Once his sleeping area was set up, Tryle got up to rummage through his bag for a stick of fox jerky. As he did so, a twinkle of light between the trees caught his eye.

A misty, blue twilight had fallen upon the forest. The trees lost their solidity, their trunks etched in blurry lines. In the hazy dimness, there was a familiar greenish glow reflecting off the leaves.

Taking his one and only glowstone from his pack, Tryle climbed over the lip of the clearings’ shallow embankment and padded along the forest floor.

The soft, yellow light from the oval-shaped rock played shadows across Tryle’s face as he wended his way through the foggy panorama of birch and yew trees. Every footstep that cracked a twig or rasped against fallen leaves was loud against the muffled hush of the forest.

He’d walked a short distance away from the encampment, and the source of the ethereal glow slowly came into view. Nestled in the root wells of a tree lay a dwarfish cluster of earthen buildings, like a miniature medieval town.

An emerald halo hung over the little structures. Streets paved with packed soil and pebbles ran between little houses and tiny shops, the smallest the size of a matchbox, the largest as big as dollhouses.

An impressive-looking castle overlooked it all at the base of the tree trunk, made out of glittering quartz and smooth bark doors carved with expert precision. Fireflies danced between the moss-covered turrets, illuminating more delicate-looking walkways encircling the tree trunk and leading into holes cut within the hollow wood.

Tiny motes of light moved busily throughout. Kneeling down, Tryle saw they were actually little elfin figures in leafy tunics, giving off the same ethereal glow as the buildings, only their light was yellow instead of green. Gossamer wings veined with shamrock lines fluttered on their backs.

Tryle sat and marveled at his good fortune. Fairy dust, especially from that of Tudor Fairies, was a useful commodity in Tryle’s line of work, and hard to obtain naturally if you didn’t know how to deal with its suppliers.

Most of the fairies ignored him and went about their business, but a few looked up and pointed upwards at the long-nosed, pointy-eared giant looming over them. Seconds later, a winged detachment of the fairies launched from the castle grounds and flew directly at Tryle’s face, diminutive faces clouded with suspicion and pointed spears at the ready.

Tryle quickly held up both hands and formed the fairy sign of peace, interlocking his index fingers and touching the tips of his thumbs together at the same time. Like most creatures, he couldn’t speak their verbal language, but there was a universal vocabulary developed among all the fairy families specifically to deal with larger beings like himself.

The squadron of fairies halted in mid-air. Their leader, an aqua-haired male about five inches tall and swathed in a maple-leaf cloak, signaled back the reciprocal sign of greeting. Then they were off to the races; he and Tryle exchanged a flurry of hand signs.

Do you have any dust to spare?

We do, but what will you be using it for?

Scientific purposes. I seek the dust for its size-changing properties.

The fairy looked confused. Are you a magician?

Not really. Just a traveler. I’m trying to research magic, however. Among other things.

Where do you hail from?

My village northwest of here. A day’s march.

The fairy thought for a moment. Then he signed: Stay here and we will bring the powder.

He and his squadron flew back to their castle. As Tryle waited, he searched his pockets for anything he could give in return. Tudor fairies were known for their largess, but it never hurt to repay that generosity with some gesture of courtesy. From what he’d read, fairy communities in shared environments were more interconnected than what had been understood in the past.

“Of course you’d be out here.”

Tryle turned. Gumbo was standing a short distance behind him. His arms crossed, biceps bulging. A posture meant to be intimidating, if one were in the mood to be so. Tryle was not. He returned to watching the Tudor fairies flicker and flit about their town.

“Is something wrong, Gumbo?”

“I dunno. Why don’cha tell me what you’re doin’ out here?”

“I’m doing some general resource-gathering.”

“What resources?”

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“Fairy dust.”

Gumbo eyed him closely, then burst out into laughter. “You’re sittin’ out here in the dark of night — outside village territory, where a buncha bears and wolves and shadow wraiths would jump at the first chance to snack on you — for earth-grubbin’ fairy dust?”

“Mm-hm.”

Over Gumbo’s peals of braying laughter, Tryle spotted the lead guard fairy flying back up from his little castle bearing a thimble-sized sack. Tryle pinched the sack between his fingers and tucked it away. He signed: Thank you, I will put this to good use. Please accept this piece of fox jerky as a sign of my gratitude.

The fairy accepted the sliver of meat with a small bow, handing it off to one of his subordinates. He glanced over at Gumbo, and signed back: Who is your friend?

Another member of my village. Not my friend.

“You’re a nutcase, Bodkin. You know that? Scroungin’ around for fairy dust — what a moron.”

Tryle signed to the fairy: I will depart now. Thank you, again.

He stood up and began to walk back in the direction of the encampment. “I appreciate the feedback, Gumbo, but since you’ve also followed me in my ‘moron’ footsteps, we should both get back to the party.”

Gumbo moved to block his way. He stood a full head taller than Tryle, and his meat-smoky breath blew Tryle’s charcoal-colored hair across his forehead. “You think you’re better than us, don’cha? What with your fancy notebooks on magic and phony ‘scientific’ formulas. Tryle the troublemaker. Tryle the creepin’ cretin.”

