《Gate Marshal》 The White Stag The sky rolled down to meet the horizon like a billowing, seamless blue curtain on the great stage of the universe. Beneath it lay the spreading plains of a prehistoric seabed, rolling away in all directions as far as could be seen until it faded into the horizon and became one with the sky. Long ago the entire land had been submerged beneath the waves of a primordial sea which had once engulfed a third of North America and clove the continent in two from north to south. But now the blue waters of the sea were long gone, and in their place was instead a sea of brown grass speckled with scrubby green trees and broken up into little geometric blocks fenced off with long strands of barbed wire placed by the curious species of animal which now lived there. And dividing the land in two from north to south was the great Interstate 35 highway, a tiny filament of asphalt laid out on the face of the earth, threading it¡¯s way through the heart of the United States. A few miles away from the highway, at a place in the Texas countryside about half way between the Oklahoma border and the outer fringes of the Dallas-Fort Worth metropolitan complex, there was a gravel road. Here the persistent, gentle roar of the ceaseless stream of traffic along the great highway had long since faded away. The docile rush of cars in the wind was replaced by the feral rush of the wind in the trees which lined the gravel road. And on the road, there was but a single car. It was an older car, a Ford Explorer, its green paint chipped and faded here and there, the faux leather upholstery worn thin and torn, and the controls clunky and sticky. The driver was a man of medium height, about thirty years of age. His eyes were a steely grey color, and his deep, auburn colored hair was tied back in a long ponytail, and on his face he sported a closely cropped goatee which neatly outlined his lower jaw. He wore an olive green commando sweater over a pair of cargo pants in a speckled German camouflage pattern, and on his feet were a pair of red-brown equestrian boots. Slung over his left shoulder was a leather satchel, while on his right hip there rode an old Heckler and Koch P7M13 semi automatic pistol, the fine walnut grips dinged and dented with age and the dark finish of the metal tinged with a deep violet patina. The breeze had picked up slightly, and the sky was beginning to darken. It was the middle of the afternoon, and a moment ago the sky had been cloudless. But all of a sudden the world had become dimmer. The driver slowed to a stop and peered out the window beside him. The wind was picking up strongly now, and the treetops were beginning to quiver and shake in the untamed breeze. And beyond the treetops he could see dark columns of clouds hurtling through the sky like fleeing hosts, where before there had been naught but clear skies. The plants, too, were suddenly different. The driver wasn¡¯t much of a botanist, but it was plain even to him that the trees and plants around him had shifted, and to either side of the road there was now a dense tangle of plants not native to this part of the country. Taking a deep breath, the driver reached under the seat next to him and pulled out a compact automatic rifle, a short barreled Ruger AC-556 with faded wood furniture and a folded metal stock. The driver slipped his finger into the trigger guard for a moment and flicked off the safety, and then set the weapon down on the seat beside him well within easy reach. For somewhere along the gravel road, he had just left Texas behind. The driver returned his hands to the wheel and as he released the brakes the car began to creep down the road again, a bit more slowly this time. Up ahead there was a bend in the road, and the path ahead was obscured by trees. The car cautiously made its way around the corner, only to jerk to an abrupt stop again as the driver slammed the brakes. For there, standing in the middle of the road, was a great white Stag. It was a majestic creature, the sheen of its fur spotless and immaculate save for a few patches of ash grey about its throat and tail. It fairly glowed where it stood, and indeed there was a certain radiance to it which seemed not entirely natural as it stood motionless in the road, blocking the way. The wind had suddenly fallen still, and silence filled the air. The driver stared warily over the wheel at the Stag, and the Stag merely stared back. Gingerly, the driver put his vehicle in park, and opened the door. The Stag¡¯s ears twitched slightly as the stillness was broken by the sound of the car door, but otherwise it remained motionless. The driver reached over to retrieve the rifle beside him and then gingerly stepped out of his vehicle, cautiously switching the firing mode to full auto as he took a few steps closer to the Stag.This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. The creature was large, and as the driver approached, the size of the animal seemed almost to magnify as a faint orange glow began to emanate from the fringes of his fur and the sharp tips of his great antlers. And then, the animal spoke. ¡°Seamus Donovan!