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Waxley the Bold Ch. 01

By: slyc_willie



(Author's note: This story was inspired by my tabletop gaming days. If you understand what that means, then you will have no problems understanding the magical references in this tale. For the rest of you, think of this story as something close to 'Lord Of The Rings.' Warrows are like hobbits, and the rest . . . well, that is easily figured out. 

Long-time readers of my fiction on this site may expect quite a bit of sex. However, such is not the case with this story. Still, I hope you enjoy this little tale of fantasy. There may be more in the works, but I can't promise such. Waxley the Bold remains one of my favorite characters, so who knows? He may return.)

***

Three Warrows ran swiftly down the well-worn trail, panting from exertion, faces ruddy and grinning with excitement. They leapt off the path as they came to an ancient stone bridge, older than time it seemed, yet still sturdy enough to handle the daily traffic of wagons and horses that ferried goods to the human city of Heimdall, a league up the sloping trail.

Crouching low behind pale marbled stone, cracked and weathered and covered with well-worn glyphs, the three young halflings stared up the hill. All was quiet save for the burbling of the stream behind them and the occasional bird call in the trees.

"Are they coming?" asked the youngest of the three, a lad of a mere eighteen years. He had a ruddy complexion, curly chestnut-brown hair, and a perpetually red nose.

"I don't think so," said the oldest, a slender and athletic Warrow with short, dark curly hair and strong features. He frowned. "I'm surprised. They usually give chase much longer than this."

The youngest chuckled. "Maybe Idunn is on our side," he said, invoking the name of the nature goddess and patron of the Warrow race.

The other two gave the youngest strange looks.

"Are you a druid, now?" asked the oldest.

The chestnut-haired Warrow simply shrugged. They all stared a few moments longer up the road, then turned and rest their backs against the stone wall, laughing and congratulating each other for the day's events.

"Let's see what we got. Brandy?" asked the oldest, indicating the third member of the group. Unlike the other two, he had straight brown hair, kept, as always, in a topknot. He was the pudgiest of the three. He dug into his leather vest, came out with a small cloth bag, then pulled another like it from his breech pockets. The other two produced similar bags from various pockets on their person.

They dumped the coins on the ground, spread them out. Most were silver shillings, but there were a few gold crowns and many copper farthings. They counted the booty quickly, tossing the cloth and soft leather bags aside.

"A hundred and twelve farthings, eighteen gold, thirty-seven shillings," announced the oldest.

"Hah!" exclaimed the youngest, clapping his hands together. "I'm getting me some ham steak, squash fritters, pickled snake eggs with mint jelly, and flagon after flagon of beer tonight! Oh, and--"

"Shut up, Calo," snapped Brandy. "You're making me hungry."

"You're always hungry," chuckled Calo, reaching over to pat Brandy's round stomach. 

Brandy glared, raised a meaty fist. Calo raised his hands defensively, but still chuckled. He looked to the oldest of the group. "How much for each of us, then, Waxley?" he asked.

"Here," said Waxley, stacking coins in his hand. "Six gold, twelve shillings, thirty-seven farthings each. There's one shilling left, so we flip for it. If it lands eagle-up, its either mine or Brandy's. If it's eagle-down, it's Brandy or Calo. Got it?"

The others nodded, and Waxley flipped the coin. It smacked into his palm, and Waxley slapped it onto the back of his other hand. It was eagle-up.

"Mine or yours, Brandy," said Waxley with a grin. "Feeling lucky?"

"I'm always lucky," laughed Brandy. "Eagle-up, it's mine."

Again, the coin flipped end over end in the air, smacked into Waxley's palm. Turning it over on his hand, he revealed the result: eagle-down.

Waxley chuckled, kissed the coin. Brandy shook his head. "So much for always being lucky," he said.

"Hey, but we still got thirty-seven shillings each, and six gold coins," said Calo, slipping his coins into a heavy leather bag at his waist. He jingled the pouch.

"Aye, you're right," said Brandy. "What's one more coin?"

"One more than you've got," said Waxley with a grin.

Brandy chuckled, shook his head. The three of them stood, dusting themselves off.

"Now remember," said Waxley, wagging his finger at the other two. At three feet, eight inches in height, he was taller than either Calo or Brandy by a good two inches. "Don't flash that money around. Spend a little here, a little there, but don't make it obvious. We were fishing all day, got some big catches, left our fishing poles at Calamity Point. We sold the fish to Heinrich. Got it?"

Brandy squinted in thought. "Which one is Heinrich again?" he asked.

Waxley rolled his eyes. "He's the dwarf from Gieldthagir Mor, remember? The one who buys fish for the taverns in Heimdall?"

Brandy snapped his fingers. "Right. Big fellow, black beard, big ear rings."

"That's the fellow," said Waxley, leading the others down the path over the stone bridge. In the distance, numerous plumes of smoke rose from between the hills, indicating the Warrow village of Crawley's Crossing.

"And don't go bragging," warned Calo to Brandy. "Like you almost did to Merla last time. If you got to brag, make something up. We're pick-pockets, for Bragi's sake!"

"I won't say nothing," grumbled Brandy, pouting. "I almost slipped with Merla, is all. I won't let it happen again."

"You better not," said Waxley. "I don't think my uncle would like to be standing watch over me in the jail."

"Aye, that wouldn't be good," said Brandy. "'Course, he had his day, didn't he? Adventured all over Gorwal, I hear."

Waxley smirked. "He went to Bogarty Wood with some big folks a couple times," he said. "Luthits and elves. And that was twenty years ago."

"I'd love to have a big adventure," mused Brandy, picking up a stick from the ground. He slashed at the air. "Take this, goblin!"

Waxley chuckled. "You'd do better to use a crossbow," he said, holding an imaginary one in his hands. "Uncle Riley never got close enough to anything to stab at it; he just shot out is eyes. Thoop!"

"Yeah, that's the way," grinned Brandy. "Goblin-slayer, that's what I'll be."

Calo snorted in laughter. "You can't even go camping a night in Bluster's Glade without crying for your mum. How're you gonna go kill goblins?"

"I did not cry for my mum!" protested Brandy, smacking his fists to his side. "I was just having a bad dream!"

"Aye, if I was dreaming about your mum, it'd be a nightmare, too."

"Oy! You take that back!" exclaimed Brandy, swinging his stick at Calo. The lankier Warrow laughed as he fended off the blows. Waxley just continued on toward the village, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. 

Let Brandy and Calo sort this one out themselves, he thought.

"Help!" came Calo's strained voice. "Waxley! He's sittin' on me! Help!"

Waxley just whistled, slipping his hands in his pockets as he walked.

*

"Waxley Paddins!" blustered a heavy voice, gaining the young halfling's attention instantly. He jumped up from his bed, tossing the book he had been reading onto the small table in his room as his uncle stormed through the door. Riley was an impressive figure for a Warrow, thick-bodied and taller, even, than Waxley. He was clad in the blanched leather armor that marked him as a member of the constabulary. At his side hung a shortsword, hanging from his wrist was a sap. The latter weapon he smacked into his fist as he glared at Waxley.

The younger Paddins wore his best innocent face. "What? I was just reading. My chores are done, ask Pa!"

Riley's eyes narrowed. "I got a pigeon message from the Heimdall Guard just a few minutes ago. Seems some Warrows did a little pick-pocketing today at the Market Square."

Waxley shrugged his shoulders. "Me and the boys were fishing," he said. "We ain't the only Warrows out there, you know. Maybe it was those Briar boys from Silver Hole."

"It weren't no Briar boys," growled Riley. "Where's your fish?"

"We sold them to Heinrich," said Waxley quickly.

Riley's eyebrows raised. "Oh, really?" he asked.

"Yup, gave us a good price, too. I caught me a big pike, big as, well, big as your head!"

"Hmn. Funny that Heinrich didn't mention anything about it when I saw him today," said Riley.

Waxley swallowed nervously. "Well, it must have been after you saw him."

Riley sighed. "Waxley, my boy, let me give you some advice," he said. "You can't go through life taking advantage of other people, even if they are big folk with deep pockets. And you can't keep lying to cover your arse. Sooner or later, those lies will catch up to you."

Waxley stared at the ground, shuffling his feet.

"Now, we're going to talk about this later. I won't say anything to your father . . . For now. That will be up to you."

"But--" began Waxley in protest. He was stopped by Riley's steely glare, cast his eyes down again. "Yes, sir."

"And you'd better go talk to Calo and Brandy, too, before they spend too much. I'd like to do this quietly, especially since Calo is Captain Wills' son. I'll be back in a few hours, and I'll expect to see all three of you then."

Waxley made a sour expression. "Yes, sir," he said, then frowned. "Where are you off to?"

Riley took a deep breath. "There's been a dire badger sighted near Bluster's Glade," he said. "Captain Wills wants me and a few others to check it out."

Waxley's eyes bulged. "You're going to kill a dire badger?" he asked, awe-struck.

"Hopefully not," said Riley. "I've tangled with them before. Nasty buggers, they are, as tall at the shoulder as I am. Maybe we can just trap it and take it back into Bogarty Wood. But don't worry yourself about that."

Riley turned toward the door, then paused. "Remember what I said. We'll settle this pick-pocket matter when I get back."

Waxley nodded. Riley left with a grunt, his heavy, booted feet stomping on the floorboards. Waxley watched after him for a long moment.

A dire badger . . . Now that would be something to see!

*

Despite the warning of their oldest friend and informal leader of the trio, Brandy and Calo did, indeed, make their wealth known as they visited the tavern. They ordered feasts fit for the greatest of Luthit nobles and let the ale flow freely for all involved within the brew-soaked walls. It was not long before the tavern wenches took notice.

The one who straddled Calo's lap was a slender, dark-haired lass with multi-colored beads entwined within her long ebony strands. She let her loose skirt ride up her lean thighs as her arms draped over the young herren's narrow shoulders. Her emerald eyes glittered as she took him in.

"You're certainly a generous fellow," she said coyly, shifting on his lap. Casually, she tussled his thick hair. "I like that."

Calo smiled up at her, after glancing quickly to see that Brandy was also pleasantly enamored by a comely madchen. His hands sought her narrow waist and slowly crept upward. "Oh, do you?" he chided. His lips revealed a toothy smile. "Funny that you never showed me any attention before, Luralee."

Luralee's curled lips remained fixed. "I wish I had," she said, then leaned close. Her breath was sweet with the fragrance of cheap wine. "Perhaps we can make up for it."

Calo grinned, feeling his excitement grow, encourage by the warmth radiating from between the tavern girl's thighs. "I think we can . . . at a different place."

Luralee considered the young man beneath her, caressing his round face slightly. She slipped her leg from his lap and stood. "Come on," she urged coyly.

*

She moaned and grunted beneath him as Calo plunged away, burying himself inside the willing girl again and again. Luralee lay on her stomach, her back arched as she clawed the soiled sheets in the small home she shared with two other girls like her. Her firm buttocks quivered with each pounding thrust Calo delivered. Her dainty feet kicked in the air.

"Oh! Sweet! Idunn!" she gasped, pushing up on her hands. Her sweaty, flushed face peered back at Calo as he continued to delve within her.

"Aye, she is," hissed Calo, gathering a fistful of the girl's hair in his hand. Her jerked her head back and shoved his cock as deep as it could go. "Sweeter than you, wench."

Luralee cried out, her pussy clamping tightly around Calo's cock. "Ah! Yes! Say it again!"

Calo pounded into her, harder, deeper. "Wench!" he roared. "Vixen! Whore!"

"Oh! Ah! Yes!" The girl all but screamed as she exploded in orgasm, grinding her firm ass against Calo's slender body, rolling her hips savagely. She hissed through clenched teeth, dug her fingernails into the dirty bedsheets. Her spasms wracked her body for long moments, until she fell forward, burying her face in a pillow.

Still, Calo drilled into her, determined to bring about his own satisfaction. "Cheap tavern slut," he growled, gripping the girl's shoulders as he leaned into her. His hips smacked loudly against her quivering buttocks. "Tell me you're naught but a whore! Tell me!"

Luralee moaned, whimpering into the sheets, rolling her body eagerly. "I'm a whore," she murmured. "I'm your whore!"

"Yes!" cried Calo, stabbing deep one last time, spilling his seed within the girl. He grunted and spasmed, enjoying his release to the fullest. His cock burned within the slick, sucking womb of the tramp beneath him. At long last, he collapsed upon her.

"What a good whore you are . . . ." he muttered, heaving hot breath in her ear.

"Mmmm . . . ."

*

The Paddins sat quietly around the dinner table, partaking of a late-afternoon supper. Waxley stared down into his soup, dabbed at it with a chunk of bread. He was not conscious of his mother and father watching him, the former with worry, the latter with grim concern. Waxley's younger sister, Marilee, just fourteen and typically oblivious to the world, hummed a tune as she stabbed at chunks of potato in her bowl.

"What did Riley want?" asked Pa, breaking the silence.

Waxley was startled, and looked up, wide-eyed. "What?"

Waxley's father took a bite of bread. "He seemed upset with you for something," he said.

"Oh, you know Uncle Riley," said Waxley dismissively. "You misplace his shovel and he's ready to call on Thyr's lightning for it."

"Hmn," grunted Pa.

"They've been gone a long time," said Ma, customarily doing her knitting as she picked at her food. "It'll be dark in less than an hour."

"He's hunting a dire badger," said Waxley. His eyes flashed with excitement. "I bet he'll come back into town carrying it's head!"

"Ew," said Marilee. "Ma, tell him not to talk like that when I'm eating."

Waxley leaned toward his sister, grinning mischievously. "I can see it now. It'll be dripping with blood and gore, and it's eyes will be all bulged out--"

"Ma!"

"Waxley!"

Waxley chuckled, returned to his meal.

Half an hour later, as the sun was descending over the treetops of Bogarty Wood, Waxley and his father sat on the front porch of their hillside home, overlooking the village. 

Crawley's Crossing was home to some sixty families, most of whom were descended from the original settlers who came here, three centuries before, after the land had been cleared of goblins and orcs by Captain Avery Crawley, on behalf of the Duke of Heimdall. Learning of the new development, the land that would become Crawley's Crossing was purchased by the first settlers, Warrows from Bower's Garden in the north. 

In the centuries since, the perfect soil and rolling hills had proven ideal for growing grapes, and now, CC wines, as they were called, were well-known from the Luthit capitol of Amellard to the Modsognir Dwarven holt of Gieldthagir Mor. Making wine had become the dominant business for the Warrows here, as it was in other nearby villages such as Silver Hole, Badgerhead, and Twindowns.

"I've been meaning to speak with you, son," said Pa, drawing on his pipe. "You're a man now, Waxley, have been for some time. I'd like to bring you into the business."

Waxley rolls his eyes. "We have talked about this, Pa," he said. "I just don't think I could be happy watching over grape fields and tasting wines all day."

"Why not? It's a good life, good work. You could have your own label, plant your own vineyards. You could marry that Corabell girl."

Waxley gave his father a sidelong glare. "Corabell don't want to marry no winemaker," he said.

"So what does she want to marry?" asked Pa, reaching for a glass of the family label. "A pick-pocket?"

Waxley froze as he rocked in his chair. He didn't look to his father.

"As an example," continued Pa. "Or do you think that going on some great adventure will earn her heart?"

Waxley sighed, resumed rocking. "Don't you ever wonder what's out there, Pa? Didn't you ever want to go explore the ancient ruins in Bogarty Wood, or the Andromil Mountains? See the Brunhin in Argraine?"

"I know what's out there," grunted Pa. "Goblins, orcs, dragons . . . danger. That's what's out there. Listen to me, boy: leave the adventures to the adventuring type. Your place is here, in this village. Make yourself an honest living, marry yourself a descent girl. Make me a grandfather."

Waxley sighed. He knew from his father's tone that the matter, as far as the man was concerned, was settled.

The clamor of voices suddenly rose from the other end of the village, where the thick wooden palisade wall was broken by a gate that faced Bogarty Wood. Waxley and his father both rose to their feet as a constable rushed toward them, sweaty and flustered. He approached the Paddins patriarch with a plaintive expression on his face.

"Dubil, calm down, man," said Waxley's father. "What happened?"

Dubil took a deep breath, hung his head. "I'm so sorry, so sorry," he said. He lifted his head, revealing swollen red eyes. "It's Riley, sir. Riley's dead."

*

His body lay upon the bed of a wagon, a common end to an uncommon life. In death, Riley seemed to have shrunk in size. He no longer seemed the great, broad-shouldered constable he had been that afternoon. His face was relaxed, a mask of calm, yet his body bore the marks of a savage and brutal death. Blood had soaked through the blanket that covered him to his neck, but did not conceal the nasty gash on the side of his head, matted and caked with blood and gore. A crowd had gathered around the wagon, and all in attendance were long-faced, silently sympathetic.

"It was that damn dire badger," said Dubil, his voice apologetic. "It came out of nowhere! Just leapt from the trees and fell upon us. Poor Loman almost lost his arm, Tandy can hardly walk . . . But Riley . . . He held the beast off, let us regroup. I tell you, though, he gave as good as he got! I won't be surprised if we find it dead in the woods tomorrow. I hope it bleeds for a long time before it dies. Vile beast."

Waxley stared in mute shock at his uncle's corpse, wishing Riley would just sit up, wishing it was all just a twisted joke. But he knew it was not. His heart felt like it was being dragged down to the bottom of the sea by a twenty-king's-ton weight.

Beside him, Captain Wills took a deep breath. He was a somewhat smallish man, with curly dark hair and a round face, but he exuded confidence and command in his captain's uniform. He adjusted the cap on his head, stepped closer to the wagon. "This is a tragedy," he said. "We have lost our finest man."

He turned to Waxley's father. "I cannot tell you how sorry I am," he said.

Waxley watched his father, whose face was a grim mask. He nodded at Captain's Wills' words. "It was his life," he said. "I always feared this day would come, but he was ready for it. Riley never thought he would live forever, after all."


Waxley the Bold Ch. 01



Wills pursed his lips, said nothing more. He stepped away from the cart, nodded to a pair of constables standing beside it. They quickly guided the pony that pulled it toward the Constabulary stable. Waxley watched as his uncle was carried away. His eyes lingered for a long moment, then turned back to his father. He was speaking with Dubil, who held an ornate, well-crafted crossbow in his hands.

". . . always said he wanted you to have this, you know . . . In case something like this happened."

Waxley watched as his father accepted the venerable weapon, which had been Riley's pride and joy for over two decades. There was no finer crossbow in all the village. It was lighter than most, yet stronger, with a powerful oaken bow and an ebony stock. Seeing the weapon brought a tear to Waxley's eye; he had learned to shoot with that weapon. Riley used to take him out to the fields outside of town and nail targets to trees. Waxley remembered vividly the first time he let loose a bolt from the crossbow; the recoil had bruised his shoulder.

