“How many have we lost now?” Zefir asked.
“Seven,” he replied. “All ours.”
Zefir winced. The last two moons had taken their toll on his crew; giant spiders had taken three in the night, another died days later from their venomous bite; two more fell during a centaur skirmish; another ate poisonous berries; the last…
“What happened to the seventh?” enquired Zefir.
“Just disappeared,” Nazeem replied. “Shambler, the rest reckon.”
Zefir swallowed. It didn’t bear thinking about. At that moment, Mal entered their tent—they’d been pitched up now for a few nights, getting their bearings and making use of the nearby stream to bathe, fish, and replenish their waterskins.
“Trouble boss,” he grunted, without apology for his unannounced entrance. “Better come quick.”
The three quickly exited, slapping the tent flap aside in haste with a dull thwack. Outside, their crew stood in shocked silence, staring at the trees around them as humanoid figures slunk from between the trunks. No, not from between, from within, Zefir noticed.
“Dryads,” Nazeem whispered with a warning. “Best do as they ask.”
“And if they ask us to leave?” Zefir asked pointedly, raising his eyebrows at his companion.
Nazeem shrugged.
“We’ll torch their trees,” Mal offered unrepentantly.
The gathered crowd of stunned gawkers split as the three commanders made their way to the front to witness the spectacle. As they neared, they felt the air thicken with the smell of pine sap and cut grass. From a towering maple nearby emerged a slender figure, far taller than the rest, surrounded by a strange aura of verdancy. Where she stepped, flowers bloomed, where she looked, vines grew. Her wreath-crowned head sported two branching antlers, and her bark-covered skin was ruptured at the breast, revealing a beating heart within. She walked along a green carpet toward them, seeming to eye each with calm detachment and curiosity.
“I am Sylvia, Mother of the Vastglen,” she proclaimed after a few moments. “I must ask your business in the forest.”
“Must you indeed?” Mal snorted in derision.
From nowhere a young dryad appeared before the gruff man, startling him. It took Mal only a second to recover, step backward, and adopt a defensive stance, hand on his dagger’s pommel.
“Shall I mulch the insolent one, mother?” the creature asked, turning its head slightly, at an uncanny angle, to address Sylvia.
She considered the question for a beat too long.
“No. I sense he means no harm to the forest,” she finally decided.
Nazeem watched the interaction intently, seemingly trying to read the intentions of each, paying particular attention to the volatile young dryad.
“We are here to replenish an elven village, Forest Mother,” Zefir intervened in deference. “We ask only for your grace in allowing us to pass through your forest unharmed. We take only what we need to survive, or what we must in self-defense. If we owe a debt at the journey’s end, we promise to pay it. If there is an oath of passage we must sweat, we promise to take it.”
Nazeem and Mal watched intently to see if Zefir’s lies would be swallowed by the ethereal presence before them. She commanded the attention of the entire crowd as she deliberated.
“There is no need for compensation nor contract, but you must leave the Vastglen,” she replied.
Zefir’s heart dropped like a felled tree in his chest.
“Yes. Of course, Forest Mother,” he replied slowly, drawing out the words. “Of course we must first decamp, collect our goods, and resupply for the trip,” he said. “That will take some time.” He gestured to Nazeem. “This is my caravan master. Do you have an estimation of how long it might take?” he asked, clearly stalling for time.
Nazeem rambled intentionally, drawing the attention of Sylvia while Zefir calculated a plan. By the time he had finished, Zefir was ready.
“We ask only that you allow us to leave via the western trail, Forest Mother, so that we might supply the elves of the West Vale on our departure.”
The Forest Mother’s eyes continued to search the faces of the intruders before her. She had come to expect deceit from those who disgraced the Vastglen with their presence, yet what they spoke rang true: the elven arbor villages in the West Vale had been ravaged by a blight that stripped the leaves from the trees and caused the boughs of the great maples to rot and fall.
Zefir had calculated well. Sylvia’s elven ancestry was clear from her features, and his gamble was a lucky one.
“Supplies for the elves,” she whispered under her breath, perhaps only to herself, though the sound echoed around the grove like a breeze through autumn leaves. “These supplies are for the elves only?”
“Yes, Forest Mother,” Zefir replied.
“And you will leave my forest as soon as they are delivered?”
“Of course. I will even endeavor to return home by means of the south road and not enter your realm again.”
“Then you may pass,” she replied, and like the sudden passing of summer, she and her entourage were gone.
“North,” Nazeem whispered in Zefir’s ear. “The hot-headed dryad’s mind betrayed it. Sylcara lies to the north.”