Chapter 13: The river runs wrong
Winter had come and gone, leaving the heath thawing under weak sunlight. Kalo had searched tirelessly through the long, bitter months, scouring burrows, abandoned dens, and old trails, but Mr. Badger was nowhere to be found. He had trudged through knee-deep snow, fought against howling winds, and spent nights curled beneath frost-laden trees with only Sprig and his magical broom for company. His snowshoes had worn thin, his patience thinner, and Sprig had nearly lost his tail to frostbite more than once. Now, curled in the warmth of Kalo’s jacket pocket, the little creature barely stirred, exhausted from the fruitless search.
The badger’s bronze spade rested in Kalo’s pack, a solemn reminder of a friend lost. He often turned it over in his hands in the evenings, tracing the engravings along its handle, feeling the weight of unfinished promises. No matter how much he tried to move forward, the thought of the missing badger lingered like a shadow at the edge of his mind.
Spring brought no answers. Kalo busied himself with the necessary chores of the season. His hollow beneath the old oak needed tending—dusting out the soot from his small hearth, tidying the shelves stacked with dried herbs and charms, and setting the vegetable patch with sprouting greens. He spent mornings bent over the garden, planting wild carrots and burdock root, ensuring that when summer came, the harvest would be plentiful. At midday, he would prepare meals from his stores—simple stews with dried mushrooms and hearty grains, eaten in silence, with only Sprig’s occasional chatter to break the stillness.
His enchanted broom, ever watchful, swept through the home with silent diligence, clearing dust and stray leaves, flicking open windows to let in the crisp spring air. It worked alongside him as though it, too, felt the need to keep busy, to distract itself from the unease that had settled over them like a heavy mist.
But the real work lay beyond his home. After his encounter with the hag, Kalo knew he could not afford complacency. He needed to be stronger, more prepared, more attuned to the magic of the heath. He set out each day to gather ingredients—moss that glowed faintly under moonlight, bitter herbs that could ward against curses, and feathers left behind by silent night birds. He took careful notes, whispering incantations under his breath, reinforcing the spells that would protect him should darkness return to the heath.
Yet, something was wrong.
A strange mist curled low over the land on still days, drifting in from the north with the scent of smoke and damp decay. The animals had grown scarce—birds silent, warrens abandoned, trails empty. And most troubling of all, the streams were drying up. What should have been babbling brooks were now sluggish trickles, their stones exposed like ribs beneath thinning skin. The river, once a steady force through the heath, was shallow and slow, as if something upstream was holding it captive.
Kalo knew someone who would have answers.
The otter’s holt lay further down the river, hidden beneath the tangled roots of an ancient fallen willow. Kalo arrived at dusk, knocking politely on the gnarled wood. There was a splash, a rustle, and then a pair of sharp eyes peered out from beneath the roots.
“Kalo,” said the otter, his voice smooth but edged with weariness. “What brings the heath’s evoker to my door?”
“Something’s wrong with the river, Lukan,” Kalo said. “And I think you know why.”
Lukan Otterpaw was not like the cheerful beavers of the south. He was lean and sharp-eyed, his dark brown fur slicked with river water. His den smelled of wet stone and moss, lined with reeds, fish bones, and curious trinkets scavenged from the riverbed—coins, glass beads, and a rusted key without a lock. The entrance was small and well-concealed, but within, it opened into a snug chamber warmed by the faint glow of bioluminescent fungi clinging to the roots.
Lukan hesitated before answering. “I’ve heard troubling things from my kin in the northern waters,” he admitted. “A dam, Kalo. Not the work of beavers—something larger. It’s holding back the river, drying the streams, drowning the land beneath a deep, still pool. Worse still, there are pits in the boglands beyond. Pits where creatures work as slaves.”
Kalo’s hands tightened. “Badger?”
Lukan sighed. “I don’t know. But I know where to look.”
Kalo, Sprig, and the broom spent the night in the holt, curled up against the cool earth while Lukan sharpened his fishing spear. When dawn came, he strapped a belt of smooth river stones across his chest and shouldered his sling. His eyes burned with quiet fury as he gazed northward, toward the stolen waters.
“Let’s find out who’s damming our river.”
With that, they set off, the broom trailing silently behind, watching, waiting.
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Chapter 14: The Dam
A cold wind swept across the northern heath, carrying the acrid tang of smoke and industry. From high above, the land was scarred and reshaped, a raw wound carved by the relentless labor of small, tireless hands. The great dam stretched across the valley like the spine of some vast, unnatural beast, its bones made of timber and stone, its sinews of rope and iron. The waters of the great river churned angrily against its rising walls, its flow stifled by an ever-growing barricade of greed and ambition.
Red Cap Pixies and Brownies swarmed across the dam’s skeleton, their small frames darting between colossal beams and boulders. They moved like ants in a feverish march, lifting, hammering, hauling. Heavy-lift contraptions of wood and brass loomed over the site, operated by a tangled fusion of crude engineering and cruel sorcery. Cranes, pulleys, and massive scoops worked in tandem with unnatural forces, moving loads no mortal arms could bear. Fire and magic crackled in the air, fueling the machines, igniting the worksite with eerie blue light.
Beyond the dam, the land was ravaged. The heath, once thick with gorse and bramble, lay flattened beneath the weight of industry. Fires burned in great pits where fallen trees and scrub were reduced to ash. Wagons laden with logs and boulders creaked under their burdens, drawn by weary, broken creatures barely recognizable as the proud denizens of the heath.
Further still, the peat pits yawned like festering wounds, gaping holes carved into the boglands. Here, the true horror of the Blue Wizards' ambition was laid bare. Beasts of the wild—badgers, foxes, hares, even bristled boars—were shackled and driven to dig, their paws and hooves caked in the wet, stinking mire. Their bodies, once strong, now sagged under the weight of exhaustion and hunger. The pit walls, slick with blackened mud, closed in around them like a grave yet to be filled.
Perched on a rickety ladder above the pits, Grimp surveyed his dominion with glee. The Brownie, now fully in the service of the Blue Wizards, had once been a petty schemer who purchased Mr. Badger from the Night Flitterers. Now, he had climbed higher in the cruel hierarchy, reveling in the suffering of those below him. He cracked his whip with a sound like breaking bone, his shrill cackle rising above the groans of labor.
“Yes, you! You, you tubby sack of fur!” he sneered, pointing a gnarled finger at a weary figure below. “Dig harder! We didn’t bring you here for a holiday! One way or another, I will get my money back, you bloated waste of breath. Dig, or you get nothing but the lash!”
Mr. Badger did not look up. He could not. His shoulders heaved with the weight of his toil, his claws numb from scraping through rock and rot. His striped fur, once thick and noble, hung in clumped patches over his skeletal frame. The chains at his ankles bit deep, rust mixing with dried blood. He said nothing. He simply dug.
Grimp’s laughter echoed as he cracked the whip again, this time for pleasure rather than punishment. Around him, the pits were alive with suffering. No songbirds flitted overhead, no insects hummed in the underbrush—only the ceaseless sound of labor, of misery turned to fuel for the Wizards’ grand design.
Above it all, the sky darkened. Smoke from the dam’s industry coiled into the air, blotting out the light in sickly tendrils. The peat, black and damp, was shoveled into great wagons, dragged from the pits, and hauled towards the riverbanks where barges waited. Brownie overseers barked orders, their cruel eyes gleaming as they watched the loads being heaved into the holds. The Red Cap Pixies loitered on the docks, their grins wide as they observed the slow, miserable procession.
One by one, the peat-laden barges were pushed off, drifting down the dark waters, bound for the Blue Wizards' capital. The river carried their stolen fuel away into the unknown, a black tide feeding a far greater machine of control and conquest.
The heath had become a kingdom of toil and torment, its subjects bound by chains, its throne built on suffering. And above it all, the dam rose higher, an unyielding monument to power. The Blue Wizards would have their will, and the land itself would pay the price.
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