The crowd somberly dispersed, offering words of sympathy to Waxley and his father. Within minutes, only the two of them remained in the village center.

"You wanted to know what was out there, boy," said Waxley's father dourly. "That's what's out there. Death."

Waxley stared at his father for a moment, his expression intense, his eyes quivering, then silently turned and headed back toward the house. By the time he made it to the front door, he had already made the decision that would change his life forever.

***

That night, a stealthy figure crept through the shadows of the hillside home. More than sharpening his skills as a pick-pocket, Waxley had learned through his many illicit forays into Heimdall that being able to hide and approach others without them hearing him was at least as valuable as being able to stand beside them whilst stealthily cutting their purse from their belts. 

Now, that stealth served him well, for he was able to creak pen the door to his parent's bedroom just enough to allow him entry. Nearly crawling across the floor, Waxley headed unerringly for the heavy oak box that lay upon his father's dressing table. He filched the lock quickly, and opened the box in silence. With a glance to his parents' bed, Waxley grabbed the crossbow within, then ducked out back through the door.

Outside in the cool air, a grim-faced Waxley tested the strength of the bow, made sure it was tight, the trigger slick. He had already strapped a case across his back holding twenty well-crafted bolts; he hoped that would be enough. Drawing one of the bolts and settling it into the furrow of the crossbow, Waxley headed toward the western gate, beyond which lay the Bogarty Wood.

He did not realize, as he walked amongst darkened houses and past closed-down shops, that he was being watched by a tall, slender figure in the dark, a figure with the height and proportions of a human, yet with the pointed ears of an elf. The figure watched with interested eyes as Waxley made his way to the gate and climbed over it, then retreated into the shadows, vanishing from view.

*

In Waxley's mind, the scenario would go something like this: he would find the deadly dire badger who had murdered his uncle, lapping water from a moonlit stream. With a well-placed shot from Riley's crossbow, Waxley would fell the beast, then cut off its head as it writhed in agony. Triumphantly, he would march back into town and announce his victory to his fellow Warrows.

But the reality was much less dramatic. The Bogarty Wood was cold, damp and dark, and Waxley had a difficult time making his way. More than once, he stumbled, almost fell, and his clumsy feet snapped twigs loud enough to rouse rabbits from their burrows and night rats from the underbrush. He searched blindly through the forest, not having realized that the moon was only quarter-full, and thus its light was minimal.

Finally, after circumventing Bluster's Glade twice and venturing as far as a hundred yards in several directions, Waxley sat down against a tree and grimaced, contemplating his fate. True, he had been spared the humility of returning his ill-gotten coins to the Heimdall folk from whom he'd stolen them, but now, he was sure to catch Hela's fury from his father for taking Riley's crossbow. Obviously, it seemed to Waxley, there was nothing he could do right.

Fatigue and frustration combined to make his eyes heavy, and as he sagged against the great oak behind him, he drifted off to sleep . . . .

The snapping of twigs and the gibberish voices of goblins roused Waxley instantly. His eyes snapped open, and he clutched Riley's bow against him. He looked about, heart hammering, eyes fearful. Then the voices came again, from a small gully below the great oak, about thirty feet away.

There were five of them, Waxley counted, including a great, hulking figure twice the halfling's -- and goblins' -- height, clad in patchwork armor, a battle axe rested against his shoulder. Obviously on patrol, they had decided to break for a few moments, and sat in a small circle, no fire between them, munching on the dried remains of some unfortunate animal they had hunted days before. The goblins were filthy, wearing dirty leather armor, shortbows across their laps, slender swords across their backs. Even from his distance, Waxley could smell their gamey odor.

"Me wants to kill halflings," sputtered one in its native tongue, chewing a mouthful of jerky.

"Yeah, why ain't us killing halflings?" queried another. "All we do is hunt, patrol. Where halflings?"

"Shut up," growled the taller figure, which Waxley now recognized as a hobgoblin. In the pale moon light, Waxley could make out the insipid reddish hue of its skin. "We do what Master say. We kill halflings later."

"But why?" whined another of the four goblins. "No glory killing rabbits. Why big badger have all the fun?"

Waxley's ears perked up at the mention of the dire badger. Were these goblins somehow involved with it?

"Because that what Master wants," said the hobgoblin. "When time is right, we invade village, kill everyone. Master smart. He already kill best hunter in village."

"If best hunter already dead, why wait?" asked another goblin pointedly, eliciting supportive comments from his fellows.

"We wait for Master's approval," said the hobgoblin forcefully. "Village has strong wall. Master will weaken wall, let us through. When time is right."

"And when time is right?" challenged the first goblin. "I say we attack now, when all asleep. We bring back great glory, many halfling heads. We --"

The goblin stopped suddenly, and all in the band became silent. A twig had snapped as Waxley tried to creep closer. The goblins all looked upward, above the gully, in Waxley's general direction. Waxley froze, staring directly into the eyes of one of the closest goblins. The goblin's eyes grew wide in surprise.

"Halfling!" he shouted. "Halfling sniper!"

Cursing himself at forgetting that goblins possess better night vision than Warrows, Waxley quickly raised his crossbow, knowing that only the power of Riley's bow could save him from this unfortunate circumstance.

The hobgoblin stood, whirled about, brandishing his axe. His eyes, glittering unnaturally, fell upon Waxley. The Warrow could only make out the enormous form, but it was enough to take aim. With a desperate, grim expression, Waxley sighted and fired, just as the hobgoblin bellowed a powerful war-cry.

The dull, thumping twang of the crossbow was all but drowned out by the battle-cry, yet the aim was true. With a gurgle and grunt, the hobgoblin pitched back, clutching at its neck as it toppled backward. Even in the dim light, Waxley could see the fountain of blood spurting in an arc from the vile humanoid's neck.

"Patrol leader down!" cried one of the goblins, knocking an arrow in its bow. "Kill halfling!"

Watching the shadowed silhouettes of the goblins as they knocked their bows, Waxley scrambled for cover behind the great oak, gasped as he heard arrows thump into the body of the massive tree. He jerked another quarrel from his bolt case, reloaded Riley's crossbow with shaking hands. The sound of goblins running through dead undergrowth toward him made his movements frantic.

"Have him, hah!" shrieked a goblin, looming over Waxley with sword held high as the Warrow crouched. But with a fearful cry, Waxley raised Riley's crossbow and fired blindly. Bragi's luck was on his side then, for the quarrel, fired from a distance of less than ten feet, slammed into the body of the goblin, knocking it backward. The goblin sputtered, howled in pain as it tumbled down the slope from the tree. The feathering of the bolt could be seen protruding from its chest.

Waxley gasped, eyes wide in fear, and skittered up the slope, wanting nothing but to flee the goblins. But they pursued, firing arrows from their bows. One of them sliced through the thin leather on Waxley's right leg, and the young Warrow grunted in pain. Yet still he clambered, clutching Riley's crossbow in his grip. Panting and gasping, he reached the edge of a low stone wall, overgrown with vines and moss, a remnant of a bygone time, and vaulted over it. Arrows clattered against the rocky surface.

Eyes wide and full of fear, Waxley nonetheless had the presence of mind to reload his uncle's weapon. Breathing deeply and loudly, Waxley chanced a look over the stone wall. An arrow greeted his appearance, barely missing him as it shot past. He ducked his head below the wall again. His momentary spying had given him the relative positions of the remaining three goblins. One was coming directly toward him, curved and knicked sword held high. The other two were circling around, attempting to catch him from the sides.

As quietly and as quickly as he could, Waxley eased forward, crawling across the ground. His sharp ears could hear the breathing of the goblins and their movements through the underbrush. The closest one was coming from his left, about thirty paces away.

Waxley rolled forward, hoping his gifts at stealth would mask the sound of his actions. He spied a tree in the dimness of the quarter-moon, just wide enough so he could hide behind. As he did so, coming to his feet, he heard a valiant cry as the closest goblin charged where Waxley had been sitting . . . Only to find nothing there.

"Hunh?" grunted the goblin. "Where he go?"

"Right here, devil-spawn!" cried Waxley, popping around from behind the tree. In the pale moonlight, he could see the surprise evident on the goblin's face. But that surprise was soon transformed to dull, mindless shock as a crossbow bolt found its mark in the goblin's forehead. Noiselessly, the goblin fell back, stiff-bodied, like a tree felled in the forest.

Not waiting for the others to arrive, Waxley ran along the path bordered by the low stone wall, heading back toward Crawley's Crossing. His breath forced from his lungs in desperate spurts, his only wish was to reach to safety of his village . . . without a goblin's arrow in his back.

*

"Goblins!" cried Waxley as he stumbled back into the village, clambering through the western gate as the two guards atop it turned the wheel. "Goblins in Bogarty Wood! Goblins!"

He panted his way toward the constable's office, a low, earthen structure with a lantern burning in the window. As he approached, the door was flung open, and there was Dubil, a surprised and concerned look upon his face. Another constable, known as Farley, appeared with crossbow in hand.

"Calm down, boy!" barked Dubil, catching Waxley as the young Warrow fell against him. "What's the bother?"

"Goblins," gasped Waxley. "I killed three . . . But they're out there, and they know about the badger. They're part of it!"

"What?" cried Dubil, startled at Waxley's words. He helped the young Warrow steady himself, looked down at Waxley's leg. "Gods, lad, you're bleeding!"

"It's nothing," panted Waxley. He stared at Dubil. "I have to speak with the Captain. Please!"

"All right," said Dubil. "All right, lad, just calm down, have a seat. Let's get your wound tended, and then we'll see about speaking with the captain."

*

Captain Wills seemed none too pleased with being roused from his sleep, but, being the captain, he had no choice but to answer the summons given him by one of his men. Not bothering to take the time to don his uniform, he threw a pale blue robe about his night clothes and trundled off after his constable to the constabulary. Within, he found Riley Paddins' nephew, a suspected pick-pocket but otherwise good-natured lad, sitting upon a stool as the village's healer and Waxley's occasional target of affection, Corabell Undertree, used her healing magicks on the Warrow's leg.

"What's this I hear about goblins?" growled Captain Wills, looking upon Waxley.

Waxley bolted from his chair, startling Corabell as she knelt on the ground before him. 

"Captain Wills, sir!" exclaimed Waxley.

Wills rolled his eyes. "You aren't one of my constables, boy, so cut it out," he said tiredly. "Tell me what happened."

Quickly -- and with some excited sputtering and stuttering -- Waxley described the encounter in the Bogarty Wood, including what he had overheard of the goblins' conversation. Mention of some unknown dark 'master' of the goblins made all within the room look at each other in surprise and consternation.

"Now, hold on," said Wills. "Are you sure you heard what you heard?"

Waxley nodded vehemently. "Riley taught me the goblin tongue from the age of eight," he said. "I know what I heard. The goblins follow a master, and that master wants nothing less than to invade Crawley's Crossing! The dire badger is only part of this master's plot."

Wills pursed his lips, frowning. "All right, Waxley, calm down. You've had a rough night."

Waxley took a deep breath. "Yes, sir," he said. He noticed the concerned -- but excited -- look Corabell gave him from the corner of his eye. Waxley tried not to think about her at the moment, although, clad in her flimsy nightgown and burlap robe, she looked demurely attractive, and the golden curls framing her round, sweet face were undeniably arousing . . . every bit as much as the swell of her round, firm breasts.

"We'll post watch," announced Captain Wills. He looked to his constables. "Rouse the others. I want every constable on the wall. If any goblin comes within bowshot, it is to have a bolt placed in its breast."

"Aye, sir!" said the two constables at once.

Wills turned back to Waxley. "As for you," he said, hands on his hips. "Congratulations. 'Tis not easy to skewer a pair of goblins and a hobgoblin. In the morning, we shall head out to look for these villains. Mayhap, if we can find a lone goblin, we can interrogate it, perhaps find out more about this 'master.'"

"Yes, Captain," said Waxley.

Wills approached the young Warrow and clasped his hands on Waxley's shoulders. "You've done well," he said. "If this should this turn out favorably . . . Mayhap there is a place for you in the constabulary. 'Twould only be fitting to add another Paddins to the roster."

Waxley's heart swelled with pride. "Nothing would give me greater joy," he said.

Wills smiled thinly, nodded. "We shall see," he said.

*

Corabell's healing had erased all trace of the wound on Waxley's leg. He felt not even a twinge of pain as he stepped out into the cool night air, Corabell beside him.

"Will the hero be willing to escort a madchen to her home?" she asked sweetly.

Waxley smiled. Corabell was the belle of the village, the target of every Warrow bachelor. Yet it was said that she remained chaste, pure, a mare unridden. Scarcely a year older than Waxley, the young blonde Warrow was still girlish in demeanor. But her classic voluptuousness identified her to one and all as a woman.

"Of course," he said. Cautiously, he took her hand, find her grip firm and ready. It was an encouraging sign.

"I am so glad you weren't badly hurt," she said as they headed down the slope toward her modest home. Corabell was an orphan; her parents had both perished a few years before while fishing.

"Ah, 'twas nothing," dismissed Waxley. "Barely a scratch."

Corabell smiled, soft cheeks bulging and revealing her dimples. "Of course."

They walked quietly for the remaining moments it took to reach the little cottage, built into the base of a large oak. Paper lanterns hung from the boughs glowed softly with orange-yellow light. At the door, Waxley took Corabell's dainty hands in his own.

"I am tempted to ask if you would come in for a nightcap," she said, her voice soft and breathy, wide blue eyes glittering. She had never looked upon Waxley in this way before, had never felt the stiffening of her nipples and the moisture between her legs.

"I would certainly not refuse," responded Waxley, feeling his own stirrings of arousal. Years of pining for the beauty of Crawley's Crossing, receiving nothing but teasing looks and remarks, and now . . . now she seemed on the verge of offering herself to him.

Corabell's cheeks flushed, both with nervousness and arousal. She took a deep breath, which naturally forced her impressive breasts to press against the flimsy, almost transparent fabric that covered them. Waxley felt his mouth go dry as he made out the shape of her stiff, pink nipples and the slightly swollen areolae that surrounded them.

Idunn's sweet, he thought.

Finally, Corabell spoke. "Perhaps . . . perhaps another time?" she ventured carefully.

Waxley tried not to show his disappointment and smiled. He gave her hands a gentle squeeze. "Of course," he said.

Corabell smile in return, nervous tension evident upon her face. She pushed open the door of her cottage, turned back once she had crossed the threshold. "Sweet night, my hero," she whispered.

Waxley nodded, glad that his dark breaches concealed the almost painful swelling beneath them. "Sweet night," he echoed, then turned about and hobbled back up the hill.

*

The morning sun cast a pale yellow radiance over the village. News of Waxley's encounter with goblins so close to Crawley's Crossing had reached every ear. Nearly everyone had turned out to see the constables gearing up in the village circle, tightening the straps on their blanched leather armor, securing quarrel cases to their backs, checking the resistance on their bows. Only four constables would be left behind with Captain Wills, who informed everyone that he had sent a messenger pigeon to Heimdall, asking for assistance.

Waxley strode from the tanner's shop, clad in stiff, dark, form-fitting leather segmented at the joints, with a thick guard over his right shoulder. All his gains from pick-pocketing had gone into purchasing the armor and his weapons. In his hand was Riley's crossbow, over his shoulder a case of bolts, at his hip a polished shortsword. Mutterings and murmurs passed through the crowd as they beheld the new hero. Yet Waxley's face registered neither pride nor self-congratulation. What he was doing was not for himself, but for the memory of Riley Paddins.

He started toward the constables, but his eye caught the stern look of his father, and the worried expression of his mother, standing side-by-side at the edge of the village circle. Oblivious as always, Marilee twirled and danced with her stuffed teddy bear clutched against her, moving to some melody only she could hear.

Hesitantly, Waxley approached his father, who took a deep breath at his son's approach. 

"Waxley--" he began.

"Father, I must do this. I can't explain why, but I must."

Father Paddins paused, mouth open as if to speak further. Finally, he gave a slight nod. "Your mother has something for you."

Waxley, surprised at his father's unexpected acceptance, looked to his mother. She rolled a tiny loop of metal in her fingers. Her face fought back emotion as she approached her son.




Waxley the Bold Ch. 01



"Son," she said. "Take this. It is engraved with the symbol of Haladine, the Protector. May it protect you."

Waxley was touched, his hard-set features softening. "Ma, you've worn that ring all your life. I can't--"

"Take it," she insisted, pushing the tiny steel circlet into Waxley's palm. "For me."

Waxley nodded. "I'll bring it back," he vowed.

She nodded, then huddled against her husband, the tears finally coming. Waxley's father stared at his son, a strange expression on his haggard old face. It was as if he was looking upon his son with new eyes, seeing within Waxley Paddins something he had never seen before.

Suddenly, Marilee was at her brother's side, tugging on the scabbard of his shortsword. Waxley looked down into his sister's innocent face.

"Are you gonna kill more goblins?" she asked.

"I don't know," he said honestly.

Her face wrinkled in childish conviction. "Well, if you do, you tell them one of them bolts is from me!"

Waxley smiled in spite of himself, patted Marilee on the head. "I'll do that," he said.

"Company!" came a commanding voice, that of the Lieutenant, a barrel-shaped Warrow named Alderlin. "Move out!"

"I've got to go," said Waxley, looking to his father.

Father Paddins gave his son a meaningful look. "Come back," he said.

Waxley nodded, swallowing nervously. Then he turned and jogged to join up with the constables. From the corner of his eye, Waxley saw his friends Brandy and Calo, standing amidst the crowd, giving him forlorn, though impressed, looks. Waxley nodded back, marveling for a moment how he had suddenly been transformed from one of the village trouble-makers into one of its guardians. Life, he decided suddenly, was nothing if not unpredictable.

The village, as a whole, watched the band of brave constables, and one unlikely hero, as they headed through the gate and toward Bogarty Wood. There were shouts of encouragement, calls to bring back goblin teeth and other trophies. Feeling a strange anxiety mingled with excitement within him, Waxley headed to the front, where he was to take his place beside Alderlin. Despite the grim circumstances, he could not suppress the excited grin that spread across his face.

*

"Aye, goblins were slain here," said Alderlin, squatting on the ground at the edge of the low stone wall behind which Waxley had hidden the night before. The bodies had been removed -- ostensibly by the dead goblins' comrades -- yet bloodstains still marked the earth, especially where the hobgoblin had fallen. Its pierced artery had gushed out the majority of his life's blood, which formed a large, dark puddle on the ground upon which flies buzzed.

"Fine work," he said, nodding to Waxley. Some of the other constables in the eight-Warrow squad echoed the sentiment.

"What now, then?" asked Waxley.

Alderlin, still crouching, stared across the ground. Like Riley, he was a trained hunter, whose eyes spotted details others would miss. "Four more came," he said. "Then later, four more. They took the bodies, headed north-west."

