Logan crept cautiously through a night as dark as his mood. Emma’s mother had given him an earful, berating him for being out all night and barely awake when Marla needed him. It stung most because he knew it was true and yet there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it. To ignore the problem was to invite death upon them all… Besides, sleep was just as much his enemy as Marsh.

Pulling his lucky coin from his pocket, he cupped the glowing disk in his hand and used the narrow shaft of light to follow the ruts of laden wagon wheels left over from the previous night. He didn’t like it out here. The grassy mounds of The Barrows each stood to remind him not only of his loss but the fact that Emma would never rest with her kith and kin. Logan shook his head, blinking back tears, and refocused on his task.

The tracks were hard to follow, crossing constantly with older wagon trails, but he managed to trace them to a mound on the western edge. The large hill was surrounded by an oblong ring of foot-tall standing stones in the vague shape of a ship. That gave him pause. That hadn’t been the fashion for many generations, this mound was old. Probably so old that none were left that would visit it.

Pocketing the light, the stealthy hunter double-checked that he was alone in the moonlit barrow before making his way around to the eastern edge of the grave.

“Baldr’s Balls…” he hissed, cursing his luck. Newer barrows sometimes had doors, but the older graves often just had the entryway blocked off by a large slab of stone. “Of course. Wouldn’t be fun if it was easy,” Logan joked dryly. Even a cursory examination of the area revealed that while the stone had been moved recently, he was entirely incapable of replicating that feat by himself.

The cloaked Halfling grit his teeth, clenched fists shaking with rage before he kicked an errant stone and sent it bouncing along the ground. What was he supposed to do now?! He couldn’t move the stone himself. Mal had told him it wasn’t safe to hire local help if he wanted to keep his investigation a secret. Anyone he could trust enough to involve, he also cared too much for to ever do so. It would likely be another fortnight before Marsh’s goons returned here, and even if he waited he doubted there’d be any way to sneak past them and investigate what was in those crates without being spotted.

Seething, he paced back and forth. He couldn’t let it end here. He couldn’t stop now. He couldn’t… He couldn’t allow Emma and the others to have died for nothing. Fury and desperation seized him and with a cry of rage, Logan lashed out and punched the stone slab. There was a loud crack.

“FUUUUCK!!” Logan screamed, cradling his bloodied hand and what was surely a broken knuckle or two. He bit down hard, grinding his teeth and cursing his stupidity. Not like this. He couldn’t let it end like this, there HAD to be a way! As he tried to refocus his thoughts, he slowly brought his labored breathing back under control. Only when his ragged panting quieted did he hear the distant echoes from the west.

Drums. The Skethna had been camped on the eastern edge of the delta, leaving many in Njörvenn on edge; but they hadn’t attacked any more homesteads since that first night. Stepping around the burial mound, he could see the distant pinprick of firelight from their camp. A pinprick that crackled and flared into the tiniest candle flame of an idea in his mind. A mad idea.

The lizardfolk were savage, man-eaters with little concern for the morality of most other folk. However, they weren’t impossible to treat with if you had something they wanted.

If…

—

Drums rumbled through earth and air, ear and bone. A rhythmic chant of caws and warbling cries echoed in a hissing tongue. The usual campfires had been foregone in favor of a single massive bonfire, and titanic shadows danced across the wetlands. The hulking males sat or stood in small clumps, drumming, stomping; their fleshy dewlaps swaying below upturned jaws. Around the fire, the females danced. Their longer, more serpentine torsos undulated as they spun blazing torches overhead.

All eyes faced westward, toward The Stilts, where shifting dapples of crimson light passed through the canopy and reflected off the low clouds that were rolling in. The smooth, steady thrum of the music was pierced by the sharp warning cry. One of the females had paused in her spinning, pointing a clawed hand eastward. The song quickly dissolved into chaotic notes and broken rhythm as the camp jumped into action, ready for whatever threat had been spotted.

To the east, just barely within the reach of the firelight, stood a massive shaggy hound. Saddled upon its back was one of the hatchling-folk. One of the younger warriors hunkered down, tensing for a pounce and grabbing his spear. K’sak reached back with his good arm and grasped the handle of his gro’ca, letting the firelight give the knapped jasper blades an intimidatingly bloody shine.

“Wait,” he hissed, holding the stone blade outward to block the younger warrior’s path.

“Why?” Lurkit snapped, teeth bared and tail twitching. K’sak gave only a low, rumbling hiss in response. The younger warrior seemed to rethink his challenging tone and begrudgingly offered a submissive duck of the head.

“The hatchling-folk is unarmed. First, we see why it came. If it causes trouble, THEN we eat it,” the one-armed warrior explained. Striding forward, K’sak kept his eyes firmly trained on the outsider, but he heard the rustling of grass as other warriors joined him. The tiny being stopped at a respectful distance, slowly raising its hands in the air.

“Peace,” it cryptically claimed. “I gift you.”

K’sak’s head tilted to one side, and he awkwardly glanced at his brothers. They all looked as stunned and confused as he felt.

