Jrunta left the two of them to their devices. Tryle knelt down and fumbled with the rope. His claws kept getting in the way. He’d forgotten to file them before leaving the village and was now paying the price. Beside him, Gumbo fastened his rope and tugged on it, checking its tautness.

“Tie faster, willya?” he hissed.

“I am.” Tryle clumsily finished a double knot and pulled it tight. “Okay, all done —”

But Gumbo was already going for the ladder, the bag of breaching tools swinging off one shoulder. Tryle bit off his sentence and followed close behind.

Once on top of the cottage, they crept across carefully, crouching low. The roof’s overlapping shell pattern made it slicker than normal, and Tryle was sure one wrong step would send him sliding off in an instant.

If they were going to haul the treasure out, the front door was looking like their best bet.

Jrunta and Yorin were crouched by the chimney, talking in hushed tones with the two Grapplers. A couple lengths of rope were fed down the chimney.

“ — but at least there’s still no sign of the sheepdog,” Jrunta was saying. “Makes our job easier.”

“And if it happens to be sleeping down there?” whispered Yorin, gesturing to the roof at their feet. “What then?”

Jrunta patted a compact satchel slung across his chest. “I’ll give it a dose of the sleeping potion, same as the granny.”

“Pretty long odds of that happening, that is.”

“Do you have a better idea, Yorin?”

Yorin said nothing. From the meeting Jrunta had held yesterday, Tryle understood the sleeping potion was crucial to the success of the raid. Without it, they wouldn’t be able to subdue the granny and ensure they could waltz out undetected with her valuables. And considering her freakish display of extreme landscaping, if they couldn’t neutralize the granny, their chances of profit (and survival) were slim.

Jrunta stepped onto the lip of the chimney. “We didn’t see it during recon, and we didn’t see it today. Likely that the granny is herding the sheep herself. I’m willing to take my chances, which is why I’m goin’ first.”

“Chief, wait a second —”

“End of discussion. Bolbo, Cheevy — you numb-nuts remember the signals?”

Both Grapplers sounded off.

“Roger, Chief.”

“One tug, all clear. Two tugs, pull up.”

Jrunta glanced at Tryle and Gumbo. “Gumbo, drop down with Yorin after I give the signal. Bodkin, stay here and help Bolbo and Cheevy belay the rope.”

With that, he grasped one of the ropes and hand-over-hand, slid through the chimney and out of sight. Shortly after, Yorin climbed down after him.

Bolbo felt the tautness of the line snaking over the roof. “Y’know, this is a little slacker than I’d like. Cheevy, can ya go down and see if you re-tie the knot at the bottom? I’ll hold the cable down.”

“You can thank Tryle for that,” whispered Gumbo snidely.

“Ah, whatever — Cheevy’ll fix ‘er up. Bodkin, come help me pull the rope tight while he’s doin’ it.”

But Tryle was looking back at the shadowy sprawl of the Woodlands — something bright had flared in his peripheral vision. Not the spot along the rock wall where he knew the goblin reserve team was hiding, but further down the faraway tree line.

Two humongous, shining pinpricks of light floated in the air, high enough to grace the mid-height branches. They swayed in the darkness, bobbing like oversized lanterns.

Tryle instantly knew they were much too large for a garden-variety raccoon or fox. In the night, their eye-shine wouldn’t be visible at this distance without an external source of light pointing at them. And most large magical creatures in the Woodlands were active during the day.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

Which meant this creature had either abnormally large eyes and was crouching on a tree branch, or it was something else. Something bigger.

And the way it was moving up-and-down and diagonally, instead of side-to-side, like it was standing on giant hind legs, silently rearing its head to get a better look…

“Bodkin!”

Tryle shook his head and refocused. No lights shone in the trees. The forest was dark.

“Y-yeah?”

“Ya hear me? Help me hold the line over here.”

“Right. Yeah.” Tryle glanced back to the trees as Bolbo wended his way over the roof. He must be more tired than he thought, seeing things like that.

“Tryle, wait.” Gumbo’s shadowy figure was bent close to the edge of the chimney. “Somethin’s wrong with the rope. It looks like it’s fraying.”

Tryle went over and inspected it. “Seems okay to me.”

“No, look over here,” said Gumbo urgently. His tone was uncharacteristically full of concern.

He moved aside for Tryle to crouch down. It was hard to see in the darkness, so Tryle rolled the rope through thumb and forefinger.

The line was solid, unbroken.

Gumbo’s tone suddenly shifted. “You’ve been doing pretty well so far, huh? Until now.”