"Toward the ruins," commented Waxley.

Alderlin nodded. "'Twould seem so, Paddins," he said. "Mayhap that is their camp."

"How many goblins would there be, lieutenant?" asked one of the constables, nervously tapping his fingers on the stock of his crossbow.

"'Twould be a small band, I'd wager. But large enough to pose us a threat." Alderlin sighed, thinking. "I'd guess thirty goblins or so, plus a handful of hobgoblin lieutenants. And, of course, this 'master' they spoke of."

Nervous murmurs circulated through the constables.

"Quiet, lot!" barked Alderlin. He nudged his chin toward one in particular. "Dortmer!"

"Yes, lieutenant!"

"Uncoil that net of yours. We'll lay a trap for the goblins, see if we can catch some of them unawares."

Excitedly, Dortmer did as he was commanded, unwrapping the cumbersome bundle that was looped around his torso. Directed by Alderlin, the Warrow and two others set about their task with near-dwarven efficiency, laying the net upon the ground and bending saplings to which the ropes would be lashed. Two others followed the lieutenant's orders and applied the contents of two waterskins, converted to hold a thick, slippery liquid as viscous as molasses, to the slope just before the trap. As they worked, Waxley stood by Alderlin's side.

"Why make the trap now?" he asked. "Don't goblins only patrol at night?"

"'Tis a common misperception, lad," said Alderlin, arms folded above his thick midriff. "Because goblins see well at night, the belief is that they only prowl when Balder's light has set. But I know goblins, lad. They are as thick during the day as they are at night. And in daylight, we have the advantage, not they."

Waxley listened intently, nodded at the lieutenant's words. "But will they come this way again?"

Alderlin grinned. "Goblin's ain't bright, lad," he said knowingly. "They'll come back this way. It's part of their patrol. And judging by the absence of fresh tracks in the past few hours, I'd say they've yet to make their rounds. We'll wait in hiding, snipe a few of them to lure one or two into the trap. Then we'll take the prisoners back to Captain Wills, let him have his way."

Waxley grinned. "Sounds like you've got it all planned out," he said.

Lieutenant Alderlin snickered. "Aye, that I do, lad. That I do."

***

Sharp Warrow ears heard the cautious footfalls of poorly-shod feet through the underbrush, and silent signals sent through the constables had them all alert and ready. Dortmer's net had been spread across the path of the stone-walled trail, covered with dead leaves. The bent saplings that would gather the net, once sprung, were shrouded by the boughs and trunks of stately oaks. The Warrows had concealed themselves at angles on either side of the trail, so that when they fired, they would catch goblins in a crossfire without endangering themselves. 

Waxley had been assigned as spotter, and he was settled high in a tree, some fifteen feet above ground. His dark clothing blended well with the coffee-colored leaves of a broad ironwood oak, and only if one knew exactly where to look would they be able to spy him.

So naturally, it was Waxley who first saw the goblins. There were eight of them, clad in ochre- and moss green-colored leathers, shortbows at the ready, arrows already knocked. Leading them was another massive hobgoblin. It looked more frightening, more impressive in the daylight. A veritable giant among the goblins, it carried a great, curved sword that was easily longer than a Warrow was tall, with a blade sturdy enough to chop the stoutest halfling in two.

Waxley gave the pre-arranged signal -- two acorns dropped to the ground, followed by two more -- and raised his crossbow. He sighted the hobgoblin from a distance of a hundred Warrow paces, but as he had been instructed, did not fire. He was to wait until the goblins were close enough, so that the confusion generated by Waxley's first shot would drive the goblins into the trap.

All I have to do is not miss, he thought nervously, trying to control his breathing. He squinted, following the slow-moving hobgoblin over the bridge of Riley's crossbow. Sweat beaded on his brow, born more from his anxiety than the humidity that made his leathers cling to his body. He was anxious; anxious to get this mess over with, anxious to see goblin blood spilt in the name of Crawley's Crossing. He had never been what he considered a bloodthirsty Warrow, but Waxley felt an intimate sense of insult at the affront these goblins had made by their very presence so close to his village.

They will curse the day their 'master' sent them here, he vowed silently.

Sixty Warrow paces from the trail where Dortmer's net had been laid, the hobgoblin leader suddenly stopped, silently raising his hand. Waxley caught his breath, raised his head from above the bow of his weapon, eyes wide with anxiety. The goblins spread out into a practiced semi-circle, fanning the aim of their bows in an arc before them.

Do they know we're here? Waxley thought anxiously. Tentatively, he palmed three acorns in his hand, ready to drop them to the ground, the signal that would alert the others that the goblins were aware of them. For several long seconds, Waxley's hand hovered above the ground, ready to release the signal. But then the hobgoblin leader grunted, gibbered something Waxley could not make out. The goblins returned to their marching order, and the patrol once again advanced.

Quickly, Waxley shoved the acorns back into his belt pouch, then sighted as before upon the hobgoblin leader. His breathing quickened as the patrol came closer. Fifty, then forty, then finally, thirty Warrow paces.

Waxley blinked, took a deep, silent breath, and held it. Close enough now that he could almost count the wiry hairs upon the hobgoblin's head, he aimed for the brute's heart . . . And squeezed the lever.

The dull twang of the crossbow sounded in the forest just before the bolt impacted in the leader's chest. The hobgoblin emitted a painful bellow as he toppled backward, but Waxley's aim had not been as exact as he wished it to be; the hobgoblin still lived, although it thrashed painfully upon the ground, grievously wounded.

At that moment, a pair of constables, further down the trail behind Waxley's tree, suddenly jumped up from their hiding places, calling to and goading the goblins. Momentarily confused, the goblins reacted only with anger and gibberish, yelling back at the two Warrows. Then, en masse as had been hoped, the goblins charged.

The trap was sprung; believing the two Warrows on the ground to have been the ones who wounded their patrol leader, the goblins rushed after them, oblivious to the true sniper who was concealed above. Waxley pivoted in his tree, reloading Riley's crossbow as quickly as he could as the goblins passed beneath his perch. They howled with battle-lust, some loosing arrows, others waving jagged and dented swords. The two Warrow decoys ran away from the border of the net, then ducked beneath the low stone wall on either side, where they joined their fellows.

At twenty Warrow paces from the trap, the constables all emerged from their hiding places amid a flurry of leaves and dead branches. The goblins' faces registered surprise and shock as crossbows twanged and thumped. Eight bolts launched; four goblins fell, pitching back onto the path. Then another staggered forward, its neck pierced by a particularly gruesome wound to the neck by Waxley's aim. Coughing and sputtering blood, it flopped to the ground, dropping its sword.

The forward momentum of the goblins was not easily stopped; confounded by the slippery gel that had been smeared beneath dead leaves and underbrush, the goblins fell to their rumps and slid forward. Two more were picked off by a volley of crossbow bolts, and were dead before they came to the net. The remaining two tumbled forward, directly onto the concealed webwork of ropes across the path. With a sharp snap and a rush of branches and leaves, the net wrapped around them and the two corpses of their fellows, ensnaring them all and hoisting them into the air.

The Warrows leapt to their feet, howling in victory. They encircled the net, chiding the goblins, insulting them in their own tongue. Barely able to move, let alone cut their way out, the goblins snarled, spat, yelled angrily.

"Aye, that's it," shouted one of the constables, dancing before the hanging net. "Struggle all you like, you're not getting out any time soon."

But as the constable hooted in laughter, he did not see the stumbling form of the angry hobgoblin come up from behind, blood trickling through thick, pale lips, slashing down with his massive blade. The constable's haughty tirade was stopped suddenly, his skull cleaved in two by the heavy blade.

Shouts and gasps erupted from the Warrows as they scrambled to bring their crossbows to bear. But before any could react, the hobgoblin suddenly shuddered, just as the thumping sound of a crossbow sounded. The hobgoblin staggered, eyes rolling back in his head, the feathered shaft of a quarrel jutting from the top of his skull. The fiend toppled backward, lifeless before he crashed to the ground.

Waxley exhaled deeply as he lowered his spent crossbow. "That was from Marilee," he said grimly.

The forest was suddenly quiet. Stunned eyes watched as Waxley swiftly descended to the ground, a forlorn look upon his face. He settled his guilt-ridden eyes upon the lieutenant.

"I'm sorry," he said, not knowing what else to say.

Alderlin approached the young Warrow, clasped his hand upon Waxley's shoulder. "'Tis the fates who took Milo," he said. "Not you. That is the way of battle. The Norns can be fickle during such times. Fret not, Waxley; when you see Milo again in Godsland, he will hold no grudge against you."

Despite Alderlin's supportive words, Waxley still felt as if he had failed somehow. "I thought the hobgoblin was dead."

Alderlin nodded to the corpse of the giant creature. "'Tis now," he said with a chuckle. "Fine marksmanship, lad. Very fine indeed."

*

Despite the death of one of their own, the constables returned to Crawley's Crossing as victors. Bound by ropes and manacles, the two goblin prisoners snarled and stumbled their way behind the constables' horses, spitting and yelling defiantly in their gibberish tongue. The anxious citizens of the village came out to welcome the victors, and even though the family of Milo Bloom mourned his loss, even they seemed gladdened that the constables had completed their quest.

Captain Wills came out to the village circle to greet the return, and he looked favorably upon the Paddins lad, now called Waxley the Bold by the constables. He nodded with a small smile as he listened to Lieutenant Alderlin's account of the events, then raised his hands to calm the crowd of villagers who chanted the glory of the constables and the swiftly-spreading news of Waxley's part in the goblins' capture.

"Fellow Warrows of Crawley's Crossing," he said in a loud, boisterous voice. "It is rare when we have a true hero in our midst. But it seems Idunn, and Bragi, aye, even Wotan himself, has blessed us. Waxley, come forth."

With a sheepish grin, Waxley stepped toward the captain, who palmed a small device in his hand. Applause surrounded Waxley; for which he felt both grateful and embarrassed.

"Waxley Paddins," said the captain, then grinned. "Or, should I say, Waxley the Bold! It is my honor to present to you the badge of the constabulary of Crawley's Crossing. May you wear it in pride, and may you continue to show the goblins of Bogarty Wood just what it means to endanger the good people of our village."

Applause sprang anew as Waxley accepted the badge. His heart swelling, his face beaming, he held the small leather badge above his head, thanking those who praised him. His eye caught that of his father, who stood away from the crowd, watching. And even upon that disgruntled face, there was a small smile of pride.

"Thank you, Captain Wills," said Waxley. "I won't let you down."

"I should think not. Paddins blood is becoming more and more a symbol of strength in this village, indeed, across all Warrow lands. You do us all proud."

Waxley smiled, pinned the badge to his chest. Applause erupted one last, cacophonous time, hats were thrown in the air, and amongst the crowd, Waxley the Bold found the approving and excited face of Corabell Undertree. He stared at her for a long moment, feeling that now, finally, he was beginning to fulfill his destiny. But at the same time, something troubled his mind; something that made him feel uneasy with all this sudden attention.

*

"Not a wound to tend?" came a soft, feminine voice as Waxley conferred with the other constables in the constabulary office. All faces -- Waxley's, the two constables', and Captain Wills' -- looked up as Corabell Undertree stood in the doorway, clad in a soft white gown, sunflowers in her hair. The setting sun behind her made her golden hair look even more radiant, made the flowers seem as if they had been set about the temples of an alluring dryad.

Waxley stared with unabashed adoration at the honey-haired beauty in the doorway. The room was silent a moment as Waxley and Corabell locked eyes. Then, Captain Wills cleared his throat, hiding a smirk behind his fist.

"Uh, well, I think that does it for the evening," he said. "It's been a hard day, men, a hard and good day. Sun's setting. Who's up for a tankard of ale?"

The two other constables, dumbstruck at Corabell's lovely appearance, did not budge until Captain Wills slapped his hands upon their backs.

"Oh -- right!" exclaimed one of the constables, as if suddenly remembering something. "Ale! Right! Only thing on my mind at the moment! How's by you, Rogley?"

The other constable stammered, eyes drinking in the way Corabell's dress seemed less to conceal her form, and more to accentuate her lush curves. "Uh, well--"

"Great!" exclaimed Captain Wills, ushering the two constables out the door. "I'll buy the first round!" Quickly, he slipped a key into Waxley's hand. "Lock up for me, will you?" he whispered, then winked and was gone.

Waxley did his best to suppress an embarrassed smile. He slapped the constabulary key in his hand. "Ah, sorry 'bout that," he said, looking sheepishly to Corabell.

She stepped closer, eyes boring into Waxley's with undisguised interest. "Do not apologize, my hero," she whispered. She stepped closer until they were less than a pace apart. Waxley was aware of a gentle fragrance surrounding her, something light and airy, yet also arousing.

Waxley laughed softly. "'Hero,'" he repeated. "I'm no hero."

"And that is exactly why you are one," she said, emerald eyes glittering up at him. "As far as I am concerned, there is no finer herren in this village."

Waxley took a deep breath, suddenly uncomfortable. "I didn't do all this to become a hero," he said. "I did it for Riley."

"And he is proud of you," she said sweetly, soft lips moist and inviting. "I know he is."

"Is he?" asked Waxley, brow furrowed. "Did you know, the day he died, he was going to arrest me?"

Corabell smiled demurely. "That doesn't matter," she said, nudging her face closer to his. "The Waxley then is not the same that stands before me now, the Waxley I wish to be my h--"

"It does matter!" exclaimed Waxley, stepping away angrily, startling Corabell. She jerked her head back, staring in innocent, confused surprise.

"I set out to avenge Riley, not obscure him!" cried Waxley. "It's as if, all of a sudden, people have forgotten him, forgotten all he did over twenty years! As if people have forgotten how he died, and what he died for."

"Waxley, darling, you're not making sense," said Corabell.

He stared at her. "Aren't I?" he asked acidly. "Or, perhaps you simply do not understand wherefore I speak. Riley's death brought to light a great threat to this village, a threat that goes beyond goblins and dire badgers. Do you know what we've been doing in here all day? Planning an infiltration of the goblin camp. Goblins! As if that is all we face!"

"What more do we face?" she asked, admonished before Waxley's anger.

"I just told you!" he cried, making her wince. He huffed and turned away, pulling at his hair. "Am I the only one who sees it? There is a . . . a sinister force at work here! A dark, evil master who commands a dire badger and an army of goblins! That is what we should be hunting!"

Corabell stared, wide-eyed, lips quivering. Waxley stepped up to her with a heavy sigh. His features softened. "Corabell, I am sorry. I do not mean to bring this upon you."

"You . . . You're frightening me," she said. "I've never seen you like this before."




Waxley the Bold Ch. 01



Waxley's shoulders sagged. "That is because before, I was a simple pick-pocket," he said. "And, Idunn knows why, but I found that exciting. But I didn't know what my lot in life was, then. Now I know."

She smiled widely. "Yes. The hero of Crawley's Crossing, Waxley the Bold!"

Waxley grimaced, waved his arms erratically as he stepped away again. "Stop that!" he cried. "You're as bad as the rest of them!"

Corabell looked suddenly indignant. She placed her hands on her hips and frowned. "As bad as who? The people of this village who look up to you? The Warrows who now see you as an inspiration, rather than a running joke? Is that 'them?'"

Waxley closed his eyes, sighed heavily. "I didn't mean--"

"Waxley Paddins," she huffed. "I came here to offer myself to you, fully and completely, and you're sounding like the spoiled brat I knew last week, who tried to goad me into letting him sneak a peek up my skirt behind Maddy Lowens' barn!"

Waxley stared, jaw working as if to say something. But he closed his mouth, looked away, trying to sort through the emotions and thoughts tumbling in his mind. "You're right," he said at last, his voice calm now. "I'm not making much sense."

Corabell's features softened somewhat. "That's better," she said.

Waxley raised his hands, held them a few inches apart as he closed his eyes and searched for the most diplomatic words he could conceive. "It's like this," he said, opening his eyes. "Riley was slain by a dire badger, correct?"

Corabell frowned, crossed her arms. All sexiness that had been evident in her before now seemed to have vanished. "Okay, right," she said, expectant.

"All right," continued Waxley. "Riley was sent out to hunt this monster, because everyone knows that he was the best hunter, and he's fought them before. Right?"

She sighed. "Right."

"But Riley gets killed, ambushed by the dire badger. That would seem to be the end of it. No one else could hunt such a monster."

"Well, perhaps there is--"

Waxley squeezed his eyes shut in frustration. "Right?"

Corabell rolled her eyes. "Fine. Right."

Waxley opened his eyes again. "That night, stupid and full of vengeance, his nephew takes Riley's crossbow out into the woods, encounters some goblins, some of whom he slays. He overhears the goblins talking about a 'master' who controls the badger, and them, as well. A master who will command them to attack Crawley's Crossing when the 'time is right.'"

Corabell frowned, some of her indignance gone. "What are you getting at?" she asked.

Waxley paused a moment, bringing his thoughts together. He looked at her meaningfully. "When do you think would be the best time to attack the village?"

Corabell shrugged. "At night?" she asked.

Waxley shook his head. "I mean, conditions. If you were going to attack Crawley's Crossing--"

"I would never do such a thing, even if I could!"

"Just . . . Listen to me, please!"

Corabell frowned, fell silent.

"If you were going to attack Crawley's Crossing, what would be the best way to do it? Our village is well-fortified; we have a wall that stands half again the height of a Luthit, with constables patrolling at all hours. We have one of the most renowned and skillful hunters in all the Warrow lands, a man capable of standing against a dozen goblins, by himself, armed with only a butter knife and a loincloth. Now, how would you weaken Crawley's Crossing?"

Corabell shrugged. ". . . kill some of the constables," she said in a meek voice.

"Exactly!" exclaimed Waxley, jabbing a finger at Corabell, startling her. "Not just some of the constables, but the constable, the one Warrow who poses the most threat! Then, after he was dispatched, you would draw out the others, kill them a few here, a few there. Right?"

Corabell shrugged. "I would suppose . . . ."

"Eventually, there would be no one left to guard the town, save a few stout villagers with pitchforks and spears. But then, unexpectedly, there's a new threat. Someone that no one would ever think could be a hero. He slays a few goblins, helps capture some prisoners . . . And everyone looks to him for inspiration. And all the while, the dire badger is still out there, and so is the master who commands him . . . A master who doesn't want heroes in Crawley's Crossing."

Corabell stared, but her clouded eyes indicated she was thinking, finally beginning to follow Waxley's train of thought. "You mean . . . ."

"Riley always told me, 'the most dangerous part of a serpent is not its bite, but the venom it carries.' This 'master' is the venom, and the goblins and dire badger are just its fangs. And if a serpent could, where would it strike? Not the arm or leg, but the heart."

Corabell suddenly understood. "He's going to come after you, isn't he?" she asked fearfully. "This . . . This 'master' is going to come after you."