¡± The creature¡¯s voice was deep, and it resonated weirdly through the trees, echoing as though it had been spoken in some great hall of ancient stone rather than a forest. ¡°Heed my words, Seamus Donovan. The Hour of Spiders is approaching. The claws of Mreka¡¯ul are open, the ears of Ephisha are closed. Beware, Seamus Donovan! For the Spider¡¯s Eye rests upon the Harrowmath.¡± And then, the creature vanished. It was as if a great, dark passageway lined with trees had opened up behind it as the Stag turned around and walked away, fading into the distance almost immediately as the tunnel of trees itself faded in turn, leaving behind only the woodland road. The driver took a sharp breath, taking his finger away from the trigger of his weapon as he did so. The wind was beginning to pick up again, and the unnatural silence had been replaced by the gentle rustle of the trees and foliage. Tearing his eyes away form the spot where the Stag had vanished, the driver walked back to his car. Reaching inside, he plucked out a small handheld radio and flicked it on. ¡°Manticore 31 to Father.¡± The radio crackled to life as a voice responded in turn. ¡°Manticore 31, this is Father, go ahead.¡± ¡°Incident confirmed. Contact made. Large ungulate, male, color white, verbal communication. Contact has withdrawn through a fissure object.¡± ¡°Understood, Manticore 31. Withdraw to grid 43971-Mike and await further instructions.¡± The driver acknowledged and climbed back into the car, shivering a bit as he did so. Not all contacts were hostile. But all incidents were dangerous. As the driver got back into the seat and shifted to reverse, he felt a sudden sense of uneasiness. A sort of looming dread, cultivated by years of experience doing his job. There, in the bush just ahead and slightly to the right his vehicle. A moment ago he thought he¡¯d seen the bushes move, and not because of the wind. The driver felt a sudden surge of adrenaline, and grabbing his rifle he rested the forestock on his dashboard and aimed the muzzle into the bushes. And then, all hell broke loose as the glass in front of him suddenly exploded. The windshield of his car burst into pieces as from the bushes the came a barrage of automatic gunfire, peppering the front of his vehicle with bullets. The driver returned fire immediately, bracing his weapon against the dashboard with one hand and dumping almost an entire magazine into the woods in front of him as he grabbed for the radio with his other hand. ¡°Manticore 31, Mayday! Mayday! Shots fired, repeat, shots fired!¡± The driver empted the rest of his magazine as he released another round of suppressive fire into the woods and then nearly hurled himself out the door as the shooters in the woods returned fire in kind, perforating the car with another round of bullets as the driver crouched behind the rear wheel and pulled a fresh magazine from his stachel. Suddenly, from another part of the woods closer to the rear side of the car there was another short burst of gunfire. And then, the gunman himself stepped out of the woods. The gunman was a small creature, a little over four feet tall, with long pointed ears and mottled, unwholesome looking skin grown over everywhere with funguses, and in its hands it clutched a crude looking submachine gun. Seeing the driver, the creature unleashed a burst of automatic fire in his general direction, but the creature was plainly inexperienced with his weapon and most of his bullets ended up in the treetops as the muzzle of his firearm climbed uncontrollably. A fresh magazine now in his rifle, the driver fired two quick bursts at the creature, who collapsed motionless to the ground. Faintly, the driver could hear a voice talking over the radio in the car behind him, but the noise was drowned out by another burst of fire from the woods back at the front of the car. The driver unfolded his rifle¡¯s stock and peeked cautiously around the right corner of the vehicle. There in the woods was another one of the creatures, looking out from the trees trying to spot his victim. With