𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟐𝟎: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑’𝐒 𝐄𝐃𝐆𝐄
Kalo stood at the riverbank, boots sinking into cold, sucking mud. The swollen water stretched out before him, sluggish and wrong. It should have been rushing, frothing, alive. Instead, it lay like a dying thing, its surface barely rippling beneath the heavy air.
Behind him, Lukan the otter crouched low, gripping his spear in one hand, the other resting on his sash of smooth river stones. "River’s wrong," he muttered. "Something’s damming it."
Kalo squinted toward the far shore. The dam stood in jagged defiance, a blockade of felled trees and lashed logs, its bulk broken only by a crude spillway dribbling stagnant water.
Eryndor the faun stood a few steps behind, hooves sinking into damp soil. One hand rested on the flute at his belt, but he did not play. His head tilted, horns angling toward something unseen.
"The land's uneasy," he murmured. "And we are being watched."
Kalo exhaled through his nose. The stillness pressed in, thick and expectant.
Then the broom in his grip shivered.
His fingers tightened. It spun once in his hand, restless. A message.
Kalo didn’t hesitate. He reached into his coat, fingers brushing the cold, carved surface of the golden rune tucked beneath his belt. Whispering the incantation, he pressed the rune to his brow.
His vision ripped away—
And suddenly, he was seeing through the broom’s eyes.
𝐆𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐬𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐆𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐄𝐲𝐞𝐬
The world blurred past, a high, unnatural vantage from the broom’s last moments of flight. The air was dark, heavy with rot.
The broom had flown beyond the dam, into the woods.
Shapes moved. Small, hunched figures darting between the trees, red hoods gleaming in the gloom. Dozens. Maybe more.
The broom tilted, swooping down.
A wall of grinning faces looked up.
Red Caps. Scores of them.
They saw it. They leaped.
A shriek—a blur of claws, steel, teeth—
The vision snapped out.
Kalo stumbled, hand braced against his temple as the magic left him. His breath came hard.
He turned sharply to the others. "It’s a trap."
Lukan didn’t even ask. He readied his spear.
Eryndor reached for his flute.
And then—
The bushes exploded.
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐂𝐚𝐩 𝐀𝐦𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐡
They came laughing—shrill, sharp giggles that sliced through the night.
Red Caps. Dozens of them, bursting from the undergrowth with wicked grins and blood-wet blades.
One flung a hand out—fire coiled in its palm and hurled toward Lukan.
The otter warrior rolled sideways, the fireball singeing the ground where he’d stood. Before the Red Cap could launch another spell, Lukan whipped out his slingshot.
A single river stone snapped forward—cracked into the Red Cap’s skull.
The fey shrieked, staggered—and then Lukan was on him, spearing him clean through the gut.
Another Red Cap lunged from behind—
Lukan jerked his spear free and twisted—rammed the blunt end into its jaw. Teeth snapped. The creature reeled, hissing—
A second river stone struck its temple, and it went limp.
More came.
Lukan planted his spear in the mud, using it as a vaulting pole to launch himself over a charging fey. Landing behind it, he yanked the spear free, spun, and thrust it deep into its back.
A blade whistled toward his ribs—
Lukan dropped, catching a smooth stone from his sash as he fell.
Before he even hit the ground, his slingshot snapped again.
The stone struck the Red Cap’s eye socket, sending the fey screaming into the river.
𝐄𝐫𝐲𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐫 𝐀𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬
Eryndor, standing in the center of the fray, lifted his flute and blew a single piercing note.
The wind howled in answer.
A sudden gust slammed into the Red Caps, knocking three off their feet. One flew backward into a tree, spine crunching.
Another lashed out, claws aimed for the faun’s throat.
Eryndor ducked, drawing a short knife from his belt. He twisted the blade upward—caught the Red Cap beneath the ribs.
The creature gasped, twitched, and crumpled.
𝐊𝐚𝐥𝐨 𝐂𝐮𝐭𝐬 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧
Kalo’s broom twisted in his grip, melting into the Heatherblade.
A Red Cap charged him, teeth bared—
Kalo stepped forward, parried its blade, and drove his knee into its chest. It staggered, and his sword swept across its throat in one clean arc.
More swarmed.
Kalo’s blade flashed silver, cutting a path through the mass.
But they were being pushed back.
There were too many.
Red Caps clambered over the fallen, giggling madly. For every one they struck down, three more took its place.
The battle was turning against them.
Then—
"YEEEEHAAAAWWWW!"
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐬' 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐑𝐞𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧
A blur of fur and flailing limbs shot down from the sky.
Kalo barely had time to react before two figures on a wildly jerking pitchfork came barreling into the fight.
The weasels had returned.
Their pitchfork—a poor, twitching cousin to Kalo’s broomstick—veered madly, wobbling like a drunken insect, barely staying aloft.
One weasel whooped, gripping the pitchfork with one paw while waving a crossbow wildly in the other.
"SKY PIRATES!" he bellowed.
TWANG!
A Red Cap took a bolt between the eyes, shrieked, and crumpled.
The second weasel, clinging desperately to the pitchfork’s front end, let out a war cry of his own.
"HAVE AT YE, YE MOSS-LOVING TOAD SUCKERS!"
He brandished a dart—one of many hidden underneath his leather coat.
The broom jerked violently—
The pitchfork skewered a Red Cap mid-leap.
The weasels howled with laughter—
Then the pitchfork bucked like a wild stallion, hurling both weasels off their ride.