Waxley nodded with a sigh of relief that Corabell finally understood. "Yes, I think so," he said. "Whether I like it or not, whether I've earned it or not, I am now the inspiration for Crawley's Crossing. And this 'master,' who wants to ravage and burn our village, will not set his goblins against us until I am dead."

Corabell swallowed nervously. "And . . . How will he do this?" she asked.

Waxley spread his arms wide. "In tried and true fashion," he said. "He will set the dire badger upon me."

Corabell's eyes suddenly became liquid. "Oh, Waxley, no!" she cried. "What--"

"I have to meet it first," he said, then laughed ruefully, shaking his head. "I cannot believe I am saying this, but I have to do what I set out to do in the first place: hunt down and slay the badger. Not just to avenge Riley, but to save myself and this village as well."

*

Moments later, Waxley and Corabell left the constables' office, after Waxley had locked up the building. The hero was garbed as if for battle, with the sword and crossbow he had worn earlier in the day. He walked briskly, heading toward the tavern, where he intended to pass back the key Captain Wills had given him. Corabell shuffled beside him, hiking up her dress to keep up with the determined Warrow.

". . . but must you leave tonight?" she queried fearfully. "Can you not wait until morning, when you will be able to see better? You need your rest, Waxley. And food. I have already prepared--"

Waxley stopped suddenly, almost making Corabell stumble to the ground as she lurched past him. "No," he said. "It cannot wait. If I wait, the master will only gather strength. I have to find the badger, slay it, and return as quickly as I can. Otherwise, it is all for naught."

"But, if Riley could not kill it--" she protested as Waxley resumed his quick march.

"I must find a way," he said. "There has to be some way . . . ." his voice trailed off, unheard by the ears of the shadowy figure who stood beneath the eaves of the closed-down cobbler. The figure watched from beneath a hood the color of blackest night, a cloak covering its body that matched the shadows around it.

"Aye, Waxley," hissed the voice of the figure. "There may be a way. But you will not be allowed to find it . . . ."

***

Waxley stormed into the tavern with all the purpose and grace of a charging bull. A minstrel playing in a corner stumbled on the chords of his lyre. Conversation stammered to a halt. All eyes within the cozy structure turned toward Waxley, only peripherally noticing the alluring madchen who stood behind him.

"Where is Captain Wills?" shouted Waxley.

A group of constables crowded around a table looked up, beer-foam dripping off their lips. "Oy, Waxley," said one. "He bought a round for us and checked out. Said he had some more logistics or something to go over. I think he went home."

Waxley and Corabell exchanged sudden worried looks. "Captain Wills!" they exclaimed in unison.

Sensing something amiss, the constables stumbled to their feet as Waxley and Corabell darted from the doorway and back out into the twilight. Waxley ran ahead, moving much faster than Corabell's dress would allow. The three constables who followed Waxley hesitated as they passed her.

"What the hell--?" the began.

"Just -- follow him!" she gasped, waving her arm onward, giving up the chase and remaining in the street. The constables, blessed with inordinate foresight, continued up the hill toward the home of Captain Wills, where Waxley was headed.

At the door of the home, through the windows of which flickered the light of a single lamp, Waxley hammered with his fist, calling the captain's name desperately. In a moment, it flung open, the disturbed face of Captain Wills jutting out.

"Waxley!" he exclaimed. "By the gods! What is it? An attack?"

"Mayhap," said Waxley, pushing past the captain and into the man's home. He looked about the captain's abode, noting peripherally the various animal heads mounted on placards on the wall, the numerous books, the assembly of herbs and other plants upon a central table. He was somewhat impressed at the eclectic taste of the Captain of the Constabulary.

He looked back to the captain. "You must suit up," he said. "Damn it! I should have realized this! It's not me he's after!"

Captain Wills frowned, clad in his bedclothes. "You're talking nonsense, lad!" he said. "Calm down!"

"I will be quick," said Waxley. "And please believe me. Our foe, this 'master' the goblins spoke of, who leads them and commands the badger, seeks to break the will of Crawley's Crossing before attacking. I thought he would be after me, but I was wrong. You are the captain. It is you he wishes to slay!"

Captain Wills was taken aback. "What?" he exclaimed. "How do you know this?"

"Captain Wills!" exclaimed a voice from the doorway. The three constables from the tavern now stood upon the captain's porch, swords already drawn. The lead man had a quivering look in his eye.

"I'm not sure why, but the hero, here, makes sense. I--"

All conversation stopped as terrific crashing noise sounded through the door that lead further into the captain's hillside home. All assembled automatically crowded behind Waxley, who immediately brought his loaded crossbow to bear. A sinister growling sounded from beyond the portal.

"Waxley, my lad," whispered Captain Wills, peering over the hero's shoulder. "Is that what I think--"

"I fear so," said Waxley, heart hammering. "He has set it upon you. You must leave. We will deal with this."

"'We?'" queried the three constables at once, eyes and voices fearful.

"Go!" snapped Waxley to the captain. "Find the other constables! We'll slay the beast with numbers!"

"Waxley, my boy, there is no braver soul in this village than you," said the captain quickly, patting the young Warrow on the shoulder. Then he darted for the door, leaving Waxley and the three constables to face the beast behind the door.

Waxley braced Riley's crossbow against his padded shoulder, ready for the attack he knew would come. He whispered over his shoulder to the other constables.

"Close the front door."

"What? Why?" asked the first of the three, adopting the same hushed tone.

"So we can trap it," hissed Waxley.

The constable nodded to his fellow closest the door, who hesitantly closed it. The first constable, reaffirming his grip on his sword, stared warily at the opposite door, through which more growls sounded.

"Waxley," he said in a wavering voice.

"What?"

"If I die, I'm going to kill you in Valhalla."

Waxley grinned. "I'll hold you to that," he said.

With a shuddering explosion, the door to Captain Wills' back room exploded outward with a flurry of wooden splinters, and a massive, fearsome creature crashed its way into the room. So wide was it, that it splintered the door frame to which the door had been attached. It had a broad, ferocious head, snarling with enormous, vicious teeth, thin lips dripping with feral saliva. Its body was stocky and thick, coated in matted, dark fur with bright silver tips. The powerful limbs each ended with a heavy set of claws, as long as any Warrow's forearm. And it's eyes . . . They were the most terrifying aspect of the monster, narrow and beady, glowing with an evil, crimson intensity.

The beast bellowed, an ear-splitting roar that seemed to shake the home to its foundation. Waxley winced at the baleful howl, but had the presence of mind and the stoutness of heart to loose the quarrel he'd loaded in Riley's bow.

"For Riley!" he cried valiantly. The giant badger howled in anger as the projectile slammed into its hide, just behind its right forelimb. But the beast seemed neither affected by, nor conscious of, the attack as it bounded forward, hurling its mass at the four Warrows.

Waxley grunted, the crossbow knocked from his hand to skitter across the floor as he was hurled to the side. A massive, deadly claw barely missed him, but another caught the first constable full in the chest, raking downward and opening three great gashes from which sprang forth geysers of blood. Yet, even with such a mortal wound, the constable managed to pierce the monster's hide with his sword, stabbing with all the strength he could muster. The giant badger roared, but remained unfettered.

The great beast pivoted, knocking the other two constables through the front door, hurling them out of the home. The monster sniffed the air, its malevolent eyes coming to rest on Waxley with a look akin to recognition. Scrambling back across the floor, Waxley hastily drew his sword, and just managed to raise it to protect himself from a deadly downward swipe.

Suddenly, a strange radiance seemed to wash over the creature, a purplish glow that vanished as quickly as it was spawned. Waxley could hear an echoing chant, and looked to the doorway to see Corabell gesturing, hands glowing with the same violet glow. Her eyes, closed during the intonation, now suddenly snapped open.

"I've weakened it, Waxley!" she cried. "Strike, if you can!"

Hearing Corabell's voice, the dire badger whirled about to face her with a deadly snarl, and the Warrow madchen shrieked in mortal fear. But Waxley was faster, and inspired by an overwhelming desire to protect Corabell, he leapt forward, burying his sword to the hilt in the monster's flank. He emitted a gallant cry as he did so, and felt a warrior's satisfaction as his blade bit deep.

The great badger howled and shook in pain, and Waxley abandoned his sword, rolling and leaping past the creature to grab the terrified Corabell and wrench her from death's grip, just a heartbeat before the monster slashed downward with both claws. Had Corabell still been where she was, she would have been eviscerated.

The two Warrows tumbled to the ground, out of the monster's reach, and the dire badger slashed impotently at empty air. Then, guided only by ferocity, it crashed through the doorway much too small for its girth, splintering wood and sending fragments of paneling in all directions. With a fearful howl, the badger bounded down the slope, looking for different victims to satisfy its craving for blood.

Waxley looked to Corabell, who shuddered beneath him, eyes wide in fear. "Are you all right?" he asked quickly.

"B-b-badger!" she shrieked.

He looked over her body, found no sign of blood. "You're fine," he said. He gave her a quick kiss on her trembling lips. "Forgive me, love," he said, and lurched to his feet. Swiftly, he darted back into Captain Wills' house, and his eyes spied the constable laying on the floor, saturated in his own blood. Amazingly, the Warrow was still alive. Waxley knelt beside him, a pained look on his face.

"I . . . I got him good . . . Didn't I?" sputtered the constable, blood foaming on his lips.

Waxley nodded. "You got him real good," he said.

The constable grinned as his life began to trickle away. His eyes fluttered closed. "I won't . . . kill you . . . in Valhalla . . . ." he uttered with his last breath.

Waxley squeezed his eyes shut, ground his teeth. Refueled with conviction now at the death of the constable, Waxley scampered across the floor, snatching up Riley's crossbow. He loaded it quickly as he stepped through the doorway, a grim, determined look upon his face.

"Monster," he intoned, jerking back the string. "Your time has come."

With quick, resolute steps, Waxley headed down the slope from Captain Wills' home, easily finding the dire badger as it battled the full compliment of Crawley's Crossing's constabulary. It swiped and slashed, bleeding from a host of wounds, yet its ferocity, if anything, seemed to have increased. The bellows and howls of the beast filled the air, ferocious enough to instill fear in all but the most hardened of hearts . . But not that of Waxley the Bold.

Face set in stone, Waxley approached the monster from behind, stopped thirty Warrow paces away. He raised Riley's crossbow, sighted over the bow, aimed for a weak spot on the beast's flank, just where the ribs would separate, allowing a well-placed shot to pierce a lung . . . .

The recoil of the weapon was satisfying against Waxley's guard-covered shoulder. The quarrel found its mark, and the dire badger howled in true, mortal pain. Yet, unbelievably, it still did not fall. Yet, the wounds it had received were too grievous for it to continue with the fight, and even such a feral animal as the dire badger understood this. With a menacing howl, it reared onto its rear legs, slashing blindly at the other constables. One came too close, and was slashed across the torso before the beast turned and bounded up a different slope, toward the edge of the village, moving faster than any Warrow could follow. Yet follow the constables did, with a fierce-eyed Waxley the Bold leading them.

But as they passed by the darkened structure of the village wainwright, with the badger cowering against a fence too high for it to scale or leap, their prey was once again denied them. A dark-cloaked figure, of goblin height, leapt from the shadows, its hands glowing with eldritch flame. It hurled these deadly incendiary missiles toward the constables, the nature of which shocked and stunned and halted the constables in their charge.

Waxley ducked beneath a missile of hurled flame, and stared with wide, fierce eyes at the new arrival. "It's the master!" he cried. "Shoot him!"

Even as he bellowed these words, Waxley raised Riley's crossbow, sighting quickly and aiming for the dark figure's heart. "May Riley curse you," he hissed, and fired.

The deadly bolt sped toward its target, slamming with perfect aim into the figure's chest. Yet, before Waxley's stunned eyes, the bolt merely bounced off the figure's shadowed chest, as if it had struck the trunk of a great oak.

The sound of an insane chuckle emanated from the nefarious figure as it faced Waxley directly. It made a gesture, intoned a few words which Waxley could not understand. Suddenly, the crossbow in his grip twisted upon itself, as if it had come alive and transformed into a snake. Wood creaked and snapped, and in the space of a few heartbeats, what had once been a mighty weapon was nothing more than a warped chunk of wood, such as might be found upon the shores of the Luthian Sea, utterly useless.

Waxley staggered back, stunned more from the destruction of his uncle's prized weapon than from anything else. Still, instincts prevailed, and he reached to one of the two slim-bladed knives in his boot tops, jerked it free, and hurled the weapon toward the cloaked figure. He felt a grim sense of satisfaction as this projectile bit into the flesh of the figure's dark forearm. 

The attack, however, did not keep the figure from gesturing again, and a moment later, roots and grasses in the ground rose up with a life of their own, writhing and reaching, wrapping themselves around the ankles of Warrows, keeping them from resuming their charge. A few of the more focused Warrows managed to let loose quarrels from their crossbows, which either missed their mark or thumped impotently against the figure's form, just as Waxley's shot had.




Waxley the Bold Ch. 01



"Another time, Waxley!" cried the figure in boisterous laughter, sounding all at once insidious and familiar. It raced up the hill to where the badly-wounded dire badger crouched against the palisade wall, no less menacing for its condition yet somehow more docile in the presence of its master.

Placing a hand upon the massive creature's blood-soaked hide, the figure gestured one last time. A shimmering rectangle of light formed in the air above both master and beast, and by the time it had descended to the ground, both were gone.

Wading, struggling, through the field of twisting vines and snake-like grasses, Waxley angrily trudged his way up the hill. But he knew the effort was useless; villain and monster were both long gone, transported through some magical means to a safe haven. Frustrated and angry, Waxley pounded his fists against the palisade wall, beating against the rough wood surface until his hands bled, soaking through the leather gloves he wore.

He fell against the wall, sobbing in anger, fear, and frustration. He had been so close, he felt, so close to avenging Riley's murder and stopping whatever terrible fate lay in store for his village . . . And the enemy had slipped away. The affront was too much, and as he collapsed against the wall, tears streaming down his face, he suddenly wished none of this had happened, that time could be turned back to a day when life was more simple, when death and doom were not omnipresent.

He was barely cognizant of Corabell's soft supple arms encircling him, of the softness of her breasts against his face through the material of her dress. But he clutched at her nonetheless, and there, in the embrace of Corabell, he succumbed to exhaustion, his mind slipping away to numbness. The last thing he heard, above Corabell's soothing endearments, were the orders of Captain Wills, ordering a full watch by all members of the constabulary. That, at least, gave Waxley's fogged mind some measure of reassurance, but it paled in comparison to Corabell's soft form, and the lingering, light trace of the fragrance that surrounded her and followed him into sleep.

*

He stood in a dim clearing, the moon new and invisible. Only starlight allowed Waxley to see around him, not that there was much to see. Just the omnipresent trees of the forest, and a narrow, rarely-trod path. Feeling himself drawn forward, Waxley followed the path, stumbling over exposed roots and thick underbrush. He steadied himself against the body of a great oak, found it surprisingly slick. He brought his hand away, unable to see what strange effusion clung to it. It was slick, not gummy like the sap of a tree. As he brought his hand to his face, he detected a strong, metallic aroma, like . . . .

Blood.

The forest is bleeding, he thought suddenly.

He looked back to the path, found that suddenly, the way was illuminated by the presence of a full moon. A clearing appeared before him, small and natural, with an enormous tree toward the far end. The massive roots, easily twice as thick around than the stoutest of Warrows, were exposed around the base and framed an opening like the mouth of a cave. Within that opening flickered a faint light, as if by a single candle.

Waxley stepped closer, drawn toward the light within the cave. He was nearly there when he heard an ominous growling emanate from behind him. Immediately on edge, he reached for his crossbow . . . But he was weaponless.

The growling came again, and Waxley decided to face his fate, whatever it may be. He turned slowly, coming face-to-face with the massive badger. It seemed impossibly larger now, twice his height at the shoulder. Its face was lowered to be level with his, and hot, foul breath rolled forth.

But the monster's face, somehow, seemed less feral, but at the same time, more menacing. It grinned with evil intent, the thick lips curling over sharp fangs. The eyes glowed balefully, but they were not the beady eyes of a beast, but rather, the intelligent eyes of a Warrow.

"Another time, Waxley," it hissed in a deep voice.

*

He awoke to the muffled sounds of voices far away, like the distant, unintelligible conversation at the end of a tunnel. As he swam his way back from the depths of unconsciousness, the voices became clearer, closer, more coherent.

". . . thought he was mad at first, the way he was talking. Babbling in his sleep like some damned prophet. Something peculiar about the lad, something uncommon. But if not for him, many more would have perished."

"He pushed himself too hard, far too hard. I shudder to think of what might have happened had he not finally given in."

The first voice, he recognized groggily, was Captain Wills'. The second, he realized with a smile upon his haggard face, was that of Corabell . . . sweet, sweet Corabell . . . .

"Yes? Waxley, I'm here," she said softly. Waxley felt the surface upon which he floated dip and sway, like a raft upon a river. He muttered something again, not hearing it himself, but hearing Corabell's soft, passionate reply.

"Yes, Waxley, my dearest," she whispered. "You're safe now."

Waxley drifted off again, the smile on his face fading ever so slowly. Corabell planted a soft kiss on his forehead, then his lips. With a motherly sigh, she rose, facing Captain Wills.

"He needs rest," she said firmly. "He won't be of any use to anyone until he's regained his strength."

Captain Wills frowned in frustration, pacing back and forth in the parlor of Corabell's tiny home. Like generations of Undertree women before her, Corabell had been born with an innate gift for divine magic, a gift that had saved many a life in Crawley's Crossing.

"Well, can't you just . . . Wave your hands, make him all better?" sputtered the captain.

Corabell frowned. "It is not that simple," she said. "My healing still takes time, and it has limits. I've reached them. Besides, his wounds are of the heart, not the body. I'm sorry, captain, you'll just have to wait."

Wills sighed, threw up his hands. "Fine, fine," he blustered. He headed to the door, but turned back before exiting. "You will tell me the moment he awakes," he said.

"Of course," said Corabell, forcing a smile. The smile faded the moment the door closed behind the captain. With a sigh and exasperated rolling of her eyes, she turned back to Waxley, who slumbered on her couch. Affection stretched her lips. She knelt beside him, touched his forehead, smoothed away a few thick, dark curls.

"Oh, dearest," she whispered. "I am so glad you are safe. I couldn't go on if something dire happened to you."

Waxley muttered something unintelligible, shifted on the well-worn couch. His face grimaced, as if he was dreaming of something distasteful. Corabell reached to a low table upon which sat a bowl of water and several washcloths. She wet one of them, then placed it lovingly on Waxley's forehead. Slowly, his features relaxed, his breathing became normal and steady.

Corabell kissed him tenderly once more. "Rest now, dearest," she whispered.