another short burst from his rifle, he dropped the second creature in turn. The woods exploded with more gunfire, but their deceased comrade had given their position away. The driver had pretty good idea now where they were, and reaching into his satchel he pulled out an old fragmentation grenade. In a moment, he had pulled out the pin and then with a grunt he threw the explosive over his car and into the woods near where the second creature had fallen. The driver¡¯s eardrums were nearly shattered by the explosion that followed. And then, the woods were still. Spore Goblins A calm silence filled the woods, broken only but the crumble of gravel beneath the wheels of a very old Mercedes-Benz station wagon. Ahead along the gravel road there was the remains of a Ford Explorer perforated with bullet holes, its windows all but denuded of glass and half its wheels deflated. Parked beside this, in far better condition, was a Chevrolet Blazer painted in a dull olive color with a large Hello Kitty decal applied slightly haphazardly to the driver side door. Seated on the ground nearby was a man in a green commando sweater. One sleeve was rolled up, and squatting beside him was a skinny woman in her late twenties, who was gently applying a bandage to his forearm. The woman had short violet colored hair cut with an undershave and was dressed in a black tank top and pair of woodland pattern camouflage pants. Like the man beside her she wore a satchel slung over one shoulder along with a Heckler and Koch G3 battle rifle, and riding prominently on her hip there was a well worn CZ-75 pistol. The Mercedes slowed to a halt behind the other two vehicles. The driver side door popped open and a man stepped out. He was in his late 50s, and had a slightly grizzled and musty sort of air about him, with salt and pepper colored hair and a closely cropped beard. He wore heavy grey slacks with an old brown blazer, the latter of which barely concealed a large calibre Smith and Wesson Model 29 revolver. As the newcomer approached, he addressed the man in the green sweater. ¡°You alright Donovan?¡± The man in the green sweater shrugged. ¡°I caught a couple bullet fragments, but otherwise I¡¯m fine. I¡¯d be much worse if Spore Goblins could actually hit anything.¡± The young woman beside him snorted. ¡°Just stop, alright? It¡¯s not funny, you could have been killed just now.¡± ¡°Yeah, but I wasn¡¯t, which makes me happy. Ouch!¡± ¡°Just hold still, will you?¡± ¡°You did that on purpose, didn¡¯t you Willow?¡± ¡°Maybe I did. Just shutup until I finish, ok?¡± ¡°Fine. You talk to Larry, and I¡¯ll just pretend I¡¯m not here.¡± The newcomer coughed reproachfully. His name was Laurence and for some reason he had always hated it when people called him Larry, but at his age it he felt it was better to let these little things go, especially since Donovan was probably doing it on purpose. ¡°So, where are they?¡±, he asked instead. The woman named Willow jerked her head in the direction of the wood. ¡°They¡¯re all in a pile over there. Seamus and I pulled the bodies out of the woods. We¡¯re pretty sure we found all of them.¡± ¡°Did you use gloves?¡± ¡°Uh, maybe we did.¡± Laurence sighed, and stepped over to the place Willow had indicated. Piled on the road were the bodies of five small creatures lying together in a heap, each between three and five feet tall, with long pointed ears and orangish colored skin covered in green and white mold and grown all over with small mushrooms and shelf fungi. Next to the collection of corpses was a stack of primitive looking submachine guns. Stooping down with a grunt Laurence retrieved one of the weapons and examined it. The firearm was crude in every respect, clearly made mostly by hand with hardly a straight line to be found anywhere outside the bore. That being said, it appeared to be surprisingly robust and functional, with halfway decent rifling and a remarkably well made magazine (all things considered). There was no possibility that Spore Goblins could have created such a sophisticated device, not under normal circumstances at any rate. As Laurence was still peering into the breech of the weapon there was a crunch of gravel from behind and Donovan stepped up beside him, pulling the bloodied and partially tattered sleeve of his sweater back down as he did so. ¡°Well, what do you think Donovan¡±, Laurence said. Donovan shrugged. ¡°Probably just leftovers from the last bush war, most likely made in Dereth Kral before they levelled the place.¡± ¡°Most likely.