The Halfling

Chapter 7

Great ivory balls glittered around them, the sun seemingly lighting up those things once invisible to the eye. They pirouetted and flew to a tune that only they could hear, dancing in swift motions. Around them, more birds cooed their songs, drowning out the faint breath of the humming wind.

But this pleasant scenery was stripped quickly from their eyes. Soon, rain was pitter-pattering on the valley, hurtling small detritus at them. And a wood now erupted at front, smelling of gnawed-at trees and moss-licked brambles.

The boughs creaked as critters lunged restlessly from one to the other. Birds hollered, tired of the mellow sing-dancing. And the wind now seemed to growl at them, as though they were the hounds that then yipped at the companions.

They squinched to see whether there was a place they might sit without being utterly drenched. And though they loved the grass and the ground, the mud here was, to them, unlovable.

They trekked through the trees, at times tall and lanky, others stumpy and thick, other still like contorted men whose fingers gnarled and whose trunks bark fell off as if hair. Lichen had nipped at the bodies of the roots and worms wove here and there around them, creating a picture of stagnancy.

The boy saw an iron gaze watching him through the foliage. It was a spider, dainty as his fingers, but whose eyes rang a metallic red. He pointed his staff at it and it fell onto the ground, lifeless.

Amos raised a brow at him.

"It was creeping me out," he said. "Spiders don't stare at you the way it stared at me!"

When evening had fallen, they found the base of an oak tree which rested within a small glade to be perfect shade.

Its canopies, like an awning of green, allowed little to none of the rain to pass through, its leaves growing so abundantly that it formed a sort-of shield. Its trunk was a stout pole reminiscent of dwarven bodies save that these were larger in every way.

Only a few things seemed out of place. Around the boughs, cobwebs that were spun shimmered then disappeared. They were threads that contained dead flies ready to be devoured. Here and there, twigs hissed. A few dark, bulbous figures skittered into deep recesses.

It made the hairs on their scalps stir.

When midnight came, a smell of acridity loomed. The boy, who was the only one still awake, spun around, trying to find the source of the putrid scent.

He looked at the trees. There was something strange about them but he could not determine what exactly. So, weaving through the still-falling rain, he approached the copses and examined them.

The boy then saw what it was that had bothered him. The bark was coated with a yellowish substance which looked to be burning the wood, a sap-like something that nipped the bark off. And from it emerged a rotten smell, like burnt flesh and those grubs they served in the tavern mixed together. In fact, it rivaled the poisonous scent of the phantom's cave!

However, he was calm. Although his knuckles were white chains along the wooden pole of his staff. At least he had the gem; at least he had power. That consoled him.

Then, he heard the squeaking noise of critters rushing through the forest. And the hissing of...spiders? Here and there black figures flickered and swept, leaving the grass swaying and humming.

It called to him, that scenery of disturbance. As if it were a challenge for him to prove his might, to prove his worth to his companions by dealing with the problem all by himself.

And more than that, the gemstone shimmered, beckoning to him. It sang to him, lulled him into a sleeplessness. Voice soothing as salty summer swims, it seduced him to use it, to allow it to work itself in him, to become one with him. And if he did, it would give him power.