“In all honesty, Gumbo, I’m impressed you know what ‘cretin’ means.”

“Well, you’re not. You’re just like the rest of us, only you got a complex about followin’ the rules when it doesn’t tickle your fancy.” Gumbo bent down until he and Tryle were eye-level, his large tusks inches away from Tryle’s cheekbone. “You’re an entitled, snot-nosed brat who shirks his duties for fun. I don’t like that, and I don’t like you.”

“Yup,” agreed Tryle.

“Blabbing on about why we shouldn’t raid, why we should just get along with humans…” Gumbo spat on the ground. “Makes me sick.”

“Does it really sound so bad? Goblins aren’t predisposed to looting and pillaging.”

“Listen to yourself — callin’ us ‘goblins’ — a human word. The one they used to describe us as they slaughtered our people and drove us into the Woodlands.”

“What other word would you use, then?” said Tryle testily.

Gumbo laughed derisively. “What would I use? What would I use exactly, you slimy little grub? There is none. The humans erased our past. They nearly destroyed our lineage, fragmented us into a buncha small villages — nearly stamped us out! What word should you use, Bodkin, other than ‘survivor’? Because that’s what I am.”

When Tryle didn’t answer, Gumbo’s eyes narrowed. “And you know somethin’ else? Just because Chief Jrunta let you come along this raid don’t mean I’m gonna let you screw it up. You wander off again, mess up the operation somehow, tip off that granny into knowin’ we’re coming, show just an inkling of doubt of where your loyalties lie — and I’m gonna destroy you.”

“I’d be curious to see you try.”

Gumbo bared his fangs. “You wanna go at it, you little grub?”

“No,” said Tryle, confused. “I meant I’d literally like to see you try. The other times when we were kids didn’t turn out so well, so I’m interested to see what strategies you come up with.”

Spots of color bloomed on Gumbo’s cheeks, but he grinned widely, showing off rows of sharp teeth. “Oh, you think you’re a big one, huh? You think you got a brain that’ll solve anything? Then solve this.”

Gumbo stalked past Tryle, high-stepping over large tree roots before coming to a stop before the twinkling mound of the Tudor fairy settlement. He glanced over smugly.

“If you want fairy dust, you’ll have to talk with them first,” called Tryle. “Otherwise, they’re gonna —”

But Gumbo wasn’t listening, pointedly warming up his legs, stretching out his calves.

“Actually, their communication method is sign language, not dancing, so you have to —”

Gumbo swung his leg hard and kicked the top of the fairy castle off. The turrets broke apart in a spray of glittering rock and wood chips. Tudor fairies scattered in every direction, some of the guards taking flight in the nick of time.

Tryle nodded emphatically. “Ok, yep — that’s what I thought you were doing. I didn’t want to believe you’d be so stupid, but…all right.”

From the windows of the other houses, Tudor fairies shook their fists angrily and berated Gumbo in their tinny, incomprehensible voices. The ones swarmed onto the tops of their houses and began throwing clumps of sod and shale at Gumbo’s knees. Others hovered in air, but could go no higher than Gumbo’s waist. And because the projectiles were only slightly bigger than sand grains, they had little effect.

”Go ahead. Stop me, Bodkin.” Gumbo crushed a house under his heel like a nut. The structure’s green aura dimmed and faded out. “Stop me, Bodkin!”

Tryle shrugged. “They’re just gonna curse you, Gumbo. I’d help them, but then I’d get targeted by the spell, too.”

The queen fairy — identifiable by a jade circlet as small as a human finger ring — flew up with several of her courtiers and alighted on one of the walkways scaling the tree trunk. With deadly purpose disproportionate to her smallness, she raised a finger towards Gumbo and gabbled a high-pitched phrase too squeaky to make out.

Curse number one. Tryle hoped he wouldn’t be selected for curse number two.

The castle fairy guards launched a salvo of their most powerful spears — essentially filigreed toothpicks — which arced in a neon-green shower overhead and stuck in the side of his neck. Gumbo yelped and fell over, his bottom crushing another row of fairy houses.

Tryle didn’t watch for long. He turned around and walked away. He knew that if he showed no interest in defending the fairies, the faster Gumbo would leave them alone. And he didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of the obvious: Tryle could protect himself, but he couldn’t stop Gumbo from doing as he pleased, at least physically.

When he returned to the campsite, the members of the raid party had split into two groups. One was still singing in guttural tones on the far side of the clearing, clanging mugs of beer and swaying in time with their arms around each other’s shoulders. The other group (a much smaller minority) had retired for the night.

Luckily, Tryle’s bedroll was closer to the sleepers. He tucked the tiny sack away in the sewn underlining of a smaller day pack. Then he changed tunics and wrapped himself in his blanket.

He wondered if he could really stick to his goal of avoiding the ire of the other goblins for the rest of the trip. He already had enough trouble keeping away from Gumbo.

Oh, well. Only one more day until they reached the granny’s house. As long as Tryle wasn’t ordered to perform any special duties, he could manage. Soon, he let his eyes droop close, lulled to sleep by the soft breaths and gurgling snores of the goblins around him.