¡± The two men were silent for a moment as Willow joined them, still in the process of returning a small military first aid kit to her belt. ¡°So, any word on where we are exactly?¡±, she asked. ¡°Are we on Earth or Dirigard? Our radios died not long after I got here.¡± ¡°A little of both probably. It looks like we¡¯ve got a full on bleed across both planets¡±.Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there. ¡°Well that¡¯s no good. Do the folks in Switzerland have any idea what¡¯s going on?¡± ¡°They¡¯re working it, or at least they were last time I heard from them. Radio reception has been sporadic for me as well, so my best guess is that the fissure is fluctuating pretty heavily.¡± Suddenly, there was a crackle of static from within the vehicles behind them. ¡°Speaking of radios¡±, Laurence remarked, and darted over to his car. ¡°This is Falchion 12, go ahead.¡± ¡°Falchion 12, this is Mother. Father has advised us on your situation. You are currently located in an active operational area on Delta Grid. You are being reinforced by Forest Command. Report to Grid 2153-Delta at once.¡± ¡°Understood, Mother.¡± Laurence replaced the radio. With Donovan¡¯s vehicle more or less disabled, he and Willow began clearing Donovan¡¯s equipment out of his car and loading it into hers. While they were so occupied Laurence gathered up the weapons of the dead goblins and piled them inside the vehicles. He then retrieved an old steel jerry can from his car and thoroughly doused the pile of goblin corpses with gasoline and set the whole thing alight. A few minutes later the three humans had started their remaining vehicles and drove off, leaving both the disabled Ford and the impromptu funeral pyre behind. And meanwhile, from somewhere in the distance over the treetops, there came the sound of a helicopter in flight. The gravel road didn¡¯t lead very much farther along before it began to disintegrate as the last vestiges of Earth were left behind, and the three passed fully into another world. In a few minutes the two cars were bumping and lurching their way across an open field. At a suitable point, the two cars came to a stop. Donovan stepped out of Willow¡¯s truck and took a deep breath of the evening air. Willow was right, of course. He had indeed been dangerously close to death back there. The exhilaration of such a near escape was still pumping through his veins, yet it could just as easily have gone a different way and he he wouldn¡¯t been standing here now. Back on earth it had still been daylight. But here it was dusk, with the last vestiges of sunlight spread across an amber band along the horizon while the grass beneath him waved and bent beneath the caress of the evening breeze. Life everywhere was beautiful and he was grateful that he was alive to appreciate it. A sound from behind caused Donovan to glance behind him. Willow had opened the rear gate of her truck and was rummaging around in the back. Donovan watched as she pulled out a flare gun and began to load it. The flare gun was very old and the action sticky, and as she braced her slender arms to either side of her chest to force the breech open she tossed her head back to dislodge a few stray locks of hair which had fallen across her face. It was a simple thing, but even so the motion had in it as much grace and elegance as the most regal ballet. Yes, Donovan was very grateful indeed to be alive. Donovan snapped out of his reverie as the rhythmic staccato of a helicopter filtered across the breeze. Willow had gotten the flare gun open at last and having stuffed a flare into it she raised her arm and fired. For a moment Donovan was dazzled as a bright star shot into the air, signalling their position to the approaching aircraft. As his eyes readjusted, he could just make out the shape of twin rotor CH-46 Sea Knight closing in on them fast. The sound became overwhelming as the aircraft touched down. The wheels had hardly skimmed the earth when it began to disgorge passengers. After twenty men had disembarked, the rotors surged and the helicopter lifted off again into the sky. The newcomers were a curious looking lot, exceptionally fair skinned and dressed in khaki drill uniforms with shorts that were very short indeed and looked a trifle absurd, with their long pale legs fairly glowing beneath them in the twilight. The majority of them sported long locks of blonde hair and all were laden with fighting equipment. Most carried long, rapier like FN FAL battle rifles, but there also were a couple light machine guns among them, and one of them was lugging a volatile and disturbingly old M2 flamethrower. And they were all elves. More precisely, they were