--to be continued--



Waxley the Bold Ch. 02



(Author's note: This story was inspired by my tabletop gaming days. If you understand what that means, then you will have no problems understanding the magical references in this tale. For the rest of you, think of this story as something close to 'Lord Of The Rings.' Warrows are like hobbits, and the rest . . . well, that is easily figured out.  

This is the second part of Waxley's story. As with the first part, this is more about adventure and romance, in a fantasy setting, and less about sex. I urge you to read Part One before going further. Otherwise, you may be at a loss. I hope you enjoy this little tale of fantasy. There may be more in the works, but I can't promise such. Waxley the Bold remains one of my favorite characters, so who knows? He may return.)

***

Waxley awoke with a start, sitting up upon the couch, eyes wide, muscles tensed. He gasped, panted deeply, the dream's effects still lingering. He looked about, unsure of, for a moment, where he was. He did not recognize the walls, the simple woodcarvings placed upon numerous tables and shelves, shaped in the form of woodland creatures. Nor did he recognize the couch upon which he lay, the quilted blue blanket that covered him, the threadbare and worn rug that covered the wooden slats of the floor.

But then, slowly, recognition did come. This was Corabell's home. Corabell, the village healer . . . Who comforted him, healed him . . . Loved him.

He swung his feet to the floor, realizing he was without his clothing. He drew the blanket across his lap self-consciously. He closed his eyes, regulated his breathing, told himself that the dream had been just that, a dream. But he felt there was more to it, something important.

He heard the rustle of fabric from behind him, a small, short gasp nearly inaudible. Waxley looked over his shoulder as Corabell stood in the doorway to her room, clad in a dress of sky-blue and earthen tones.

"You're awake!" she exclaimed softly, coming around the couch.

Waxley looked up at her, still feeling a little dazed. His body felt as if he'd had too much of Brownie Greenbottle's ale. "How long have I been asleep?" he asked.

"Most of the day," said Corabell, touching his forehead. "You've lost your fever."

Waxley looked down at his partially-exposed body. "Among other things."

She smiled sweetly. "I cleaned and oiled your leathers," she said. Her face looked grim. "Captain Wills has kept the entire village on high alert all day. The goblins you captured were put to death this morning. Captain Wills said they knew nothing except that the goblin army is nearly a hundred strong. He's called up volunteers from the young herren, made them all temporary deputies. Crawley's Crossing has its own army now."

"I doubt it will make a difference," said Waxley.

"As do I," said Corabell, sinking to her knees. Her wide blue eyes trembled. "I'm frightened, Waxley. The goblins have been sighted near the walls. It is as if they are testing us, wanting to see how many of us there are. The crossbowmen have skewered a few, but it hardly makes a difference."

"Has anyone left the village?" asked Waxley.

She shook her head. "Captain Wills has ordered the gates locked until reinforcements from Heimdall arrive . . . If ever."

"They should have been here by now," said Waxley. "I don't like this."

Corabell took a deep, shuddering breath. "I had best gather your leathers," she said, standing. "Captain Wills wanted to be informed the moment you awoke."

Waxley suddenly grabbed Corabell's slender wrist. "No," he said.

She frowned down at him. "Waxley?"

"Do not tell Captain Wills I've awakened," he said. "There's something I have to do."

She sunk to her knees again. "What is it?" she asked.

"Someplace . . . I must go," he said with a frown of confusion. "Corabell, do you know of a tree, a great, gnarled oak, in the midst of a clearing, beneath which is a . . . a cave or some sort of dwelling?"

Corabell's brow furrowed. "Why . . . Yes," she said hesitantly. "It is the home of the Deep Druid."

"The Deep Druid?"

Corabell nodded. "He is a Warrow-friend," she said. "But mysterious and powerful. Not many know of him, which is as he wants it. On occasion, we -- the healers -- come to him for assistance or advice. In fact, I contemplated going to him."

"I need to see him," said Waxley.

"What? Why?" she asked, alarmed. "And how could you know of him?"

"I'm not sure," said Waxley, standing suddenly, forgetting his lack of clothes. "But I have to go there, at once!"

Corabell stared at her young hero, eyes wide and roaming of their own volition over his lean, muscular form. Waxley suddenly looked down at his nakedness, then self-consciously clapped his hands over his groin. "Oops," he muttered.

Corabell smiled with a look that was at once mischievous and knowing. "Come here," she whispered.

Waxley frowned. "But I haven't anything on!" he exclaimed.

Corabell's eyes glittered. "I know," she said. "That is why I want you to come here."

Waxley stared at her for a long moment, understanding her intent. His gaze never leaving hers, he slowly removed his hands, remaining where he was. Arousal began to push all other feelings aside as he watched Corabell's eyes drift down, as she nibbled her bottom lip in contemplation.

"Come here," she whispered again, shifting on her knees.

Mutely, the young Warrow approached, feeling his erection grow as he neared the madchen he adored above all others. He trembled with arousal as Corabell lifted her hands and reached for him. He stopped merely a pace from her as her warm hands wrapped around his twitching shaft. He could feel her moist, hot breath upon the head of his cock.

"I want to do something for you," she whispered, gazing with adoration upon the thick length of flesh she held. The tip of Waxley's cock oozed thickly. Lovingly, she pressed her lips against it, smearing the fluid across her lips. Her tongue slipped out, tasting the clear cream. She moaned softly.

"Oh, Corabell," whispered Waxley in pleasure, bringing up his hands to caress her thick, soft hair. Reflexively, he pushed against her warm mouth, watched as her lips slid around the head of his cock.

She pulled back with an embarrassed smile, slowly squeezing and stroking his shaft. Her apologetic eyes darted up to his rapturous face. "I've never done this before," she whispered.

Waxley touched her soft cheek. "You're off to a wonderful start," he said.

Corabell grinned, and licked around the head of Waxley's cock. She squeezed and stroked, urging out more sweet, clear fluid that disappeared amid swipes of her eager tongue. "Am I?" she asked coyly.

Waxley chuckled, his eyes full of erotic wonder. "Oh, yes, my sweet Corabell. You have a natural . . . oh . . . f-flair . . . ." his words trailed off as Corabell took the smooth, shiny head of his cock into her mouth and began sucking lovingly, longingly. Her eyes closed in concentration. She moaned gently as she savored the feel and flavor of her lover's manhood.

Waxley sighed with pleasure, enjoying the realization of fantasies he had fostered for years concerning Corabell. Never had he truly expected that one day, the most beautiful and desirable of all Warrow madchen would be pleasuring him with her mouth . . . and that she would be doing it so well.

Corabell's enthusiasm grew and grew, compelling her to take her lover deeper within her mouth. She loved the way her lips stretched around his shaft, the heaviness of it upon her tongue, the slick, rubbery push of it against the roof of her mouth. There seemed to be no end to the sweet trickle of fluid that seeped from within him; not that Corabell minded at all. Indeed, she loved the flavor, and sucked hard to get as much as she could, squeezing his length in her hands to coax it all out.

"C-Corabell," Waxley gasped after a few minutes. His fingers were tangled in her thick hair, which hung about her flushed face. "You're going to end it too soon."

Corabell slid her wet, glistening mouth off his cock, smacked and licked her lips. Her watery eyes stared up into his. "I want you inside me," she whispered.

Waxley's heart leapt. "Are you sure?"

Corabell took in a deep, nervous breath, then nodded. "Yes, my dearest," she whispered, pushing up until she sat upon the edge of the couch. Her eyes wandered up and down his naked body. She trembled with desire. "I want to give myself to you."  

Waxley lowered himself to his knees before her, heart fluttering with emotion. "I want you to be sure," he said.

Corabell laughed softly, nervously, her eyes welling with tears. "Don't give me the chance to change my mind," she said.

Waxley smiled, cupped her face in his hands. "I love you," he said.

She swooned, and tears trickled from her eyes. "And I love you, my hero," she whispered in response. She murmured more words, but they were muffled as their lips met. Hungrily, she kissed him, and her hands clutched at Waxley's body, pulling him to her. Her voluptuous thighs parted as Waxley pressed himself to her.

Slowly, so as not to intimidate her, Waxley broke the kiss and eased back, sliding his hands up from her thighs, passed her diminutive waist, to the full, ample mounds beneath the bodice of Corabell's simple dress. She sighed loudly, eyes closed, face contorted in pleasure as she was touched for the first time. Her nipples stabbed aggressively through the fabric covering them and into Waxley's fingers and palms.

"Relax, my love," cooed Waxley, unlacing her bodice.

"I-I-I'm trying," Corabell responded, then giggled girlishly. Her eyes blinked open, surrounded by tears. "You must think me a silly girl, even though I am older than you."

Waxley smiled upon her as he slowly separated the material of her top, exposing her perfect, round, firm breasts. Her skin was creamy and smooth, unblemished, untouched. Against the pale backdrop, her stiff nipples were like rosebuds set upon the petals of lilies.

"I think you are the most beautiful woman in all of Gorwal," he said, then lowered his head.

"Oh! Idunn!" gasped the healer as she felt one of her nipples wrapped in warm, wet, sucking flesh. She pushed her breasts against Waxley's face, hugged his head against her bosom. Her thighs parted more; she felt the stiffness of his erection through her skirt, pressing up between her thighs. Suddenly and desperately, she wanted to feel him inside her.

Waxley sucked and licked longingly upon what, to him, had to be the most perfect breasts to ever grace a madchen. He passed back and forth, sucking, nibbling, pulling upon them, until both Corabell's nipples were thick and swollen. Even the wide, pale pink bases of her areolae had puffed out, and were glistening from his mouth.

"I want you," panted Corabell, pulling Waxley's head from her chest and forcing him to look up at her. "Please. Take me."

Waxley's heart thundered. Seductive finesse vanished; he could no longer stand the torture any more than Corabell could. Lead by his passions, he jerked on her dress, all but ripping it from her torso. Corabell undulated, twisting this way and that as she helped him. Modesty was gone as her torso was bared, then as the simple braided rope belt was undone and the skirt came down. She laughed, curling her legs back, eagerly assisting Waxley as he removed and tossed aside her clothes.

Finally as naked as he, as naked as they both had been at birth, Corabell held out her arms yearningly. She sighed as she felt the weight of his body upon hers, moaned into his mouth while they kissed. Their mouths slipped from one another's hers went to his ear as Waxley nibbled upon her neck.

"Make love to me, Waxley," she hissed passionately. "Make me a woman at last."

Waxley groaned, then pushed up on his arms, gazing down upon his lovely Corabell. He smiled rakishly. "Let me do something for you, first," he whispered, then pressed his lips to hers before making his way down her body.

Corabell moaned and squirmed in anticipation, watching with furrowed brow as her lover kissed and licked his way to her breasts, teasing her nipples with his tongue, then as he slinked lower.

"Waxley, my love, what are you . . . wh-what . . . oh, Waxley . . . ."

He grinned up at her for a moment as he straightened upon his knees, between Corabell's splayed thighs. His eyes drifted down, beholding what he could only see as the only perfect example of femininity in the world. Corabell's swollen, glistening sex was framed by thick, soft golden curls. The color of wheat upon her mound, they darkened along the puffy vulva, especially around the base of her slick, pink opening, where the sweet, fragrant fluid of her arousal had begun to trickle.

"I'm going to taste you," he declared, then lowered his head.

"Oh, Waxley! Ah!" cried Corabell, arching her back, clutching at her love's head as he pressed his mouth to her sex. She felt every questing lick and caress of his tongue, the brushing of his nose through her downy curls, the endearing, scratchy stubble of his chin against the interior of her thighs. Corabell stared up at the ceiling, her mouth slack and eyes blinking profusely. Then she grinned with unparalleled pleasure.

Oh, this is heaven, she thought, and ground against him.

Waxley devoured her with more enthusiasm, more desire, than he had ever felt with any tavern wench he had known before. With other madchen, the simple act of tasting had been a given, and one that was indulged only to slicken the way. But with Corabell, Waxley wanted more. He wanted to bring her to ultimate pleasure with just his mouth.

"Oh! Waxley! Oh! Oh! OhsweetIdunnblessedbethypath . . . Ahhh!" Corabell thrashed and bucked as her release washed through her with a force unlike any she had ever known. She shoved her virgin sex roughly against Waxley's eager mouth, gripped a fistful of his hair in one hand as the other slapped to the couch. "Uhn! Ah! Oh! Oh, Waxley!"

She finally pushed his slick face from her satisfied pussy and sagged onto the couch. Her body tingled; her thighs twitched. She trembled with aftershocks as Waxley kissed all around her damp mound, licked fluid from the insides of her thighs. Heavy eyes fluttered as they stared at the ceiling. Abruptly, she laughed.

Waxley lifted his head, wiped his mouth. He frowned in confusion at his lover's reaction. "Corabell?" he queried.

She lifted her head to look upon him with a grateful, awe-filled expression. "Oh, my love," she breathed. "That was wonderful."

Waxley grinned.

"Come up here and kiss me, my sweet," she urged, pulling on his shoulders.

Waxley obeyed eagerly, once more laying his body upon Corabell's. The head of his cock brushed the slippery folds of her sex as they kissed. Corabell mewed gently as she sucked her own essence from his lips. She gasped slightly as the tip of Waxley's staff parted her slick lips. She felt it nudge against her tight opening. The feeling was exquisite. She wanted more.

Corabell lifted her legs and locked her ankles behind the small of Waxley's back. She clutched his shoulders and stared up into his face. For a moment, anxiety was evident upon her glowing face.

Waxley recognized the look. "Tell me to stop," he said, even as he wished she would not.

Corabell breathed in and out, full breasts rising and falling. The grip of her strong thighs loosened a bit; she thought of pushing him away. But conviction filled her, and she tightened her legs about him once more.

"No," she said. "I love you, Waxley, my dearest, my champion, my hero. Among all the men in this world, it is you I want to give myself to."

Waxley smiled, touched her face. He allowed a few tears of his own to leak free as he touched and kissed Corabell's lips. "As you wish," he whispered, then pushed inside her.

Corabell sighed, then winced, then grunted as she was filled. She felt her maidenhead stretch, then break, and gasped at the sudden pain. Her virgin tunnel stretched around the thick intruder that steadily filled it. She trembled for several moments, wishing the pain away.

Slowly, as Waxley buried himself within her, watching her face, the pain subsided, replaced with pleasure, with . . . with a wonderful feeling of fullness. Corabell sighed, smiling at last, and fluttered her eyes open. She squeezed Waxley's shoulders while gazing with unabashed adoration into his face.

"I'm yours," she gasped amid a shuddering sigh.

"And I am yours," responded Waxley. Her kissed her deeply, and began sliding in and out, back and forth, relishing the tightness within Corabell's body, the spasming muscles that sucked and pulled at his cock. Never had he felt anything as inspiring as making love to Corabell.

Passionate love soon gave way to animal desire. Waxley's pace quickened, and he plunged deeper and deeper inside Corabell with each thrust. She met his movements with her own, giving herself up eagerly, relishing in the incredible and previously unknown sensations that exploded through her body. And explode they did, again and again. The slick, squeezing walls of her sex tightened about Waxley's burrowing cock with each rapturous eruption from within her. Corabell's grinning, beaming, glowing, sweaty face showed her delight with every orgasm she experienced.

Oh, now this is truly heaven!

"Corabell! Oh, Corabell!" cried Waxley, finally allowing himself his own orgasm.

"Show me!" cried his lover, heaving beneath him. "Show me!"

Waxley grunted as his orgasm began, and her jerked his slick, glistening cock from Corabell's gaping, slightly bloody pussy. Thrusting out over her taut abdomen, he felt the quickening from within, aided along by Corabell's eager hands as they squeezed and rapidly stroked his slippery shaft. Thick lances of milky cream spurted forth, onto Corabell's breasts and abdomen. A few ambitious jets made their way to her neck and chin. Corabell giggled gleefully, milking Waxley of every drop as he shuddered above her. The golden hair of her sex became matted and sticky as the last few drops fell upon them.

"Oh, my . . . Waxley!" Corabell exclaimed, then laughed sweetly. She touched her chin, wiping up a dollop of the fluid, then sucked it off her fingers. "Mmm," she moaned, then pushed herself up, doubling over to latch her mouth around the head of Waxley's dripping, oozing cock.

Waxley shuddered in intense pleasure, hissing through his teeth as Corabell's sweet mouth sucked lovingly on his sensitive cock. He held out against the sensations as long as he could, finally pulling her face up and gazing down into her eyes.

"Please . . . enough," he gasped.

Corabell giggled softly, nibbling the tip of her tongue. She was, truly, a vision of erotic loveliness at that moment, with her cherubic face framed by thick golden curls, her dimpled cheeks reddened and glowing, lush lips smeared with thick white fluid that dribbled down her chin. Slowly, she licked, then sucked her lips, getting another taste of him.

Waxley panted as he slowly returned from the pinnacle of pleasure. "Oh, my love, that was fantastic."

Corabell smiled demurely, her hands still laboriously stroking his softening shaft. She licked away a last thick dollop of semen from the tip of his cock, met his eyes. "Even moreso for me," she whispered.

***

Blessed be the strange ways of healers, thought Waxley as he emerged through a hidden, moss-covered trap door within a secluded corner of a small garden, used by the apothecary to grow various herbs and flowers. A wooden crate made the door somewhat heavy to lift, but also served to further conceal it.

Following the unexpected, yet sweet coupling with Corabell, Waxley had asked her if she knew of any secret ways to leave the village. The hidden tunnel from Corabell's basement to the garden had saved Waxley the trouble of trying to sneak through town in the late afternoon sun. Now, all he had to do was climb over the wall and follow Corabell's instructions to reach the home of the Deep Druid.




Waxley the Bold Ch. 02



The Deep Druid . . . Waxley had heard tales of this enigmatic 'forest-friend' since he was a child, and as he grew older, always thought they were invented by the parents in the village to frighten and fascinate their children. The Deep Druid was a strange, eccentric figure who lived alone in the forest. As far as anyone was concerned, he had always been there, defying time and age. The stories Waxley had heard indicated he was neither hero nor villain, but something in between. At the most, he was to be avoided and feared. At the very least, he was to be revered.

Waxley slowly and gently closed the trap door, covered it with loose grasses and replaced the crate. Satisfied it was once again well-hidden, he padded toward the rear of the garden, moving stealthily. The village wall loomed before him, partially rotted and warped in this section, yet nonetheless sturdy. He had just reached it when he heard his name called.

"Waxley!"

He froze, looked about. His friend Calo Wills stood off to the side, clad in his usual drab clothing, a piece of wood in his hand that he'd been whittling. He gave Waxley a surprised look. "Where did you come from?" he asked.

Waxley managed a smile. "Eh . . . Hidden door," he said, vaguely gesturing to the apothecary garden.

Calo shook his head with a laugh. "Always sneaking around, eh? Heard you got pretty banged up last night."

Waxley shrugged. "Corabell healed me."