They hit the ground in a heap, rolling straight into the fray.
The pitchfork kicked itself free, beating fey left and right.
The tide had turned. Red Caps lay unmoving all around.
The last Red Cap standing—his hat still wet—looked at the chaos, at the two howling, frothing weasels.
The Pixie grinned wide. "The dam’s keepers see everything. Grimp’ll make you dig ‘til your bones snap."
Then it twisted—too quick—and vanished, slipping between worlds in a burst of dark laughter.
The sudden silence rang loud.
The weasels picked themselves up, dusted off their coats, and grinned.
“Now that’s how ya fight!”
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
Chapter 21: The Damned Ascent
The sun set behind the dam, its last light swallowed by the hulking shadow of stone, timber, and iron. Kalo and his band pressed themselves into the muddy riverbank, faces smeared with grime, breaths shallow. The air stank of damp rot and the tang of fey magic. Across the water, torchlight flickered like fireflies, creeping closer through the tangled brush.
“We’re too slow,” Eryndor whispered, his voice tight. His hooves scraped the slick stone as he tested the dam’s base, ears twitching against the wind’s cold bite. “They’ll be on us soon.”
Kalo’s jaw clenched. The dam loomed above, a scarred monolith of weathered rock, cut trees, and rusted metal, its cranes swaying like gallows in the gusts. The weasels were already moving, their claws skittering up the stone with feral grace, shadows flitting into cracks. But speed wouldn’t save them—not with the Redcaps so close.
A guttural snarl cut the silence. “Close now,” a Redcap growled from the far bank, its torch casting a jaundiced glow over its blood-caked cap. “I taste their panic on the wind.”
The brownies’ laughter followed, shrill and jagged. “Run, little worms!” one cackled, flicking a wand that spat green sparks into the dusk. “The river’ll choke you out for us!”
Kalo’s pulse thundered, his hand brushing the empty fold of his jacket where Sprig should’ve been. Then, a small voice broke through the dread.
“I’ll do it,” Sprig said, his tiny form emerging from the shadows. The asp swayed resolute, eyes glinting like chipped glass in the dim light.
“Sprig, no—” Kalo started, lunging forward, but Sprig raised his tail, sharp and final.
“You climb,” he said, voice steady as stone. “I’ll draw them off.” Before Kalo could argue, Sprig coiled around the broom and pitchfork propped against the dam. The broom hummed faintly, its bristles twitching with latent magic, and the pitchfork gleamed with a dull, unnatural sheen.
“Be quick,” Sprig warned, mounting the broom like a steed. “They’ll chase me, but not forever.” With a hiss, he launched into the air, a streak of faint light green cutting low over the brush. The pitchfork flared, chasing the broom and Sprig, trailing through wisps of smoke as he veered toward the river’s edge.
The Redcaps spotted Sprig instantly. “What’s that?” one barked, claws flexing. “A glowing rat!”
“Trickery!” a brownie shrieked, its wand spitting a gout of green flame that singed the air. “After it, lads!”
The hunters abandoned the dam in a frenzy, torches swinging as they plunged into the undergrowth. Sprig wove through the trees, the broom skimming leaves, the pitchfork slashing at branches to leave a tantalizing trail. A firebolt crackled past him, charring a trunk, but he twisted midair, a flicker of defiance in the dark.
“Go!” Lukan whispered, already hauling himself up a frayed rope. The pulley groaned, rusted iron protesting under his weight. Eryndor followed, hooves finding holds with eerie precision, while the weasels swarmed the stone like rats fleeing a flood.
Kalo gripped the rope, its fibers biting into his raw hands. His muscles screamed as he climbed, the wind clawing at his back. Below, the brownies’ shrieks faded into the distance—“There! It’s them!”—their torches bobbing as Sprig led them deeper into the mire. The Redcaps’ snarls faded, swallowed by the forest’s gullet.
Eryndor reached the top first, pulling Kalo over the edge into the shadow of the cranes. The group collapsed among the rusted frames, chests heaving, eyes darting to the river below. The torchlight dwindled, a false chase unfolding in the thickets.
“It’s working,” Eryndor breathed, wiping sweat from his brow. “He’s bought us time.”
Kalo nodded, but dread coiled in his gut. Sprig’s glow was gone, lost to the trees. He’d volunteered without a flicker of fear, wielding broom and pitchfork like a trickster god—but at what cost? The emptiness in Kalo’s jacket gnawed at him, a silent wound.
Lukan crouched low, scanning the horizon. “We can’t linger. They’ll realize the ruse soon enough.”
The dam creaked beneath them, its iron bones singing a mournful tune. The river churned below, black and insatiable, while the distant cries of the hunters faded into an uneasy quiet. Sprig had given them a chance—a fleeting one. Kalo’s fists tightened. They had to move, deeper into the dam’s shadow, before the Redcaps turned back.
Turning to the other side of the dam, a bleak view greeted them. The dried river course stretched out, and in the distance, a slave army toiled away—stolen citizens of the heath, their backs bent over peat pits, shoveling and hauling precious fuel. Fires burned, casting thick smoke that hung low to the ground, obscuring the workers’ faces. Brownie and Redcap masters whipped them relentlessly, seeking the most efficient pace. But what stood out most was a lone blue wizard, draped in his robes of vibrant azure, watching over the grim scene with a warm, unsettling smile.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