Elfkin, mortals of elven kind who were descended from the ancient faerie folk. Though often referred to as elves in common parlance, the term ¡°Elfkin¡± was generally accepted by authorities on the subject as the proper name for the latter races of elfkind who came after the time of the ancients and were among the first mortal inhabitants of the fairy worlds. However formal taxonomy is boring, and most people just called them elves and let done with it. Donovan and his companion stepped forward as the newcomers approached. One of them, apparently the leader, bore a Colt Commando carbine rather than a full sized rifle, which he now slung over his shoulder out of the way as he dug into his breast pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper. He stopped a few paces away from Donovan, and the eyes of the two men met. The elf¡¯s eyes were bright green, and his ears were strongly pointed. For a moment he said nothing, and then glancing down at the sheet of paper in his hand the elf spoke. ¡°See-mus Donovan?¡± ¡°Uh, yes, although it¡¯s pronounced ¡®Shay-mus¡¯, and I usually just go by Donovan anyway.¡± ¡°I see¡±, the elf said, and glancing back down at his notes he turned to others. ¡°And I presume you are Laurence Medina and you are Willow White.¡± ¡°We are¡±, Willow replied. ¡°I see. I am Lothiar, First Spear of the 7th Glade Battalion. My orders are to secure the area and ensure that the pathways between worlds are guarded until the rift is healed.¡± ¡°Sounds good¡±, Donovan said. ¡°According to headquarters this is an active theater of operations, is it not?¡± ¡°That is correct, Seamus Donovan. As you may be aware the Forces of Dirigard are heavily engaged in suppressing the Spore Goblin menace, and there is presently a large scale operation underway to clear out a large infestation which is entrenched in this area. It is very unfortunate that a bleed between worlds should have occured in this particular place at this particular time, however with our forces already deployed in the area it is much better that it could be. My troop is here to ensure that the fighting does not spill over into Midgard (or Earth, as you might call it). You will assist us in this operation. I have your orders here.¡± ¡°Oh. Great.¡± Donovan looked to his two companions, and tried to put on what he hoped was a cavalier smile. ¡°Well folks, it looks like we¡¯ve got us some more goblins to kill.¡± Willow shook her head. ¡°Sometimes I wonder why I took this job.¡± The world had nearly faded into darkness as the elves and their human allies trooped back to the place where the gravel road began. It had shifted a bit since they had last seen it, as the rift between worlds in that place rippled invisibly through space. More troops were expected by morning, but for the night the gateway to Earth was guarded only by some twenty-three souls with rifles, while all through the woods there lurked countless terrible creatures, some of whom were gunslinging goblins. And there too, somewhere in the woods as it passed from one plane to another, was also a White Stag. Tactical Elven Operations A Gate Marshal is many things. Animal handler, investigator, policeman, firefighter, ambulance driver, public relations representative, cleanup crew. Straight up soldiering, however, was always something a bit out of the ordinary. Or at least it was supposed to be. Earth is full of its own particular conflicts, and so in turn is the world of fairies. It was the decree of the wise that the world of Man and the world of the Faerie should remain apart, and that the cancers of one world should not be spread to another. Or at least that was the theory. In practice, things tended to be a bit more complicated. Deep within the tangle of an enchanted wood, a group of small, terrible creatures covered in fungus were lurking in a clearing, fussing around a crude catapult which they were loading with a bundle of grenades lashed together to form a single, high explosive projectile. Periodically, the creatures would pause to look furtively about as the sound of heavy guns rolled over the treetops like distant thunder. Suddenly, the uneasy peace of the woods was shattered when the brush nearby exploded into twigs and splinters as a battered old Russian T-55 tank ploughed straight into the field, its coaxial machine gun ablaze as the steel behemoth peppered the woodland with bullets and flattened fleeing goblins beneath its treads. The roar of the engine and shrieks of the goblins were soon joined by the crack of rifles as elven soldiers poured into the breach behind their iron titan. In a few moments