"Oh, right. Taking care of her future husband and so forth," he said with some jealousy in his voice.

Waxley cocked his head, pushing down a smile as he recalled the vivid images of their coupling. "Perhaps," he said.

Calo spat. "Seems she's all but making wedding plans, in case you haven't noticed," he said.

Waxley forced a smile. "I can't think about that right now," he said.

"No, of course not," said Calo, approaching Waxley with a hard look upon his face. "You're off to be the big hero now, right? Killing dire badgers and goblins, saving the village. Hah! As if this village was worth saving."

Waxley frowned. "What's got into you?" he asked. "Crawley's Crossing is our home. Of course the village is worth saving."

"Oh, right. A village in which the Captain of the constabulary bullies every man into becoming part of a useless army against the goblin horde."

Waxley's eyes roamed over his friend. "I notice you aren't in armor," he said.

Calo grinned ruefully. "Benefits of being the Captain's son," he said. "'Course, it won't save Brandy from a goblin arrow, will it?"

Waxley shook his head. "This village won't fall," he vowed. "Not if I can help it."

"Oh? Are you going to slay a hundred goblins all by yourself?" asked Calo pointedly. "Didn't do so well against the badger, now, did you?"

Waxley's face soured. "I have to go," he said, reaching for places in the fence where the warped wood offered hand-holds.

"And where to, then?" asked Calo. "I thought you belonged at my father's side now, saving the village. Are you running off?"

Waxley stared at his friend. "Grow up, Calo," he said. "We're not children, you know."

Waxley scaled the wall with surprising quickness, reaching the top in seconds. Calo chuckled below him.

"Go on, Waxley the Bold," he called. "Go and be the hero. The rest of the village will just die like cowards!"

*

Waxley found it surprisingly easy to follow Corabell's directions through the eastern edge of Bogarty Wood. He found the stream she'd described, spanned by an arching stone bridge long ago crafted by giants. Keeping an ear sharp for sounds of any potential threat, Waxley gripped his single remaining weapon -- one of his throwing knives -- and made his way stealthily through the forest. He diverged from the path on the opposite side of the bridge, after coming upon a tree marked by an obscure carving. This tree, according to Corabell, signaled the entrance to the path that lead to the Deep Druid's home.

Waxley felt an eerie sense of recognition as he followed the path. Although it was daytime, the path looked almost exactly like the one in his dream. He moved slowly, cautiously, not wanting to alert whatever dangerous beasts and creatures that might lurk nearby. He looked about frantically, half-expecting to see blood dripping down the bark of the trees. Yet that part of his dream, at least, seemed to remain unrealized.

Eventually, after almost losing his way a number of times, he saw the clearing through the trees, and the single, massive oak that dominated it. In the light of the late afternoon, it seemed much more gargantuan and imposing than it had been in his dream, with numerous gnarled branches reaching out in all directions. Its leaves seemed massive, almost large enough for a Warrow to sit upon, and the foliage was even more dense toward the top. Anything could have been hiding among those upper branches, Waxley realized, from a predatory griffon to a deadly young dragon.

He stopped at the edge of the clearing, taking a deep, nervous breath as he saw the opening amongst the twisted, thick roots, the lone candle flame flickering within. He looked about sharply, wondering if, as in his dream, the dire badger would be there, ready to pounce upon him. But it appeared he was utterly alone, except for a curious creature that crossed before him. It resembled a brown-furred hare, only twice the size, with a single, spiraling alicorn jutting from its forehead. It regarded Waxley for a moment, then bounded off into the forest. Waxley stared after the unusual creature in surprise.

"Strange little being, isn't it?" asked a strong, yet aged, voice. Waxley looked quickly toward the great tree, found himself staring at a wizened old man, Luthit or Haelvani, he was not sure which, clad in soft, supple leathers with a tattered cloak hanging off his shoulders. He had a deeply-lined, weathered face, thick grey beard, and grandfatherly eyes. Numerous teeth and small pieces of antler hung around his neck, his wrists, the ankles of his boots. At his side, in a sheath made from the hide of some woodland animal, was a slender, curved sword nearly as long as Waxley was tall.

The figure continued: "'Tis an alicorn rabbit," he said. "Said to be the reincarnation of fae children who died young. They can be mischievous, even deadly at times."

Waxley stared. "You're--"

"The Deep Druid," said the old man. "Yes, that's me. My name is Laniron, when I care to use it. And you are Waxley the Bold. Oh, one thing: when you shoot a dragon, do not aim for its eyes. They roll back. Aim, instead, for the pit upon its snout. Much more effective a shot."

Waxley frowned. "I have no intention of hunting a dragon," he said.

"Not yet, no," said Laniron. He turned toward the tree. "Care for some tea?"

Waxley frowned. "Wait a moment," he said, nevertheless following the Deep Druid toward his home. "You knew I was coming here?"

"Didn't you?" asked Laniron.

Waxley's frown deepened. "What does that mean?"

Laniron paused as he looked up his tree. "You know, I really should do some pruning. The boughs are becoming thick, don't you think?"

Waxley sighed. "Master Druid--" he began.

"Come inside," said Laniron. "I have a gift for you."

Confusion evident upon his face, Waxley followed the druid through the entrance beneath the tree, remaining quiet. The room within the tree was tiny, even by Warrow standards. There was a simple bed, covered in the various pelts of numerous woodland animals, a small fire over which hovered a small iron kettle, and a warped and rickety-looking wardrobe. A twisted staff leaned against one wall, capped with a dull grey stone. The walls were smooth, ocher-colored, jagged and bumpy in places. A tiny hole in the roof allowed smoke from the fire to escape.

Laniron went to the wardrobe, then glanced back as Waxley entered. "Have a seat," he said. He looked the Warrow over with an appraising eye. "Hmn. Armor, yes, you have armor . . . Boots, perhaps? No, no . . . ah! A weapon! And I have just the one . . . ."

Waxley partially ignored the druid's ramblings, having decided, in an instant, that whatever the man's power, he was at the least somewhat unbalanced.

"I had a dream--" began Waxley, as he leaned against the earthen wall.

"Yes, with a giant talking badger," interrupted Laniron as he rummaged. "Quite frightening it was. And the bleeding trees . . . What did you think of that?"

Waxley stared in surprise. "Did you . . . Did you send me that vision?" he asked.

Laniron turned back with a kindly, if patronizing, smile. He held a cloth-covered bundle in his hands. "Now, before you start confusing dreams and visions, understand that they are two very different things," he said. "Visions are often direct. Dreams are less so, yet they can still provide us with much-needed clues. For instance, your dream helped you find your way here. Yet, there was no blood upon the trees, and no mammoth talking badger to greet you. You had a dream, nothing more. Here."

Laniron offered the bundle, which Waxley took with some hesitation. Whatever it was, it was light, yet seemed to be the general size and shape of . . . .

A crossbow, Waxley discovered as he drew the cloth away. Exquisite in construction, crafted of slender, strong ironwood. It was even lighter and thinner than Riley's crossbow, with a short, back-curving bow polished to an almost ebon hue. Instead of a bulky lever to fire the weapon, the crossbow had a small, curved trigger protected by a loop of brass. Waxley was surprised that the weapon fit so perfectly against his shoulder. He looked up at Laniron with surprise.

"You'll need these, as well," said the druid, handing the Warrow a small leather case containing a score of well-crafted bolts. They were of polished ebony, dark as midnight, with red-tinted feathering. The druid settled himself onto the edge of his bed.

"When I was a young man, oh . . . Seventy, eighty years ago or so, I used that crossbow to fell a dozen bandits and a manticore. Quite a weapon, it is, and capable of greater enchantments than that which have already been placed upon it."

Waxley's eyes grew wide. "It is . . . Enchanted?"

Laniron nodded with a frown. "Did you think I would give you some weapon akin to any you could purchase in your village?" he asked with annoyance. "Of course it is enchanted. It is far more accurate than any bow you have used before."

"And you're . . . Just giving it to me?"

Laniron shrugged. "Well, perhaps I have my motives. Now, go out and meet the enemy, Waxley. Have fun!" The Deep Druid waved his hand cheerily.

Waxley frowned, sputtered as he spoke. "W-wait a moment!" he exclaimed. "What's going on? I have a lot of questions."

"Of course you do," said Laniron. "You're but twenty years of age. You're quite a ways away from becoming a father and husband -- and yes, they will happen in that order. It will be some small scandal at first, but people will get used to it. Oh, and when you are captured by the Green Baron, try to hold your tongue. Otyughs can be such nasty beasts."

Waxley shook his head in frustrated confusion. "Now, hold on!" he exclaimed. "Father? Husband? Barons? What the devil are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about you," said Laniron with a simple, blank look upon his lined face. "I thought that was clear."

"I want to know about my village," said Waxley with an exasperated sigh. "What's going to happen?"

Laniron looked thoughtful for a moment. "Oh, I suppose it will either be burned to the ground, herren slain and madchen ravaged by goblins, or you will triumph, and the village will be spared."

"Well, how can I triumph? And why is it up to me?"

Laniron thought again. "Eh . . . I don't know," he said with a shrug.

Waxley glared. "You can tell me of my future, when it is so far away, yet you cannot tell me what's going to happen to my village? My family? Corabell?"

"Ah, yes!" exclaimed the Deep Druid, eyes shining. He pointed a single finger upward. "Corabell! She . . . ." His face dropped.

"Yes?" goaded Waxley, impatient.

Laniron seemed to be frozen for a moment, dry lips parted, eyes staring at the ceiling. He frowned, looking to Waxley once more. "She's the blonde one, yes?"

Waxley sighed. "Never mind."

Laniron scratched his chin. "Funny. I know there is a brown-haired lass somewhere in there . . . ."

"What about the Master?" asked Waxley.

Laniron suddenly stared at Waxley with a deadpan look. "You must slay him," he said.

"Well, I know that!" cried Waxley, pushing away from the wall. "Just tell me how!"

"Well, you point and shoot, or stab, as the case may be," said Laniron. "Do you need lessons in the use of arms?"

"No, I don't need lessons! I--" Waxley stopped with a huff, pinching his brow. He took a deep breath.

"Waxley, listen to me," said the Deep Druid. "This is the defining moment of your life. Your village stands to be raided by goblins, lead by a corrupting evil. This master you seek to slay possesses the magic of the forests; he will not be difficult to bring down. And he knows you; you must somehow surprise him, if you wish to triumph."

Waxley stared. "The 'magic of the forests?'" he asked. "He is a druid, as well?"

Laniron nodded. "And he is . . . Somehow in a position of influence, although I cannot say what. Ferret him out, expose him, and he will be weakened. Evil is greatest when it is hidden, weakest when it is confronted. Remember that."

Waxley's eyes drifted from the wizened druid, thinking. A position of influence . . . Could the master be . . .?

"Now, how about that tea?" asked Laniron with a sudden grin, reaching for the kettle. He gripped the metal handle, and while it surely must have been scalding to the touch, he seemed unaffected.

"No, I, uh, should get back to my village," said Waxley. He lifted the crossbow and nodded over it. "My thanks. I will use it well."

"I do not doubt it," said Laniron. "And remember what I said about that dragon. Go for the pit, not the eyes."

"Oh . . . Right," muttered Waxley, then left, walking slowly from the small dwelling. The sun was settling low in the sky as he emerged, barely filtering through the boughs of the trees. He judged he could make it back to the village within half an hour. With hope, Captain Wills would not have realized he was gone . . . Although, he thought, explaining the new crossbow would be difficult.

Securing the case of bolts over his right shoulder, Waxley held his new magical weapon in his left hand as he jogged from the clearing.

***

The alarm bell for the village was ringing loudly across the hills as Waxley returned to Crawley's Crossing. The young Warrow's eyes grew wide as, from his vantage point above a hilltop, he watched a mass of gibbering goblins, most upon foot but some astride snarling worgs, forge their violent way through the western gate of Crawley's Crossing. 

Interspersed among them were several large hobgoblins, swinging their massive, deadly swords, barking orders, urging their troops on. But nowhere could Waxley see the dark-cloaked Master.

Warrows upon the battlements let loose with a hail of bolts from their crossbows, or, as the enemy crashed through the gate, flung daggers, knives, and stones. But most of the impromptu army of Crawley's Crossing were ill-suited to combat such as this; this was warfare, not simply a matter of hunting a few goblins who strayed too close to the village and had to be dealt with. Waxley watched as goblins and Warrows alike fell.

Heart hammering, lungs protesting from his long jog, Waxley nevertheless pushed himself as he ran full-tilt down the hillside, reaching for a crossbow bolt as he did so. He loaded Laniron's bow with surprising ease, jerked back the line. The weapon seemed to positively hum with anticipation for the upcoming battle; perhaps, in its seven or eight decades in Laniron's closet, it had hungered for blood.

Well, blood is what you're going to get, thought Waxley grimly.

Upon the wall, Brandy fended off a goblin spear as it was thrust toward him, knocking it aside with his sword. The helmet upon his head felt cumbersome and distracting; he cast it off with a grunt, hurling it down to the worg-mounted attacker that menaced him. Goblin and wolf both snarled at him; the goblin jabbed once again with its spear, nearly stabbing into Brandy's leg.

"You'll not have me!" cried Brandy, hacking at the shaft of the spear. "You picked the wrong day to attack my home!"

The goblin hissed. "Me feast on your bones, maggot, and shite down your throat!"

Brandy winced. "Now, that's just not nice," he lamented, jumping back from a vicious thrust.

The goblin laughed, stood in the saddle of his wolf. With a howling cry, it leapt upon the battlement, stabbing clumsily with its spear. "Hah!"

"'Ere, now!" cried Brandy, stumbling back against one of his fellow volunteers, ruining the other Warrow's aim. "You just get back down there, where it's easier for me!"

The goblin cackled, waving its spear for a moment. "Nice pudgy one for Snotgrip," it hissed, licking its lips. "You feed me whole family for days!"

But as the goblin charged, it suddenly faltered, a pained expression crossing its face. It faltered, lurched toward Brandy on shaking legs. With a frightened cry, Brandy slashed at the goblin, slicing open its throat. But the goblin was already dead, pitching forward onto the battlement, a jet-black, red-feathered bolt jutting from its back.

Astounded, Brandy looked up, past the battered gate, as a single, leather-garbed figure raced across the open field between the forest and the village. Even from a distance of three hundred Warrow paces, Brandy knew who the figure was. He grinned, waved his sword in the air.

"It's Waxley!" he cried. "It's Waxley!"

Below, within the village circle, Lieutenant Alderlin fended off a trio of goblins, deflecting their blows with his buckler while stabbing back with his short, broad-bladed sword. Two goblins already lay dead about him. His ears perked when he heard Brandy's shouts.

"Rally!" he cried. "All constables, all volunteers, to me! The hero will need protection!"

A thick-bodied hobgoblin thundered upon mailed boots toward Alderlin, as a dozen leather-clad Warrows gathered around their lieutenant. Howling and snarling a vicious battlecry, the hobgoblin swung its massive sword in a broad arc before him, hacking down two unfortunate Warrows – and one goblin – who came too close. Alderlin nevertheless held his ground, shield and sword at the ready. The Warrows that flanked him set their spear butts into the ground, as they had been taught during their single day of training.

But over the great hobgoblin's shoulder, Lieutenant Alderlin spied a single figure, leaping upon the battlements of the wall just beside the ruined gate. Clad in polished black armor, crossbow in hand, grim look upon his face, the figure could have been only one person.

Alderlin grinned at the hobgoblin as it charged, swinging blindly. He raised his buckler to deflect a blow aimed for his head, took a single step back. The hobgoblin was forced to extend itself. It snarled and spat, expelling foul breath.

"Give my regards to Maglubyet, bastard!" cried Alderlin, blocking another blow.

At that moment, the hobgoblin cried out in agony, its back arched as a red-feathered ebon bolt found its home in the hobgoblin's spine. The brute's legs wavered, failed him. As it crumpled upon the blood-soaked ground, half a dozen Warrow spears impaled the hobgoblin, making it shriek one last time.

Waxley grinned at the results of his actions. Yet he knew that he alone could not win this battle. But, for better or worse, he was a symbol of inspiration for his village, and so long as he remained visible, his fellow Warrows could continue to draw their inspiration from him. And perhaps . . . Just perhaps . . . This day might end with Warrow homes standing.




Waxley the Bold Ch. 02



Waxley leapt from the battlements of the palisade wall to the roof of a nearby home, reloading his crossbow. The bulk of the fighting remained on the ground; most of the goblins bore swords and axes, not bows. They remained in relatively tight groups, some lead by a hobgoblin, others lead by a goblin sergeant. They outnumbered the Warrows two to one, yet the Warrows, thanks to the leadership of such as Alderlin and Dubil, benefited from better organization. Even as they were surrounded, the Warrow volunteers held their spears at the ready, taking advantage of their weapons' greater reach.

Waxley crouched, sighted, fired again and again, and each pull of the trigger resulted in the death of yet another hobgoblin or goblin sergeant, or at least their mortal wounding. His fellow Warrows finished off those not killed outright.

The goblin invaders soon found themselves with a marked lack of leadership, and quickly splintered as they followed their own chaotic agenda. Some barged into homes to ravage or ransack, others sought to set fire to buildings. Still others blindly charged whatever Warrow was closest, seeking immediate glory but finding, usually, only ignonimous death. And here and there, a goblin would topple to the ground, a crimson-feathered crossbow bolt lodged somewhere deep within its body.

All but two of his bolts spent, Waxley leapt to the ground, snatching up the sword of a dead goblin, and joined Lieutenant Alderlin in fending off a determined pack of goblins.

"Where's the Captain?" cried Waxley, dodging one blow and landing one of his own.

"I don't know!" growled Alderlin, running a goblin through and grinning as it twitched and howled on the end of his blade. With a vicious swipe, he crashed his buckler against the goblin's face, knocking it backward and freeing his sword. "I lost track of him when the battle started!"

"Hela's breath!" cursed Waxley. "He's the one! He's the Master!"

"What?" cried Alderlin, slashing open a convenient goblin throat. He and Waxley fought with their backs to one another. "That's daft!"

"Just trust me, Alderlin!" yelled Waxley, jabbing at a howling goblin. It stumbled back, blood spurting from beneath its armpit. Waxley finished the unfortunate attacker off with a slash across the gibberling's face. "Every time there's been an attack, where has the Captain been?"

"But -- last night! It attacked him!"

"It was in his home, yes," said Waxley. "But didn't Wills escape? And how did it get in his home, if he did not bring it there?"

"Idunn's sweet!" exclaimed Alderlin. "I cannot believe it! But why would Wills want to attack the village?"

"I do not know, yet," grunted Waxley, beating back another goblin. Beside him, Alderlin pivoted, lunged, and nearly severed the head of the goblin that threatened Waxley with a deadly thrust.