Tryle began to turn around. “What’re you —”

He felt a boot slam into his back. He lost balance, arms flailing, and toppled headlong into the chimney.

He fell in a grinding, awkward tumble. Brick and mortar scraped against his back. Completely upside-down, Tryle felt the rope line bounce into his grip. He clenched his fists reflexively; the rope zipped through his hand, burning his palms.

He managed to slow his fall enough for him to land on his back in the fireplace with a muffled whump. Ash flew into his face, and he let out a series of explosive coughs that echoed loudly in the chimney.

Spitting and retching, he crawled out on all fours. The metal fire grate had already been pushed aside, which made it easier. But before he could go any further, a clawed hand seized him by the throat and dragged him to the wall.

“What in mother-green earth do you think you’re doin’?” seethed Jrunta.

Tryle merely gurgled. A softer poof of ash came from behind Jrunta, and Gumbo padded into view.

“I told ‘im not to jump down, Chief,” he whispered. “But he wouldn’t listen. Said that even though he didn’t think we should be doin’ this in the first place, he’d show us once-and-for-all how to raid the right way. His way.”

Gumbo really was an idiot, Tryle thought angrily. He tried to protest, but all that came out was a pathetic squeaking sound. His lungs burned with the bile plugged up from his coughing.

Jrunta shook Tryle roughly. “Just wait until we get back to Lundy village, Bodkin. You’re lucky I already took care of the granny. If she’d woken up from your grand entrance, we’d all be dead.”

“She’s really out, Chief?” said Gumbo nervously. The fake righteousness had bled out his voice. After all, he’d heard the stories from the recon squad.

“Out like a baby.” Jrunta released Tryle, who fell to his knees gasping and massaging his neck. “Which gives us plenty of time to look around before we bring Graddle and the rest of ‘em in here.”

“Chief, you see anything?” Yorin was already roaming around the cottage, checking out cupboards and pulling out shelves. “I smell the gold, I’m tellin’ you. It’s here, alright.”

“Nothing in the granny’s room. You check the other two bedrooms while I look around the cooking area here.”

Yorin trotted off down the dark hallway. Gumbo cast a smirk at Tryle before hurrying over to where Jrunta was rummaging about the furnace on the other side of the room.

Tryle glared at his retreating back. Part of him wanted to get back at him somehow, push him into the table and knock silverware over. But doing so would just be playing at Gumbo’s game, not his own.

While they searched, Tryle sat and took a breather — quite literally heaving in breaths — since his throat was still raw from soot and stomach fluid.

His eyes gradually adjusted to the dark. The cottage interior was spartan, noticeable in its complete lack of excess. The furnishings and décor were so plain they seemed to wordlessly beg for more substance, even tackiness.

But it was also cozy: a quaint, wooden table with four, ornately carved chairs around it; a squashy-cushioned rocking chair by the hearth; thick rugs over smooth, pine floorboards. Moonlight trickled in through double-paned windows girded with wooden shutters that could be slid over to cover them.

The only things truly out of place were above the fireplace.

Hanging above the mantel were two shields. One was circular with a heavy brass knob in its center and a concentric color pattern: ocean blue in the inner ring, and metallic gray on the outer. The other shield was triangular with a flat top riveted in layers of steel. It displayed the carved image of an oak tree with strong roots, its branches spread into the shape of a palm cupping three golden stars.

Tryle was no blacksmith, but even he could tell that the shields were of expert craftsmanship. The painted metal was newly oiled, polished to a sheen. Whether they had been used recently, Tryle didn’t know. But however old they might’ve been, they looked ready for battle.

Off in one corner, a hinge creaked loudly. A wooden lid fell open and cracked against the stone walls.

“Yorin, I’ve got it! She was keeping her coins in this chest out here!”

“Not even a lock protecting ‘em!” said Gumbo gleefully, pulling out sacks bulging with treasure. “Chief, we’ve hit the mother lode!”

“I’ll say,” replied Jrunta with relish. “Yorin, get your butt out of the bedroom and help us with the gold! Bodkin, open the door and let Graddle’s squad in.”

Tryle struggled to tear his eyes away from the magnificent shields on the wall. Never mind gold and silver — he wanted to bring these back to the village and analyze their composition for weeks.

Jrunta raised his head and stared down the hallway. “Yorin, what are you doing? Need an extra pair of hands over here.”

Right on cue, the bedroom door at the far end of the hallway slowly swung open to reveal a massive silhouette. Heavy footsteps creaked against the floorboards.

And the granny stepped into the room.