every goblin in sight had been shot, bayoneted or ploughed over, and the elven soldiers then followed their Soviet-made machine onward towards their next target. Two days of heavy fighting had seen the goblins cleared from most of the woods. They were steadily being pushed back into a small pocket of the forest where they were making their final stand against the elves. Despite their success, the elves had nonetheless suffered many casualties, and Lothiar¡¯s troop was no exception. With four of his men wounded too badly to continue, the First Spear had replaced his losses with the nearest resources he had to hand. Which is how Donovan managed to find himself in the midst of the whole mess. ¡°Volunteer¡± is one of those words which never quite means what you think it means. Likewise were words like ¡°support¡±, ¡°assist¡±, ¡°facilitate¡±, and so on. They all tend to boil down to the same thing in the end, and thus a fellow who isn¡¯t supposed to be in the front lines under fire often winds up being there in the thick of it nonetheless. Donovan peeked cautiously over the top of the fallen tree which he had been hiding behind. Up ahead, about fifty yards or so away, was the dark mouth of a cave sunk in a hollow of the ground filled with brilliant green moss. It looked peaceful and deserted, but Donovan was pretty sure it was neither of those things. Donovan turned to the elf soldier who was crouching beside him. ¡°Are we really sure this is the center of the contagion?¡±, he asked. ¡°That is what the March Wizards say¡±, the elf replied. ¡°Why do you question their word?¡± ¡°I dunno, I just figured we¡¯d want to be sure before we walked into a cave full of crazy goblins.¡± ¡°It would have to be cleared anyway.¡± ¡°Yeah, but then we could just clear it with some napalm.¡± ¡°The March Wizards want to take the cave with the pupae intact.¡± "I know they do. I¡¯d just rather take it with us intact.¡± ¡°Shhh!¡± The elf held his fingers to his lips and then pointed back at the cave entrance. There, ambling around in the gloom, was a goblin. The elf raised his rifle and was peering down the sights at the creature when Donovan laid his hand on the weapon. ¡°Hang on a second¡±, he whispered. The elf looked up and met his eye. ¡°What are you thinking, human?¡± ¡°I dunno, I was just thinking I had an idea.¡± The elf cocked an eyebrow. ¡°Are you thinking what I think you¡¯re thinking?¡± ¡°Maybe. Wanna give it a try?¡± The elf looked back at the goblin and smirked slightly. ¡°Why not?¡±, he replied. A few minutes later, the silence of the woods was broken momentarily by a muffled squawk and a scrabble, followed again by silence. And the goblin at the cave entrance was no longer there. For now he was being detained in the woods, bundled up nicely with paracord. When this was all over they¡¯d at least have one goblin still alive whom they could have a chat with, which likely couldn¡¯t be said of the remaining goblins inside the cave. Donovan crept stealthily back towards the cave entrance, a flashlight taped awkwardly onto the forestock of his old rifle. Beside him were several elves, their own weapons similarly prepared. It was time to make the push. The men were lined up on either side of the cave entrance. Lothiar himself took point on one side, and Donovan took the other. Inside the cave, Donovan almost thought he could hear the quiet gibbering of goblin speech. Lothiar had plucked a fragmentation grenade from his webbing. With a tense look on his face, the elf pulled out the pin and swiftly chucked the grenade inside the cave. For a moment the inside of the cave lit up like a sunburst as the grenade exploded with an ear splitting bang. Immediately the elven troops poured inside, guns blazing. In a few terrible moments, it was all over. About a mile away, there was a stretch of road through the woods, newly ploughed by bulldozers driven by elven combat engineers. A mix of assorted vehicles were parked alongside, old landrovers, one or two flatbed humvees in dark green, and a seventy year old M43 ambulance. Coming swiftly down the road was an M151 jeep painted in mottled camouflage. The driver was going fast and the vehicle swerved slightly before it pulled to up to an abrupt stop beside the other parked vehicles. Seated in the back was a man with long but thin platinum colored beard. His skin was pale, and his eyes were dark violet, and upon each hand he bore no less than six fingers. A voluminous camouflage poncho was draped over his body, and on his head was a very tall pointed hat with a broad brim, which largely concealed his long pointed ears. He sat erect with his hands folded in his lap and his features set like stone, and he remained unperturbed for the whole of his wild drive, his body only swaying slightly as the vehicle came to a stop. Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. As the jeep came to a halt, an elf soldier in the front seat leapt out and proffered his assistance as the man in the back seat arose with a regal bearing. As he descended, the soldier beside him reached into the bed of the vehicle and produced a great wooden staff inlaid with little bits of silver and turquoise and topped with a carved head resembling some terrible dragon-like creature, which he presented to its owner who seized it in a determined grasp. In the meantime, several other soldiers had gathered from around the parked convoy and now stood at attention. For a March Wizard had just come on the scene. Two elven officers now approached, and bowed deeply before the wizard. After a brief consultation, a detachment of soldiers were gathered and together with the wizard headed off into the woods on foot. Far into the woods, Donovan leaned against one side of the cave entrance, and dug an antique pipe and a pouch of tobacco out of his satchel. Clearing the cave hadn¡¯t been as bad as he¡¯d feared. As he puffed calmly on his pipe he drank in the beauty of place around him. As the sunlight pierced through the gloom the brilliant green of the moss covered walls shone like a cavern of emeralds, while small droplets of water falling down from the ceiling was the only sound to be heard. Only a short while ago this place had been a death chamber. Thankfully neither he nor any of his comrades had been the ones doing the dying. As for the Spore Goblins, well death didn¡¯t quite hold the same significance for them. Which was precisely the problem. From outside in the woods the stillness was broken by the noise of approaching men. Donovan looked out to see a squad of elven soldiers tramping their way through the brush, and in their midst was a bearded man in a tall pointed hat, striding determinedly with a great staff in his hand and a large camouflage poncho billowing around him like a maestro¡¯s robes. Apparently, his brief moment of peace was already over. Donovan shook out his pipe as the party came to a stop at the cave entrance. Or rather, as most of the party came to a stop, for the man in the tall hat kept going until he was practically nose to nose with Donovan. The newcomer regarded him critically for a moment, and his violet eyes rested heavily on Donovan¡¯s round human ears. There were those among the elfkin who intensely disliked humans, and Donovan was left with the distinct impression that this violet eyed, six fingered character was one of them. At last the newcomer spoke. ¡°I am Ixiar. Who is in charge here?¡± Donovan pointed back inside the cave with his pipe. ¡°That would First Spear Lothiar. He¡¯s just inside, wanna talk to him?¡± The elfkin grunted, but said nothing and merely pushed past Donovan into the cave. With a sigh, Donovan put away his pipe and followed. At the back of the cave there was a large room where the elves had laid out a number of very bright lamps. The place was completely grown over with moss, mushrooms, and many layers of assorted fungi. And most importantly, there were the puffballs. There were dozens upon dozens of them, large, globular, dirty white funguses piled on top of each other like so many warts, and every now again one of them would release a puff of spores into the air. Donovan had seen a lot of these rotten things over the last few days, but this was by far the biggest bunch yet. Ixiar came to a halt as he entered the room and snorted with a grim satisfaction. ¡°So here it is, exactly as foreseen.¡± Lothiar stepped up and bowed. ¡°There are also a few other rooms in the cave which are similarly contaminated, my lord, but this is the largest concentration.¡± ¡°I see.¡± Ixiar turned to one of his soldiers and casually extended one hand. ¡°Hand me a pulaish!