Their attackers momentarily beaten back, Waxley and Alderlin regarded each other. Six goblins lay about Alderlin's feet; three by Waxley.

"Best stick to your crossbow, lad," said Alderlin.

Waxley chuckled. "I'll find Wills," he said. "Gather the others!"

Leaving Alderlin in the village circle, Waxley charged up the hill toward Captain Wills' home. A group of goblins were busy trying to alternately slay a pair of Warrow constables and rip the bodice off a screaming Warrow madchen. With the most blood-curdling cry he could muster, Waxley hurled himself toward them, heedless of his own safety. The goblin sword flew from his hands and clattered across the ground. His attack caught two of them off-guard; one, interrupted in his attempted ravaging of the madchen, screamed shrilly as it found a constable's sword blade erupt violently through its chest. The other staggered back, swinging blindly at Waxley, yet succeeding only in catching its blade in the wooden wall of Captain Wills' home.

Bereft of weapon, Waxley attacked with the only means he had left: his fists. With surprising strength, he pummeled the goblin square in the nose, making the gibbering creature fall back and strike its head against the house. It slumped to the ground.

"My thanks," snarled Waxley, jerking the goblin's curved and jagged sword from the wall. He stepped over the comatose body, letting the two constables deal with the remaining goblins.

With a dramatic kick, Waxley crashed open the door to Wills' home, holding the goblin sword in both hands. "Wills!" he cried valiantly. "I know it is you!"

The Wills home, still in a state of disarray following the previous evening's attack by the badger, was relatively empty. Yet the open doorway to the back room revealed a glimpse of Captain Wills, laying upon the floor, blood trickling from his forehead.

Frowning in consternation, Waxley approached slowly, still holding the goblin sword in both hands. Wills lay beside a large desk; the chair lay splintered and on its side. A leather-bound journal was open on the desk. No one – or no thing – else was in the room.

"Get up, Wills," growled Waxley, nudging the captain with his foot. But Wills did not budge, although his slowly rising and falling back indicated he was still breathing, still alive. Then Waxley noticed the journal. Keeping one eye on the Captain, Waxley glanced down to the revealed page. It was the most recent entry, written by a young hand:

"I've had it. 'Tis bad enough I've had to live in father's shadow, to have him talk down upon me. Now, I have to be compared to Waxley. Why did he have to do this? He was my friend! How could he betray me like this? I could have shown him real power, the power of nature, of true vengeance and strength! Well, it is no matter. I've decided. The attack will come today. Crawley's Crossing will burn, and I'll be the King of the Goblins!"

Waxley stared, dumbfounded, at the passage. He flipped quickly to the front, already knowing what he would find. Yet there, physical proof lay in a single sentence: "Journal of Calo Wills."

Calo, thought Waxley, squeezing his eyes shut. No. How could it be you?

Gathering up the journal, Waxley stepped back out into the Wills family living room. As he did so, the two constables, both wounded yet still serviceable, looked at him with tired grins.

"They've been driven back, Waxley!" one of them gasped. "The goblins are retreating!"

Grimly, as if heedless of the constables' words, Waxley pushed past them and strode purposefully down the hill. Lieutenant Alderlin stood at the head of a circle of Warrows, perhaps thirty in number, who watched as the remaining goblin force retreated through the shattered gate. Cries of victory and elation filled the air. But Alderlin remained grim-faced, and looked to Waxley as the hero approached.

"What happened?" he asked, dreading the answer.

"I was wrong," said Waxley, holding up the journal. "It's not the Captain. It's Calo."

*

The battle had taken its toll. Nineteen Warrows had lost their lives, including three women. But nearly thrice that number in enemies had fallen, which served as some measure of satisfaction for the village. Goblin, hobgoblin, and worg bodies were dragged out of the gates and piled up near the edge of the stream and set ablaze with oil and torches. As the remaining few constables and the rest of the volunteer army worked hastily to repair the smashed western gate, and stood vigilant upon the walls, Waxley, Lieutenant Alderlin, and Captain Wills were gathered in the constables' office, the journal of Calo Wills before them.

"How long have you known?" asked Waxley, standing over the Captain.

Wills stared numbly at the journal. "He started learning from his mother when he was just seven," he said. "No one knew she followed the druidic arts, and no one – especially me – knew how dark her heart truly was. She twisted Calo, made him devious, taught him her dark magicks while bidding him to conceal his true nature from those around him."

"But . . . Emberly died, years ago," said Alderlin. "Mauled by a . . . oh, no. Wotan's fist."

Wills nodded. "Killed by the selfsame dire badger that Calo now controls. I didn't want to believe it, I wanted to think it was all coincidence, but . . . In my heart, I knew."

"Yet you told no one," said Waxley, angry.

Wills lifted his tortured face. "Who was I to tell? I am the captain of the constabulary!"

"But not the voice of the village!" said Waxley. "You should have told the burgomeister!"

"And he might have withdrawn my commission!" snapped Wills, hammering his fist upon the table.

"So you protected Calo out of selfishness," said Waxley acidly.

Wills' glaring, trembling eyes remained on Waxley for a moment longer before turning away. The truth stung in his heart.

"Where is Calo now?" asked Alderlin in a more controlled tone.

Wills shrugged. "I don't know," he said.

"I do," said Waxley, picking up his crossbow.

Both Wills and Alderlin looked after the hero as he headed for the door.

"Where is he, then?" asked Alderlin.

"At the ruins," said Waxley. "At the goblin camp."

Wills nodded, suddenly understanding. "That's where his mother was killed," he said.

"You'll need help," said Alderlin, rising. He looked down to Captain Wills, a pained expression on his face. "Sir, I hate to do this, but--"

"I know," said the Captain. He stood and jerked the badge from his best, let it clatter across the table. It came to rest upon his son's journal. He looked first to his lieutenant, then to Waxley. "I resign," he said.

"I'll, uh, need you to remain under house arrest," said Alderlin.

Wills nodded, grinding his teeth. He headed for the door, where two constables awaited him, and paused as he opened it. He gave Waxley a meaningful look.

"When it comes time," he said. "Make it quick, if you can."

Feeling somewhat admonished, Waxley nodded. Wills gripped Alderlin's arm before he was escorted back to his home by the two constables who waited out front. With a pause, he looked back, eyes shaking. "He's my son."

"He was my friend," said Waxley.

"Then I don't envy either of us," said Wills. Then he departed.

Waxley and Alderlin both remained in silence as Wills was escorted away in shame. Alderlin adjusted his belt. "We'll need to get some supplies," he said. "You need a sword, we both need some bolts."

"Are you sure you want to come along?" asked Waxley.

Alderlin grinned. "You're the hero," he said. "But I'm the Captain, now. And I've more years under my belt than you. Let's go, before those Hel-cursed gibberlings have a chance to nurse their wounds."

"Calo will be waiting," said Waxley.

Alderlin nodded. "Aye, that he will. We'd best not disappoint him."

*

Two war dogs had been saddled for Waxley and Captain Alderlin, waited for them within the village circle. They were strong, stout beasts, with thick, wrinkled beige hides and fleshy faces. They gnawed on their bits and excitedly wagged their cropped tails. They, and the villagers, were ominously silent as Waxley and Alderlin approached; the entire village had become privy to the basic circumstances of what had happened with Wills, how his son Calo had betrayed the village, how Wills had tried to cover it up.

A sense of somberness hung over the village as hero and captain climbed atop their mounts. Both were positively bristling with weapons, the best products of Modsognir steel the village could afford: shortswords at hips, knives in their boots, bolts across their backs. Alderlin polished his buckler, wiping away a last tiny spot of goblin blood.

With a furtive expression, Corabell approached Waxley's mount. She held a small, dark blue handkerchief in her hands. "I want you to wear this," she said, fighting back tears. "And I want you to bring it back." She sniffed. "It's . . . my favorite."

Waxley accepted the token, then eased over in the saddle to give Corabell a longing, deep kiss. He straightened, and she stepped back, tears trickling down her face.

Next to step forth was the village apothecary, a rotund, cherry-nosed fellow with a kindly face and small eyes. He held a small wooden case in his hand, and opened it as he offered it to Captain Alderlin. "Healing draughts," he said proudly. "Not my own making, but purchased from a Priest of Wotan in Heimdall. I figured you might be needing these."

Alderlin accepted the gift with a nod, and set the box in his lap. "My thanks," he said.

Waxley smiled at the gesture, also gave the apothecary a nod of thanks. Then he noticed members of the crowd step aside as his father approached, a stern look upon his face. He stopped beside Waxley's mount, looking up at his son.

"I won't lie to you, son," he said. "I'm none too happy about this. But your actions against the goblins . . . Well . . ." he pursed his lips, face glowing suddenly with emotion. "I'm damn proud of you, lad! Damn proud!"

Waxley smiled, reached down and gripped his father's hand. The elder Paddins shook it fiercely, eyes swelling with tears, then took a deep breath. "Never forget who you are, Waxley," he said. "And who Calo was."

"Never," promised Waxley, shaking his head.

"Hail the heroes!" someone cried. "Hail Waxley the Bold and Captain Alderlin!"

"Hail the heroes!" came the response.

With a nod to each other, Waxley and Alderlin spurred their mounts forward, riding through the rickety remains of the gate as it was opened for them. At the battlements, Brandy looked down upon his friend, as he stood proud with spear in hand. Waxley paused a moment, smiling up at his friend.

"Sad business, eh?" said Brandy.

"I wish it weren't so," responded Waxley.

"Ale's on you when you get back, right?" asked Brandy.

Waxley managed a genuine smile. "I'll buy the whole keg," he said, then followed Alderlin into the forest.

***

No one knew exactly what the ruins within Bogarty Wood once were; some claimed they were a shrine to some ancient, long-dead giant god, or perhaps a safe haven for the Races during the Age of Chaos. During the nearly three thousand years since the end of that era, the once-great structure had degenerated into a scattering of toppled stone slabs, columns overgrown with moss and vines, and a single, sunken, domed structure with only half of its roof intact. The doorway to the place was gigantic, five times the height of a Warrow; the doors themselves had long ago become rubble. Within, a great circular chamber lay, with obscured and cracked designs of some ancient arcane language upon the floor. In recesses along the wall stood statues more than ten feet tall, most of them defaced by millennia of looting and infestation by such creatures as goblins.

Within this massive chamber knelt a single figure, black cloak hanging off his shoulders, hood pulled back. He was a young Warrow, with short, thick curls framing a round, boyish face. Yet the look in his dark eyes was not one of innocence; it was one of malevolence. He gazed upon the polished skull he held in his hands, smoothing his fingers over its polished contours.

"Oh, mother," he sighed. "Why did you have to be taken from me? Why did I have to do it?"

Calo Wills closed his eyes, trying to hold back the tears. But one escaped and fell down his cheek.

"Well, they will pay," he said. "For their righteousness, their feigned superiority . . . They will pay, all of them. They will learn that there is neither good nor evil in the world, that there is only the law of nature. The brutal, final law of nature. Idunn will see to that. Through me, she shall prove it to these . . . These 'civilized' barbarians who would disturb Idunn's natural way."

For several long moments, Calo remained as he was, weeping silently, caressing the skull of his mother. Then, finally, he rose, carrying the skull with him toward the gaping doorway. Stepping out into the cool night air, he looked over the sorry remnants of his goblin army. He had never thought that his overwhelming force could be driven back, but . . . Damn that Waxley! Nearly all of his lieutenants had fallen to the hero, now using some new crossbow that was even more deadly than Riley's. Thanks to him, and to the uncommon valor of the volunteers of Crawley's Crossing's militia, all he had left were a bunch of sad, chaotic goblins, with no leaders save one.

"Shargon," said Calo, beckoning to the lone hobgoblin that remained. Now the captain of Calo's forces, Shargon responded quickly, getting to his feet at the Master's call. He towered expectantly before the figure that stood at half his height.

"I am expecting some . . . Guests tonight," said Calo in the goblin tongue. "See that they are greeted properly."

Shargon grinned. "Can we eats them?" he asked, showing cracked, yellow teeth.

Calo glared. "Bring them to me, alive," he said. Shargon's face registered disappointment. 

Calo turned away, heading back inside. He paused at the entrance. "Once I'm done," he said. "You may deal with them as you wish."

Shargon grinned again, nodded. He headed back to the goblins, visions of halfling shish-kebobs dancing in his head.

*

Waxley and Alderlin lay upon their bellies atop a grass-covered knoll, looking down upon the ruins that lay at the extreme edge of crossbow range. Even from such a distance, however, goblins could be seen moving about. The marble columns, remnants of the giants whom some said were imprisoned within the stone, looked pale blue in the waning light. Campfires burned here and there, with crude tents pitched around them. Beyond the camp, ringed by cracked and weathered columns sporting moss and vines, could be seen the massive marble dome of an ancient structure . . . a shrine of some sort to long-dead gods, or perhaps a giant king's audience hall.

Alderlin narrowed his eyes, chuckling as he caught sight of the lone hobgoblin amongst the enemy. "I know that one," he said with a grin. "His name's Shargon. If he's Calo's second-in-command now, then our work will be easier. He's a moron, more so than most of his kind."

Waxley looked to the new captain questioningly. "How do you know him?"

"Lad, I've been hunting goblins for a decade now. I've come to appreciate the value of studying the enemy. Sometimes, I'll venture through the forest, just to watch goblins and others of the Savage Races as they work and live. It can be quite entertaining sometimes."

Waxley chuckled, suddenly impressed with Alderlin. "I'm sure," he said.

"They still number almost thirty," said Alderlin. "Regardless of your accuracy, and my skill at arms, we could never defeat so many in a direct assault."

"We need to lure them out, then," said Waxley. "Or sneak in. One or the other."

"Why either one?" asked Alderlin with a sudden grin. "We could do both."

Waxley glanced to the newly-promoted Captain. "What are you thinking?"

Alderlin stared at the goblin camp. "You have stealth, I have skill," he said. "I could lure out the goblins, giving you a chance to sneak in. If you can catch Calo unawares, perhaps we can put an end to this right away."

"That's quite a chance," said Waxley.

"Aye, but chance makes glory."

Waxley glanced to Corabell's midnight-blue handkerchief, which he had strapped around his left arm. "And death," he said ominously.

"Aye, that, too," agreed Alderlin, then chuckled grimly. "No one ever said this job was easy . . . ."

*

The goblins sat about, tired yet still restless. Their failure to take the Warrow village weighed heavily upon them; the Master was not pleased. But more so than the Master's disappointment, the goblins felt their failure in the eyes of Maglubyet, the goblin god; perhaps he had cursed them to fail since they followed a Warrow betrayer, rather than one of their own.

Already, the undercurrents of dissention were beginning to grow stronger. Baleful goblin eyes would peer narrowly back toward the domed structure which their Master had claimed as his home; hushed, gibbering voices whispered of possible revolution against him. At least, he was but one Warrow, and his death, they reasoned, might very well appease all-mighty Maglubyet.




Waxley the Bold Ch. 02



But such whisperings were furtive and few; for the time being, at least, their Master remained in control. They would have to be content with sharpening their nicked and rusty swords and nursing their wounds – both to body and pride – for the time being.

Beside the chieftain's tent – now home to the only remaining hobgoblin – Shargon conferred with his remaining lieutenants, trying to figure the best way to maintain troop discipline and morale. Shargon was no leader, although he was a more than capable warrior. His rather dim and straightforward intellect was best used to figure out how better to cleave a Warrow skull in two, not muster the forces of a sorry and beaten goblin warband.

As he spoke with the three goblins who listened only peripherally, Shargon's pointed, reddish ears suddenly perked. In the next instant, one of the goblins pitched forward, crying out and sputtering as blood erupted from its mouth, a crossbow bolt jutting from its back.

"Snipers!" cried Shargon, drawing his long, curved sword. He pointed with the dull steel blade toward the forest line. "Kill them!"

The goblins cried in unison, with bellows of bloodlust and anger. They scampered to their feet, snatching up their weapons. They did not wait for Shargon's lackluster order; they charged blindly toward the edge of the clearing, eager to reclaim at least some measure of pride for their clan.

At hearing the excited cries of his warband, Calo appeared in the doorway of the cracked dome, a wide-eyed look of panic on his face. "No!" he shouted. "It's a trap!"

But his cries fell on deaf ears. Swords raised and arrows knocked, the goblins charged the forest and their unseen enemy. Only a handful remained behind, given pause by Calo's desperate words and blessed with somewhat better insight than their fellows.

"What we do, boss?" asked one of the few stragglers.

Calo sighed, grinding his teeth. "Come inside with me, and keep your arrows trained at the doorway. Shoot anything that comes in; I don't care if it is Warrow or goblin."

"Er . . . Okay, boss."

Further afield, the goblins surged toward the forest in a howling, barbaric mass. They were spurred on as they spied a figure moving in the darkness of the trees, their goblin vision allowing them to spy him as easily as during the day. Arrows were loosed, but they either went wide of their mark or thunked into the trunks of trees.

Their hopes of an easy prey soon became dashed; as they rushed toward the trees, the ground about their ill-shod feet suddenly became alive as grass, roots, and even twigs seemed to take on a life of their own, grasping at their ankles. Many tripped and fell; others shrieked and cried out in anger, pulling against the tangled mass that ensnared them.

From around a tree, Alderlin chuckled at the results of his nature magic. Although no druid, the life of a hunter and ranger had given him certain insights into the way of Idunn's world, thus providing him with a limited command of the natural sphere. At times, such as now, that command proved immensely useful.

Raising his crossbow, Alderlin fired into the frustrated mass of goblins, striking down one with an easy shot. Continuing to chuckle to himself, he leisurely reloaded his crossbow . . . .

*

Calo Wills meditated in the midst of the cracked and rubble-strewn domed shrine, peripherally looking upon ancient stone gods. He finished a muttered incantation, and all at once, his skin became as of the hide of the great oaks that filled the forest. He sighed, looked up and about at the lifeless, ancient effigies that surrounded him. He wondered what they thought of this battle; of his failures. Were they angered? Disappointed?

But more than the favor of dead gods was the favor of his dead mother that he longed to earn. Yet, within his dark and twisted heart, he suddenly realized that he was beyond hope of achieving that; her spirit, he sensed, was displeased.

"Mother," he whispered emotionally, cradling her skull in his hands. "I'm so sorry . . . ."

With an anguished cry, he suddenly rose and hurled the skull toward a far wall, where it shattered, polished bone exploding into dust. Calo lifted his face to the darkened sky overhead, revealed through the half of the dome that had long ago crumbled, and screamed. The pain in his voice was felt by even the hardened hearts of his goblin guardians, who looked back fearfully to their Master, temporarily abandoning their vigilance of the shrine's doorway.

