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.