¡± The soldier dutifully drew a broad, machete-like weapon from his belt and handed it respectfully to his superior. The wizard¡¯s eyes narrowed and he bit slightly into his moustache for a moment as he looked critically at the giant puffballs. Then, with a swift, tiger-like motion, he swept the machete across one of them, creating an almost surgical incision which ran from top to bottom. Handing the blade back to one of the soldiers, he then aggressively pried both halves apart. Inside, curled up like a fetus, there was a goblin. It was surprisingly clean, hardly any mold or fungus to be seen on it yet, and there was a sort of peace about it where it lay inside its fungal cocoon. Soon it would be full grown, at which time it would wake up and claw its way out of the puffball. Spore Goblins were so named because everywhere they went they released fungal spores, a certain percentage of which would inevitably grow into puffballs, which would in turn produce more goblins and begin the lifecycle of the creature again. If allowed to persist, the goblins would ultimately spread their spores everywhere and theoretically might consume everything else on the planet. ¡°Hmmm¡±, Ixiar mused to himself, ¡°this one is extraordinarily well developed. This infestation has grown rapidly, and having seen this example I can¡¯t say I¡¯m surprised.¡± Ixiar now turned towards Lothiar. ¡°Burn everything immediately.¡± ¡°Yes my lord. We do have a prisoner, however.¡± ¡°What! Why didn¡¯t you say so before? Take me to it at once!¡± Donovan followed along as Lothiar led the way back outside the cave, while behind them a number of elf soldiers began to thread their way through the cave with a flamethrower, burning everything as they went. A little way into the wood, their prisoner was being detained under guard, tied up where he had been deposited previously. Donovan gazed at the goblin. The goblin gazed back, his eyes twitching slightly and not entirely focused. It was generally considered that most Spore Goblins were slightly insane, which was a product of possessing only a fragment of a mind. According to those who knew about such matters, each colony of Spore Goblins possessed but a single soul, which was broken up into fragments and scattered about its members to create a sort of disjointed hive mind. If the whole colony was not wiped out completely (which was very often the case), that same mind would simply reemerge in the next generation of goblins, growing stronger each time. It was believed that Spore Goblins first came into being when demonic spirits filtered through the rifts in the astral planes and infected other living creatures to create a kind of magical parasitic organism. In this case, the demonic spirits made their abode first in fungal spores, which then infected ordinary goblins to create the sort of creature which was now staring at Donovan with a maniacal gaze, drooling slightly. Ixiar now coughed loudly, and fixed the goblin with a withering stare. The goblin merely replied with a giggle. ¡°Well?¡±, Ixiar demanded. ¡°Speak! Who are you? I command you to reveal your name.¡± The goblin giggled again. Ixiar took a deep breath and brandished his staff menacingly. ¡°Don¡¯t toy with me, goblin. I command you to speak! Who are you?¡± The goblin giggled a third time, and then spoke at last in a squeaky, high pitched voice. ¡°I am legion!¡±, he cried. Ixiar sighed with exasperation, and appeared slightly deflated. A great many spore goblins answered to that name, which seemed to serve as a kind of default identity where there was no other. In all probability, the goblin host didn¡¯t actually know the proper name of the infernal spirit which inhabited him. Stooping over, Ixiar retrieved a crude submachine gun from a pile of similar weapons which the elven soldiers had retrieved from the cave. ¡°These weapons. Where did you get them? Speak! And stop giggling.¡± The goblin stopped giggling, and grinned. ¡°Found it¡±, he replied. ¡°Where did you find it?¡± ¡°In a box with our name on it.¡± ¡°And what name was on the box?¡± ¡°Legion!¡± Ixiar sighed again, and drove his staff into the ground angrily. ¡°Useless creature!¡± ¡°There were a lot of weapon caches left over from the last bush war, my lord¡±, Lothiar interjected, ¡°At that time the forces of Dereth Kral dispersed enormous numbers of arms to the goblins. Perhaps this colony discovered a large stockpile of them.¡± ¡°Perhaps¡±, Ixiar replied. He then returned his attention to back to the goblin. ¡°Where did you find this box?¡± ¡°Don¡¯t remember¡±, the goblin chuckled, ¡°I am legion!¡± ¡°Speak! I command you to remember!¡± ¡°I am legion!¡±, the goblin shrieked again, and broke out in a fit of maniacal laughter. Ixiar uttered a loud groan, and reaching beneath his poncho he pulled out a snub-nosed Colt revolver and shot the goblin dead. Further out into the woods, the last few goblins of the colony were dug in, surrounded by the elven forces who now laid out mortars and began to bombard their position into annihilation. Soon heavier artillery was brought to bear. In a few more hours, it was all over, and the last vestiges of the infestation had been wiped out. Or so everyone hoped.