“I Peace!” the little hatchling-person repeated emphatically. “I buy gift you help. Much gift-“

“Enough.” The lighter, hissing, airy voice of the clan Druid spoke in foreign words K’sak did not comprehend. “We understand your words.” Logan blinked in surprise, having not expected that at all.

“You speak the common tongue?” he fumbled, momentarily off guard. It was evidently the wrong thing to say as the speaker growled, clearly offended. “Of course! Right!” he floundered, perfectly aware of how dangerous this was.

“My apologies. I have brought you gifts. May I dismount and retrieve them?”

The speaker muttered in low, guttural hisses, to the others, before giving Logan a tip of the chin that he took for a nod. Keeping his movements slow and steady, he slid off of Gilly and took his haversack off the saddle. Producing a hefty leather bundle, he glanced once more at the Skethna before rolling it out. Two quality deer hides, a brace of rabbits, and a handful of metal knives and hatchets he knew the lizardfolk would value highly. The clan was gathering around now, maintaining the distance but crowding together to see what was being offered.

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

The speaker snapped out arm out, bone necklace rattling as he silenced the others.

“Why?”

“Good will,” Logan explained. The lizard seemed lost, so he explained further. “I offer these gifts to show that I wish to be your ally.” The speaker mumbled a translation to his fellows as Logan spoke. “I think we have a common enemy.”

“What does it know of the enemies of the Skethna? It is a trick.” Snarled one of the larger warriors. The Druid acknowledged the question and then relayed it.

“What en-eneny do you share with the Skethna?” the lipless translator inquired with some difficulty.

“The Marsh’s.” When the Skethna only looked lost, he tried again. “The… the monster?” Logan shuddered as he realized he’d have to be more specific. “The beast with-“ he took a shaky breath. “With many mouths.” There weren’t words. Logan wanted to be clearer, to convey the unnamed horror to these people, but he didn’t know how.

“The voice stealer,” the scaled shaman affirmed. “Flesh that flowss like water.” Logan nodded emphatically.

“Yes! Yes, that!” Logan agreed, pointing towards the speaker. The lizardfolk around him glanced down at the finger, frilled crests raising in offense. Logan swiftly caught his apparent error in foreign etiquette and retracted the digit. “Sorry! Yes, that is the enemy I was referring to.”

Turning to face the others, the speaker translated for his fellows. The results were mixed, to say the least. Logan didn’t understand the hissing and spitting of several of the larger ones, but he knew a display of dominance when he saw it. The one-armed reptile, whom he’d have expected to be of lower rank in such a militaristic culture, stepped in front of the larger one and planted the tip of his fierce-looking stone weapon into the dirt, making a loud gurgling cough. After a moment, the larger of the pair ducked his head and stepped back.

“They did not v-velieve you,” the translator explained. “Now K’sak sayss you sfeak the truth. He saw your… grik’nak?” he stumbled. Luckily Logan knew that one.

“Mate,” he said numbly, then; “Wife.”

“Yesss. He sayss-“ he was interrupted by the larger lizardfolk then, who snapped a question. Logan only caught something about ‘eat’ and ‘hatchling’. The wiser reptile hissed threateningly, a spark of magic making his fangs grow and eyes shine like some aspect of a serpent. If the speaker's goal was to cow his fellows, it certainly worked. Logan took note, do NOT interrupt this man…

“Why do you seek the Skethna?” the Druid translated after a long moment, reverting to a more normal shape. Logan took a deep breath. He had to sell this. He’d heard that the lizardfolk, while potentially ruthless, erred towards the pragmatic. Of course, he’d also heard they occasionally ate people, so he was definitely taking a gamble.

“The enemy has you surrounded. They are in the west, yes, but now they also have a foothold in the east. In Njörvenn. I am trying to rout them out and weaken them so that they cannot cause more harm. But…” This was his biggest hurdle. He had to pray that his request didn’t come off as a sign of weakness and backfire. “But I am alone. We can do more against this enemy together than we could apart. And!” he cautiously opened a saddle bag, revealing glass phials of healing balms and medicinal salves, all courtesy of the late Magne. “I am willing to pay for your assistance.”

“What do you want of uss?” he hissed, seeming suspicious. Logan decided to err on the side of directness and honesty.

“The Marsh family,” he began, then clarified “the ones who summoned the… voice stealer. Well, they are hiding something in the barrows. It may have to do with their plans for Njörvenn and the Skethna. I need help to be able to reach what they are hiding, and possibly steal it so I can reveal their plans to others.”

For a long moment, while this was relayed, he was left to wonder if this was all a terrible mistake, but then the translator nodded.

“We need to discusss thiss,” he explained simply, motioning for the others to retreat a ways and convene. Logan stood awkwardly, one hand on Gilly’s saddle, and allowed his gaze to wander over the rest of the small tribe, and then beyond to the strange crimson aurora that was dancing in leafy dapples along the rolling bottoms of the low-hanging clouds. It could only be the red ghost of The Stilts, but what in the worlds could it be up to?

The shifting light faded slowly, dimming to just swirling specs of reflected light before narrowing into a single red circle, reminding him of some kind of illusory blood moon. The circle began to shrink as he watched, shadows spiraling inward to close it off. He practically jumped out of his skin when the raucous cheers of the Skethna clan erupted.