Calo's cry stopped abruptly, however, as he beheld a single, black-garbed figure sliding down a long rope, the end of which fell beneath him to brush the floor. Flickering flames glowed from the ends of two glass vials that the figure hurled ahead of him. Calo's eyes flew open wide in surprise as he looked upon the hard-set features of his one-time friend.

"Waxley!" he breathed.

"Another time, Calo?" cried Waxley. "That time has come!"

The flaming vials landed amidst the cluster of goblin guardians, erupting into miniature bonfires as they exploded upon the ground. Goblins shrieked as their skin and patchwork armor caught fire. They howled and screamed in pain, some stumbling out through the doorway, others dropping to their knees as they were consumed.

Waxley landed upon the cracked marble floor, casting aside the rope and unslinging his crossbow. But Calo was already moving, gesturing in eldritch ways. With a hiss, he thrust his hands out, compelling the weapon in Waxley's hand to bend and turn in upon itself. Yet the enchantment upon Laniron's crossbow proved powerful; the weapon remained unchanged.

"You'll not have me a second time!" cried Waxley, bringing the crossbow to his shoulder and firing quickly. The aim of the bolt proved true, striking Cal in the left shoulder. The younger Warrow cried out, stumbled back. But he was not to be so easily defeated.

Sagging on the floor, Calo jerked the bolt from his shoulder, casting it aside. His eyes were wild with madness and anger. "You could have joined me!" he cried. "We could have ruled over this forest as gods!"

"You're mad, Calo," said Waxley, dropping the crossbow to the floor. He drew his sword and advanced. "Your dreams of conquest have ended."

Calo laughed. "Spoken like a true hero," he spat. "So what now? Go on grand adventures, like Riley? You saw how he ended up."

Waxley's eyes darkened. "You'll pay for Riley's death," he said.

Calo bobbed his head, eyes wide with lunacy. "Well, I didn't think you came here to thank me," he said. He nodded to the doorway, which still crackled with flame. The stench of burning goblin flesh filled the air. "Nice work, by the way. Quite crafty. But then, you always did think ahead, didn't you?"

Waxley pointed toward his one-time friend with the tip of his sword. "I'll give you one chance to surrender," he said. "Which is more than you deserve."

Calo's eyes rolled upward as he thought. "Well, let me think," he said, tapping bloodied fingers on his chin. "Uh . . . No."

"So be it," said Waxley.

Calo pushed himself to his feet, spoke quickly in a language Waxley did not understand. He thrust his hands out, glowing with a pale blue radiance. He grinned. "So be it!" he cried.

His statement was punctuated as a spray of numbing cold lanced forth, devouring the short distance between he and Waxley. Waxley's eyes flashed wide for a split-second, then he dove and rolled out of the way, feeling the brief intensity of the cold but was otherwise unaffected. He came up on his feet, holding his sword in a practiced move he had learned from Alderlin.

Calo seemed unimpressed. He grinned evilly, snapped his arms out, away from his sides. His hands swiftly changed, transforming from a splay of fingers into curled, sharp, talon-like claws.

With a wild cry, Calo rushed forward, the fury of his sudden assault startling Waxley. The hero raised his blade hastily, parrying one attack with a shower of sparks, but not the other. He winced as a razor-like claw slashed deeply across his chest. Waxley stumbled to the side, slashed blindly, missing Calo by inches. Cackling gleefully, Calo slashed again, this time catching Waxley across the back. Waxley cried out, stumbled, and fell to his knee. He managed to flip his sword about in his hand and stab backward, however, and felt a brief moment's satisfaction as his blade bit into Calo's leg. But the weapon was swatted from his grasp, clattering across the marble as Calo jerked away. Waxley's energy seemed to leave him. He sagged, bracing himself upon the floor, breathing heavily.

Calo chuckled, stepping around to face Waxley, his magically-clawed hands catching the flickering light of the flames.

"The hero does not always triumph," he remarked coldly. He nodded toward the doorway, indicating the world outside. "Who else was foolish enough to come with you? Brandy? That gruff soldier Alderlin? What do you think is happening to them now? My goblins are tearing them apart, feasting on their flesh as they watch with horrified eyes. How does it feel, hero? To come so far, only to fail?"

"Calo, please," gasped Waxley.

Calo cocked his head to the side. "Oh, is that pain upon your face, within your heart? You know what will happen to the village now, don't you? Every home, every structure, will burn, and no reinforcements from Heimdall will come. My pitiful father lied to you, you know; he never sent the message. He thought, in his idiocy, that he could appeal to me. By the time Heimdall realizes something is amiss, Crawley's Crossing will be nothing but a smoldering ruin . . . And Corabell, sweet, sweet Corabell . . . ."

Waxley's eyes flashed up in anger, glaring at Calo.

Calo chuckled. "I can just imagine the delights she will give me, as my concubine. Oh, she will resist at first, and I will have to take her by force. But eventually, as with all madchen, she will come to accept her fate, and will give herself willingly to me . . . until I tire of her, and feed her to my goblins."

"Please," gasped Waxley, a pained expression on his face. "I'll do anything . . . Just don't take Corabell."

Calo cackled. He stepped closer, looking down at Waxley as he stood over him. He dragged a clawed finger down Waxley's cheek, curled it beneath his chin. "Oh, you would, eh?" he asked. "Perhaps you would become my champion, my bodyguard, with your reward being Corabell as your personal slave. I will honor such a bargain, Waxley; all you must do is pledge your undying loyalty to me, to the power of unforgiving Idunn."

Waxley stared up, eyes trembling with apparent fear. Calo's claim of serving the Goddess insulted him, but he hid his umbrage. Unknown to Calo, Waxley's fingers reached slowly for the small-bladed knife in his right boot.

"Well?" asked Calo.

Waxley seemed to yield. "Very well," he said, eyes dropping for a moment. Suddenly, his eyes flashed with fierce brilliance, and he jerked the blade free, burying it a heartbeat later in Calo's chest. "Never!" he cried.

He clutched Calo close, pinning one of the Warrow's arms beneath his own, and felt the shudder as Calo's life quickly left his body. Waxley squeezed his eyes closed, hating the way Calo's body shook and trembled, the sound of his friend's death-rattle as it escaped his lips. Calo's eyes flew open wide, pain but also warmth flooding through him. His eyes rolled toward the heavens as his mouth parted in a silent scream. His limbs spasmed, then fell limp. In but a matter of seconds, it was over.

Waxley did not look at his friend's body as he let the corpse fall to the floor. He turned away, leaving his dagger buried in his friend's breast. Wounded and exhausted, he stumbled toward his crossbow, picking it up. Calo's death had not brought the battle to a close; there yet remained the goblins of the warband, and their sheer weight of numbers stood a good chance to bring him down. Yet, as he cocked and loaded Laniron's crossbow, he found comfort in that, at the least, he had fulfilled two promises: that he would save Crawley's Crossing, and that Calo's death had been swift.

Feeling his own life's blood trickling from the wounds Calo had given him, Waxley suddenly remembered the potion the apothecary had provided. He found it snug within his pouch, and with shaking hands, jerked upon the stopper. He gulped down the crystal-blue liquid, feeling within moments its healing effects. His wounds stopped bleeding, and some even closed. Though far from being fully healed, he would not yet perish.

Not until the goblins come, he thought.

The sound of a piece of rubble being kicked just beyond the doorway alerted him. He hastily cast the empty vial aside, raised the crossbow. Somewhat more alert now that pain no longer flood his senses, he held the enchanted crossbow with steady hands, a finger lightly caressing the trigger.

Come, then, you damn goblins. I'll take as many of you with me as I can.

But the figure that appeared was no goblin; Waxley emitted a sigh of glorious relief as he saw Captain Alderlin stumble through the doorway, literally coated in goblin blood, holding his sword in a heavy hand. His buckler was dented, smeared in gore, as it hung from his forearm. His face was weary, exhausted, yet upon seeing Waxley, split into a wide grin.

"Idunn's sweet," he breathed tiredly, stumbling across the room. He wrinkled his nose at the smoldering goblin bodies, glanced with satisfaction at Calo's body.

"Aye, she is," agreed Waxley, lowering the crossbow. "Are you all right?"

Alderlin regarded Waxley with the face of a thoroughly spent and exhausted Warrow. "Am I 'all' right?" he asked. "No, not exactly. But I'll live, if that's what you mean."

The captain fell roughly on his rump beside Waxley, emitting a painful grunt. "If not for the apothecary's potion, I'd be a dead halfling," he said breathlessly. He looked hopefully to Waxley.

Waxley shook his head. "Mine's gone, too," he said.

"Just as well," breathed Alderlin. "I doubt Calo went easily."

Waxley was quiet, looking, for the first time, upon the corpse of his childhood friend. "No," he said after a moment. "He did not."

"What of the badger?" asked Alderlin.

Waxley frowned. He looked about, suddenly alarmed. His eyes settled upon a darkened archway in the far wall. "The badger," he breathed. "I'd forgotten."

Alderlin let out a heavy sigh. "The battle's not over, yet," he moaned.

Groaning, the two battle-weary Warrows helped each other to their feet and trudged toward the darkened archway.

"Be on your guard, lad," said Alderlin, hefting blade and buckler. "This may not be easy."

*

With as much stealth as either could muster, the two Warrows moved cautiously down a sloping, curved passageway, Alderlin with a torch held high. The walls were rough-hewn and moist, glistening with water that seeped from limestone and fed the abundant fungi in the tunnel. The passageway, long ago carved by giants, was broad enough for both Warrows to walk abreast with arms stretched wide.

As they descended further and further down over mammoth steps, a feral smell assaulted their senses, confirming the theory that this was the dire badger's abode. It became stronger the more they descended, and was soon accompanied by the sound of heavy, labored breathing.

The passageway stopped at a broad landing. Rubble lay strewn across the floor; an archway was filled with it, denying access to deeper parts of the shrine. The tunnel had been widened by goblin sappers, transforming it into a wide, rough-hewn den for the lair's occupant. And before them, curled into a blood-soaked heap, lay the great badger, breathing slowly, laboriously.

Waxley stared at the beast in surprise; its bestial face held none of the rage and ferocity he had seen before. If anything, it looked sad, almost pathetic. Small, red-tinted eyes opened slowly, looking upon the Warrows before it with a sense of solemn acceptance. It winced in the presence of the torchlight, its eyes narrowing reflexively.

"By the gods," whispered Alderlin, even his hardened heart touched by the despicable condition of the beast. "It's--"

"Dying," finished Waxley, his crossbow held before him.

"But, why?" asked Alderlin. "Druids possess healing magic. Calo could have--"

Waxley's heart fell as he understood. "Because he knew," he said. "Because he knew it was over. For all his bold talk and madness . . . he knew."

Alderlin bravely stepped closer to the giant badger, which seemed to almost whimper at the captain's approach. "Waxley," he said. "This is no monster. It is just an animal."

"One twisted and perverted by Calo's evil," said Waxley.

Alderlin looked back to the hero. "We must," he said, needing not to say what his tone implied.

Waxley nodded, slowly lifted the crossbow to his shoulder. Despite seeing the beast before him, Waxley could not see the animal as evil. Although it had slain Riley, and had been the original target for Waxley's vengeance, the young Warrow felt nothing but pity for this creature. His finger hesitated on the trigger.

Then, as if sensing Waxley's trepidation, and understanding more than any animal ever should, the great badger painfully rolled onto its side, exposing its soft underbelly, and beyond, its heart. The foreboding red eyes seemed to soften as they stared at Waxley.

Waxley took a deep breath, eyes closed, then opened them suddenly in determination. He felt the shudder of the crossbow against his shoulder, saw the momentary wince of the beast's eyes. The deadly limbs fell to the floor. The beast took a single breath, wheezed as it was released. Finally, the badger lay silent and still, the radiance of those once-fearful eyes fading to nothingness.

With a heartfelt sigh, Waxley turned away.

*

"Think Corabell's got enough healing in her to tend to us both?" asked Alderlin as they stepped from the shrine and into the cool night air.

Waxley, despite himself, laughed softly. "By Idunn's long locks, I hope so," he said.

Alderlin chuckled as well, gave Waxley a stout slap on the shoulder. "You'll make her a fine husband, if you wish," he said, then let out a deep, exasperated breath. "Gods, I need a drink. We both do."

Waxley grimaced. "We need a bath, is what we need," he said. He slapped Alderlin's arm. "We stink."

Alderlin could only laugh.

***

Upon seeing the two bloodied heroes upon their mounts, Brandy let out a triumphant cry and rang the alarm bell for the village. Fearful at first, then with gladdened faces, the Warrows came out from their homes and from the tavern where many had been nervously biding their time. They crowded at the gate as it was swung open wide. Gasps of sympathy sounded as they beheld the sorry shapes of Waxley and Captain Alderlin, sagging in their saddles, grim looks upon their faces. Hero and captain were helped down from their sympathetically-growling mounts and supported by grateful Warrows, who were eager to do what they could to assist their saviors.

"The goblins?" asked Dubil optimistically, supporting Captain Alderlin.

"Routed, at the least," he said. "I took as many as I could. The rest fled. I don't think they'll be a threat any time soon."

"And . . . the goblin's master?" he asked tentatively.

Alderlin looked over his shoulder as Waxley walked without aid beside his friend Brandy. "The hero dealt with him," he said grimly. "Calo's dead."

Beside Brandy, Waxley was dimly aware of the tenor of Alderlin's conversation. He stared at the ground for a long time as he and Alderlin were escorted to Corabell's home. "I don't know how I can face Wills," he said. "I mean, I know he was part of this, but . . . He only wished to protect his son."

Brandy took a deep breath, let it out loudly as he stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Well, you needn't worry about that," he said portentously. 




Waxley the Bold Ch. 02



Waxley frowned at his friend.

Brandy pursed his lips distastefully. "Wills was under guard, but not within his home," he said. "He took his own life. Impaled himself upon a dagger."

Waxley sighed, shaking his head, eyes closed. "Alderlin's right," he said. "I need a drink."

*

Despite the somber circumstance regarding the victory of Waxley and Captain Alderlin over Calo and the goblins, a victory was still a victory, and Crawley's Crossing still stood. Once Corabell had used her healing magicks as much as she could upon the two men, Waxley and Alderlin headed to the tavern to join the celebration and bask in some much-deserved gratitude from the villagers. The burgomeister made Alderlin's promotion official, and recognized Waxley as the hero of the village, presenting him with a new badge, a new suit of leather armor fitted with Modsognir steel studs, and a new sense of pride. Then, of course, there was the bag of gold coins . . . .

The celebration lasted well into the night, and as the early morning hours crawled on, the villagers slowly returned to their homes. They gave Waxley and Alderlin their votes of sympathy and their thanks, and slowly, thanks to alcohol and this unabashed praise, Waxley began to feel better about himself. He reminded himself that he had not slain a friend; but an enemy who had masqueraded as one. Whatever Calo's madness, he had been a servant of evil; his death had been warranted.

Eventually, the tavern became empty, leaving only Waxley as he slowly nursed a bottle of whisky. Even Alderlin had left for home, escorted by a new pair of female 'friends' who wished to show their appreciation for his efforts in a more private fashion. Waxley had watched the man leave, a broad grin on the new captain's tired and haggard face. Alderlin muttered something about a 'dry spell coming to an end' as he was led out by the two giggling madchen.

Waxley could have followed suit, he knew; there had been an abundance of flirtations and advances from some of the other madchen in the village. But simple carnal pleasure was not on his mind; despite his realization that all he had done had been right, he still felt forlorn . . . And alone.

"Is there room for another in that bottle?" asked a soft voice over his shoulder.

Waxley turned with a start, and smiled upon seeing Corabell. She looked softly, affectionately, upon her hero, touched his shoulder with a tentative hand. Slowly, she eased onto the bench beside Waxley, staring at him with wide eyes and a flushed face.

"I would have come sooner--" she began.

Waxley cut her off with a vigorous shake of his head. His mind swam with the effects of alcohol. "'Tis best that you didn't," he said. "Luralee was dancing topless."

Corabell chuckled. "I suppose she wanted to show her appreciation in her own unique way," she said.

Waxley lifted the small glass of whisky to his lips. "Aye, well, when she wakes up tomorrow with Brandy in her bed she's bound to rethink her 'gesture of appreciation.'"

Corabell smiled. "You could just as easily have left with her," she said.

Waxley looked to Corabell with tired, bloodshot eyes. "True," he said, then moved as if to push away from the table. "Mayhap it is not too late--"

"Waxley!"

He chuckled drunkenly, stared at Corabell. Their eyes locked for a long moment. "I love you," he drawled.

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, sure, now you say it, with half a bottle of Iron City Mash in your stomach."

"Do you think," began Waxley, swaying slightly in his seat. "That you could be married to an adventurer?"

Corabell smiled sweetly, stroked his matted hair. She kissed his cheek affectionately, then drew back. "No," she said at last.

Waxley nodded, head pivoting loosely on his neck. He turned back to his drink, tapping the rim of the glass. "I didn't think so."

"Waxley," she said in a sagely tone. "You are who you are, and I would never want you to be any different. I always knew you had an adventurer's heart, that you could never stay in this village overlong. Go out into the world, have your adventures. And when you're done . . . Come back to me. I'll wait."

Waxley frowned, looked back upon her. "That's asking too much," he said. "What if you find some tanner or livery . . . Liverist . . . Livery-boy . . . Attractive? You can't just remain chaste for me, not know. . . ing when I'll come back."

Corabell moved her face closer, smiling demurely. "A madchen can stay chaste," she said. "It's you herren who can't."

"What?" asked Waxley, offended in his state of inebriation. His frown deepened. He reeled back, eyes heavy. "I . . . I won't . . . I mean, I will stay--"

Corabell placed a finger on Waxley's whisky-moist lips, shushing him. "Don't say anything that will make you a liar," she said.

Waxley drunkenly kissed Corabell's finger before she pulled it away. "You think I can't?" he asked. "Why, I have many opportunities in this village, yet, I want . . . to stay . . . pure for you," he said with a sputtering of his lips.

Corabell winced at the expulsion of alcohol from Waxley's mouth, then leaned closer, her small button nose just an inch from his. Her eyes twinkled. "Well," she said softly. "Come home with me," she said, smiling. "I have some herbs that will purge this alcohol from your system . . . And then we'll see just how 'pure' you want to be."

Waxley stared for a moment, face blank. Then the meaning of Corabell's words registered in his mind, and his eyes grew wide, blinking profusely. His mouth fell slack. "Oh," he said.

With a girlish giggle, Corabell stood, then held out her hand for her hero. Laboriously, Waxley pushed himself to his feet. He swayed noticeably.

"Whoa," he gasped. "I haven't standed . . . stood . . . since . . . since Luralee, um . . . whew! It's been a while . . . ."

Corabell laughed, a tinkling sound that echoed in Waxley's ears. "Oh, Idunn," she said, looking upward and taking a deep breath. "I do hope my magic is strong enough."

--finis--