Szeth jogged through the undergrowth, Betsy snug in the holster strapped over his back, a pouch containing his secret weapon bouncing at his hip. Unfortunately, while the hip pouch was soft, Betsy’s holster was not, and the hard plastic with her weight behind it dug into his back with every step.

He cursed the infernal contraption. The composite metal had enough iron to sting when he touched it, and it was too comedically large for him to carry it like a human would, but Gladys had been insistent. Whatever had Eli and Carol spooked, the rest of the old folks trusted her enough to be spooked too.

Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t spot the lumpy form in the underbrush until his foot snagged on it, sending him tumbling. His face smacked the ground and Betsy smacked the back of his head a second later. He lay there, groaning, then tentatively explored the back of his head. A lump was already forming, but no blood.

He rolled over, sat up, and froze. The obstruction in the weeds was a body. A horribly, mutilated body. A Paladin, from the look of the suit. What was left of it, anyway. The bloke’s abdomen was gone, and from the ragged look of the hole, whatever killed him had been hungry. Szeth guessed the silvery spear still clutched in the corpse’s hand had been little help, and he suddenly doubted Betsy would be much help, either. A howl echoed through the forest, and he scrambled to his feet, his jog just a little more urgent than before.

He had found Patrick’s tracks immediately outside the gate, the wet mud holding the shape well. From the definition of the footprints, he was getting close to the old man, but there was no guarantee something else wouldn’t get there first. If whatever was in these woods could eviscerate a Paladin, there was little a geriatric veteran could do.

And so, it was with an audible sigh of relief that Szeth burst into a clearing to find Patrick standing there in the rain, slack jawed, staring up into the trees. What was left of his grey hair was plastered to his head, his pale blue sleeping gown soaked through and his fluffy slippers matted with mud and leaves.

Szeth called out and Patrick turned his pale green eyes to regard the goblin.

“Seth? You’re a goblin?”

Shit. He forgot to recast the Weave. Patrick hadn’t been there for the conversation and with his memory, he might not have even realised or remembered ‘Seth’ wasn’t human.

“That makes sense. I lost the bet, though. I put money on you being a brownie.”

He turned back to staring up into the branches.

Huh. That went surprisingly well.

“What, uh, whatcha looking at?”

“Pretty bird,” Patrick said without turning back.

Szeth moved over to stand next to him and almost screamed, covering his mouth and stifling it just in time. Sitting in the trees, feasting on what remained of the Paladin’s stomach, was a juvenile cockatrice. Its head twitched, looking around for threats, then ducked back down to resume its meal, the red beak filled with razor-sharp teeth ripping and tearing. Blood and ‘bits’ spattered its iridescent scales and feathers. Szeth had to admit, it was very beautiful, but not a bird, in the same way that a lion high on PCP with antisocial personality disorder was not a house cat.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

“Anyway, Pat,” Szeth whispered. “You’re soaking. Let’s get you back home, eh? I’ll warm you up with a hot chocolate and some soup. Sound good?”

“But, the bird-”

“Let’s come back and see him another time.”

“No, he won’t be here then. I want to stay.”

“Patrick, it’s actually quite a dangerous, uh… bird. We should leave before it notices us,” Szeth hissed.

“It won’t. I’ve hidden us.”

“Us?”

“Yeah. You, me. Everyone. Otherwise, the monsters would have come and eaten us ages ago.”

Szeth shook his head. Because of course Patrick’s addled mind let the secret slip out after they had cleared the air back at the house.

“Look, I don’t know exactly how your abilities work, but how can you be sure we’re safe when we’re this close?”

“It’s bulletproof. Unless I forget to. To. What am I not supposed to forget to do?”

“Ah, shit.”

Szeth looked back to the cockatrice. It had stopped its meal and was now staring directly at them.

Oh no. Oh, nonono.

The cockatrice flapped its wings in what Szeth recognised as an aggression display. It meant it didn’t see them as food yet, which was good. But it also meant it saw them as a threat to its food, which was bad.

He summoned magic to his fingers, twirling and knotting the strands in the quickest and dirtiest Weave he’d ever attempted. It was ready in a second, and he cast it over them. The cockatrice stopped mid flap, tilting its head to the side as he puzzled over their disappearance. The spell was crap, basically a pane of magical glass between them and the beast that turned where they were standing into a distorted mess of colours, but it might give him enough time to think of something better.

And then the cockatrice squawked at the distortion and started flapping its wings again.

Old God’s be damned. Because of course cockatrices were resistant to Little People magic. If he survived this, he would definitely be writing to the school board. I mean, honestly, all that time learning human sciences like ‘trigonometry’ and ‘algebra’ and when had he ever used it? Never! A class on dangerous mythical beasts, though, now that he would have a use for. Instead, he was left with one option. The nuclear response.

“Sorry, Pat. I’m gonna need you to eat this.”

Szeth unzipped his pouch and thrust his hand into it, pulling out his secret weapon. He held his fist out to Patrick, palm up, and opened his hands. The old man took one look at it and wrinkled his nose in disgust.

“Oh, absolutely not. Vile stuff.”

“It’s a brussel sprout, Pat, don’t be childish.”

Patrick crossed his arms and turned his nose up.

“No!”

The cockatrice squawked again, its flapping intensifying.

“Damnit, Pat. We don’t have time for this!”

“I said no!”

Szeth reached up, trying to push the vegetable into his mouth, but Patrick squirmed, trying to push the goblin away. Szeth ducked under the clumsy swings and darted in, scrambling up Patrick’s body until he was at eye level and then resumed his efforts. Their struggle agitated the cockatrice even further, and it started bouncing on the tree branch, ready to attack.

“Gods damnit, how could this get any worse?”

“Oi! Monster! Unhand that man!” a man’s voice called out.

Szeth and Pat froze, their heads snapping around to stare at a newcomer striding toward them. It was another Paladin, slicked black hair and a pinched mouth that made him look like the villain from a gangster movie. A whip, resembling razor wire more than anything else, was curled in his hand.

Because of course. He just had to open his damn mouth.