Just what the hell was happening over there?

—

The time had finally come. As much as she’d come to think of it as home, the pond was old news. It was too open and difficult to secure. Honestly, this had been a long time coming, but her recent discovery had given her the perfect idea for a new base of operations. It was time to upgrade her core room.

The jagged jasper-like core crystal had grown substantially, and unlike the dim red glow it had once emitted the huge stone now blazed with light. Liv had forgotten how ODD moving felt. Actually moving, that is. Not just shifting her spectral projection around. As Giermund stalked along, swaying gently in an asymmetric gate, Liv felt the world tilt to and fro despite her vision remaining perfectly steady.

The dungeon was on high alert. Giermund clutched the core like a protective mother holding a newborn. The mangrove’s canopy looked bulkier and shaggier than usual, the result of being ridden by every one of her shrubs. Perched and at the ready in the branches above, they scanned the night for threats. This was definitely risky, but if she was right about this then her new core room was going to be a game-changer.

After what felt like ages they finally reached the shadowed grove. The living wall represented the beginning of the most dangerous part of this journey. Giermund couldn’t fit through the dense trees here. She felt the world swing around without visibly moving, as her guardian held her core aloft for the symbiotic vines of Koosh to take over. The mangrove leaned as far inward as the opposing trees allowed, allowing the shrubs to dismount and Koosh to very gently lay the core upon a woven grass mat. About half of the shrubs took positions all around it while the other half picked up braided, fibrous ropes and began to pull.

The journey was nerve-wrackingly slow, but the vulnerability of this move meant that the utmost caution had to be observed. Winding around trunks and under roots, they bathed the formerly dark grove in bloody shades of red light while Liv wished she could still bite her nails. So it was a glorious moment of relief when the combined efforts of the various shrubs managed to roll the core through the final wedge-shaped gap and into the small clearing.

What had been a more naturally occurring space between a dense body of mangroves had been widened slightly, and had its circumference made even more absurdly dense with the addition of newly grown trees. The gap they had come through was the lone point of access and egress in what amounted to a circular fortress of living wood. But that was just the icing on the cake.

The real advantage of this space came from the pulsing forest of mushrooms. Multi-colored caps dotted the ground, the roots, some even grew out of the wood of the trees that made up the walls. And between them all ran her carefully laid out networks of invisible threads. As her little verdant denizens finished rolling her thrumming core to the space she had indicated for it to reside, all of the shrubs entered the space and raised their arms in a voiceless celebration.

“Alright lads, let’s get this show on the road!” Liv held out her arms, fingers splayed, and pushed the SP outward from her core and into the mundane mangroves. With a twirl, she lifted her hands upward and twisted them together, pulling leaf and root and limb together into a dense dome that sealed away her crimson blaze.

—

The twisted trunks of a tupelo copse jutted out of the sloping earth, like the knobby fingers of some colossal hag long buried in the muck. In the palm of this proverbial hag, a squat, soft-looking figure sat fidgeting. He hid in the shadows between the bloody shafts of light from the east, untying the laces of his oversized boots. Eyeing a sleeping caiman at the edge of a murky pond, he prepared to make his move.

Once free from the leather confines, he flexed stubby toes at the ends of lengthy feet. The round figure squatted low to the ground before slowly extending one leg sideways and shifting his weight onto the ball of his foot in a slow, fluid movement. His heels never touched the mud, giving the flabby figure an almost satyr-like bearing as he smoothly slid towards the water with a grace that shouldn’t belong to such a creature.

As he stepped into the dim red radiance, Hod held a clay jar in trembling hands.

“Ever your praises, and abundance to the lord of the wood. Ïa Shub-Niggurath.” The slow, half-swallowed prayer was barely more than a whisper. The jar opened with a moist sucking sound, and a fleshy wriggling squicked subtly between the breathy rasps of the leaves above. Hod slid back a step as a massive black slug slid into the cloudy water.

“Bless us, great fecundity,” the doughy boy continued, his thick voice shaking as he quickly slunk towards the trees. “May thy vessels burst with life.” The slug lifted its viscous, eyeless head from the water, tiny tendrils at its tip tasting the air before it lunged at the caiman. The apex reptile woke with a jolt and snapped its jaws uselessly as it tried and failed to dislodge the creature. The black mass sank itself into an unsightly bulge beneath the scales, piercing flesh like a gelatinous tick.

Soon the frenzied movements became more erratic. The spasmodic seizures of the beast caused large splashing waves in the shallow swampy water. Slowly, agonizingly, the caiman stilled. As the crimson light shifted angles, the cold-blooded predator opened eyes as black as pitch.

The shifting light reflected briefly off of the pool, illuminating Hod with long crimson shadows from below. It flowed up his flabby forehead, and high cheekbones, lending his brows a grim ridged arch. The light glimmered off of his blunt, gapped teeth, and made the cleft bisecting his upper lip look bloody and raw. His eyes looked in both directions at once and bulged with an eager anticipation that aligned itself perfectly with the shaking in his voice and the madness in his grin.

“Ïa Shub-Niggurath, the black goat of the woods with a thousand young…”