!” tipping his head toward Bird. The tabby winced, still smarting from their refusal to allow him the honor of titling their recent heist. Secretly, he knew the wizard’s suggestion of ‘The Glimmerstone Gambit’ was the better choice, though he would never admit it.

  Seeing Turin’s puzzled expression, Glynfir pre-emptively answered his unspoken question. “He’s also overly focused on the names of things and people. You’ll get used to it.”

  “How about ‘buzz birds?’” Whydah offered.

  “Nope, we can do better,” Tsuta snipped dismissively.

  Lunish raised her index finger. “Periwinkle Partridge!”

  The bald monk considered it momentarily before shaking his head. “Too much of a mouthful.”

  Bird drained his cup, assertively returning it to the hearthstone with a clack. “I know—Fey Pheasants!”

  “Better!” Tsuta acknowledged.

  Glynfir subtly held up a finger in Turin’s direction before offering a wink. Clearing his throat, the wizard pushed himself upright off the cabin’s wall. “Fairy Fowl!” he declared with a theatrical flourish.

  “Yes! That’s it!” Tsuta declared triumphantly. “Mustache is on a roll!”

  Offering a deep bow to the room and blowing an exaggerated kiss to the glowering tabby, Glynfir returned to his leaning position next to their still befuddled host. “Faced with the constant threat of imminent doom, we find levity in the small moments.” He shrugged. “It helps preserve everyone’s sanity.”

  Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

  Segwyn held his already empty cup forward for thirds. “I don’t care what you call them, they’re very tasty!”

  “Yes. Well done, Turin,” Lunish agreed. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but you know what I think would make this even better? Just a dollop of mayonnaise.”

  Iskvold spoke above the chorus of groans. “Well, lucky for you, we travel with a limitless supply!” She looked at Segwyn, already pulling the Jug of Alchemy from his pack, before setting it on the counter. The gnome hopped off her stool and crossed the room to tip a small amount of mayonnaise into her stew, stirring it in with a smile, despite the verbal objection of several others. After forcing everyone to try it, the room was evenly split on whether it improved or hindered the flavor.

  Turning to Bird, his brows wrinkled in confusion, Turin asked in a low voice, “You guys carry around a jug full of mayonnaise?”

  “That particular jug can magically produce many liquids,” Bird answered with a mysterious grin. “Poison and acid are a couple of my favorites, but it can also spit out wine and ale. Unfortunately, we’ll have to wait until after dinner for those.”

  “Wine and ale?” Turin’s tone was enthusiastic. “Then why are we faffing about with mayonnaise?”

  The tabby shrugged, holding up his stew. “Unfortunately, we only have the one set of cups.”

  “What do you do for work in Irdri, Turin?” Whydah asked from across the small room. “Are you a chef? If not, you should definitely consider it!” The halfling raised her cup in appreciation.

  “Nah,” he humbly dismissed the compliment. “Believe me, the dragon chi-, erm, fairy fowl deserve all the credit. I’m a tattooist.” He refilled his own cup from the stew pot before continuing. “The town’s full of sailors, so lots of customers, and while they’re in the chair, they often forget I’m even there. You wouldn’t believe the things I overhear. That’s how I’ve been able to collect so much information on the Dominion.”

  Segwyn’s back straightened at Turin’s mention of his profession. “So, then you must know about their identification tattoos, the circle with the line above it?”

  Turin nodded. “If I’ve done one of those in the last six months, I’ve done two hundred. I used to get asked for it maybe once a week, but lately, hardly a day goes by that I’m not inking that pattern onto the back of someone’s neck.”

  A droning purr came from Bird’s position, seated on the edge of the outer hearth. The tabby’s eyes were nearly closed, the claws of his forefingers tapping rapidly on the stone hearth as they watched with curiosity. Finally, his lips stretched into a wide canary-eating grin. “I think we just found our way in!”

  The unspoken idea hung in the air for a moment until Iskvold jumped to her feet, nearly knocking over a small table. “You’re not suggesting one of us brand ourselves with that symbol of everything we hate, are you?”

  The tabby’s positioning and grin didn’t even flinch in reaction. “That’s exactly what I’m suggesting. Even with Ferrier’s intelligence, we need someone directly inside the operation. Otherwise, we have no chance of learning what or where her phylactery is, let alone stealing it.”

  Turin’s eyes went wide. “You’re planning to steal a lich’s phylactery?” He let out a short, harsh grunt, his gaze falling to the floor. “I’d give you better odds of reversing the river’s current with a spoon and a sieve.”

  Bird rose, retrieving his cup from the hearth, and headed to the cauldron for another refill. “I’ll admit, it’s somewhat ambitious, but we can’t have her coming back after we kill her.”

  The blood drained from Turin’s face. “Kill her?” He swung his index finger incredulously around the room, his volume rising. “That’s your plan? Steal from a lich and then kill her? By yourselves?”

  Everyone was silent and motionless as Bird answered on their behalf. “We’re still working out the details, but those are the broad strokes, yes.”

  Turin lowered his head into his hands. The tips of his fingers traced the edges of his eye sockets while he let out a long breath. “No offense, but until just now, I was hopeful. With your arrival, I finally found some allies that made freeing Irdri from the plague of the Dominion a real possibility. But if that’s your plan, then you’re already dead… I just broke bread with a bunch of ghosts. I can’t get behind that kind of mission.”

  Segwyn attempted to allay the druid’s fears. “Look, we’re not asking you to stand with us in battle. She’s coming for us either way, so we don’t have much choice. All we need from you is everything you can tell us about the Dominion and to help get us in.”

  Turin stroked his beard furiously and began pacing in a circle smaller than he would have liked due to the cramped conditions. After a moment, his twirling pace slowed.

  “Well, you’ve got balls, I’ll give ye that!” The brogue in his accent had thickened with the stress of the moment. “I’ll help you, as long as you’re not expecting me to join in on this undead dust-up. I like my simple life here, and I’d prefer to keep it a while longer.”

  “Good,” Bird’s tone could have easily been mistaken for two friends agreeing on a time to go to the morning market. “Now, is there ever any spellcasting involved when you’re giving the reapers their branding tattoos?”

  “Reapers?” Turin parroted.

  “That’s what those Dominion operatives are called,” Whydah explained.

  Their druidic host shook his head. “Nah, no casting that I ever saw.”

  “Good. That means her magical curse of allegiance isn’t tied specifically to the tattoo,” Tsuta inferred. “It must be happening somewhere else, either before or after Turin inks them.”

  Remembering the magical lock on Garrett Ferrier’s jaw during their conversation, Iskvold picked up his line of thinking. “You said they speak freely to each other about Dominion business, while they’re getting the tattoo?”

  Turin nodded. “All the time.”

  “Then the ink must come after she’s already cursed them into the fold, or they wouldn’t be able to have those discussions,” she concluded, drawing nods from the others.

  “That would mean that her ceremony or ritual must be reasonably close to Irdri.” Whydah postulated before directing a question to Turin. “Have you ever heard them talk about attending an event or ceremony?”

  “Sure,” he replied casually. “They often talk about gatherings in town.” He paused in reflection. “Usually, when they first get their tattoo, the person in the chair is also carrying on about a ceremony out in the Zulm. I get the impression it isn’t always pleasant.”

  Segwyn’s brow furrowed. “Where’s the Zulm? I’m not familiar with that name.”

  A shiver ran up Turin’s spine as he answered. “It’s an area a few miles north of the city, along the river. No one lives there. Gond, the locals avoid the area entirely, especially at night.”

  Several of the group exchanged glances before Tsuta spoke. “Well, that sounds promising. What keeps people away?”

  Turin let out a long breath. “According to ancient legend, the area is protected by Khamu and Sayeh.” The puzzled looks around the room told him he needed to say more. “A pair of supernatural bogeymen that apparently suck the life force from their victims and can kill with a glance.” He spread his hands with a shrug. “The kind of story you find in every culture, used to scare children.”

  Glynfir twirled one handlebar of his mustache. “That must be the place. What do those names mean?”

  Turin dismissed the question with a shake of his head. “No clue. I grew up in Rahr, so the Siremirian old tongue isn’t my strong suit.”

  “This is shaping up nicely,” Bird agreed. “I think it’s time to rinse out the cups and break out the wine.”

  “We still have the matter of one of us getting tattooed with that filth.” Lunish reminded him. “I’m with Iskvold, there’s no way I’m putting that mark on my body with permanent ink.”

  Bird nodded reluctantly. “Turin, can you make a tattoo that isn’t permanent, say, something that fades in a few days or weeks?”

  Their host shook his head. “No. My standard tattoos are forever.” He glanced at several of his guests before continuing. “However, I have been working on an enchanted ink mixture that disappears after the enchantment is used, that might fit the bill.”

  Tsuta’s curiosity was piqued. “You can do magical tattoos?”

  “Aye,” the druid confirmed. “I discovered that mixing the sap from those vines you see around the area, along with the pollen of their pink flowers, into the ink allows a spell to be bound to the tattoo itself.” The group was stunned by his revelation. “It has to be something I can cast, so nothing too powerful, mind, but once the ink is dry, the subject can call the spell as if they were the caster three times, then the tattoo disappears.” He raised his arm, pulling up his sleeve to reveal an image of green vines winding around his forearm. “That’s what I used when you surprised me outside. I’ve enchanted this one with Entangle.”

  A wave of astonishment swept across the room before Lunish finally spoke. “My Hedge! That is absolutely brilliant. If we could embed a spell within the tattoo, and it disappears after use, that changes my perspective on considering the ink.”

  “Mine too!” Iskvold agreed.

  Bird clapped his paws together. “It looks like we have a lot to discuss. Now, how about that wine?”

  The Glimmerstone Enigma and The Siremirian Conundrum?

  Join my substack for: