Early Spring

871 F.L.

(53 years ago)

“Hello,” said the woman who’d saved Garrick’s life, “I’m Beatrix.”

She looked him up and down with her visible eye, clearly unimpressed by the spectacle before her.

“You're fortunate we were nearby,” her voice was resonant and clear. “These woods are treacherous, and goblin ambushes are not uncommon.”

Garrick managed a nod, deciding not to correct her about who exactly had ambushed—or failed to ambush—who. He had survived, at least, but not by his own doing. The skill and teamwork of this group were a stark contrast to his own solitary struggle.

As her companions regrouped, attending to their own and the aftermath of the skirmish, the woman extended a hand to Garrick. Accepting it, he felt the strength in her grip and had to fight the urge to massage his palm so as to not look completely inept in front of the intimidating woman.

By god, she’s a monster, isn’t she? He thought. It feels like she could break my bones with a single squeeze.

“Do you speak?” the woman asked, smiling and releasing his hand. “I’ve introduced myself, so it’s only proper to do likewise, right?”

“Garrick,” he said.

At least, that’s my name now, he thought privately.

“Well, Garrick,” she said. “Would you like to explain why you were trying to solo a goblin camp? Can’t be just for fun…”

Oh, so she knows it wasn’t an ambush. That’s embarrassing.

She looked him up and down again, likely noticing the wound, the awkward way he held his still-clutched hatchet, and his general unease.

“No…” she said, as if perceiving him clearly for the first time. “Not for fun. So, did they take something from you? A friend? A lover?”

“My pack,” Garrick said. “It has all my stuff in it.”

Beatrix let out a sigh of relief and relaxed her body.

“Oh, thank the gods,” she muttered. “I didn’t want to have to break the bad news to you.”

“What bad news?”

“Well, I don’t have to now,” she said coyly, tossing her hand in the air as if to wipe away the question. “But…suffice to say, if someone you cared about had been taken, you’d be quite upset at the outcome. I’m glad it hasn’t come to that.”

Garrick cast a glance to the bones surrounding the camp and felt a little nauseous.

“Well,” the woman said, gesturing to the network of poorly thatched together hovels the goblins had occupied until very recently. “Let’s go get your belongings, shall we?”

He nodded, and followed along as Beatrix guided him through the aftermath of the skirmish. He noticed that the warrior woman moved like an alleycat or some other predator who knew they were the largest threat around them.

Confident, he thought. Deadly and confident is a terrifying mix.

After a brief search, they found his pack among the goblin loot, and Garrick couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief when he saw the amulet still safely tucked inside.

“An interesting piece,” Beatrix remarked as she caught him holding the amulet up to the light. Her gaze wasn’t just appraising its value; it seemed to delve into its very history. “Earned or found?”

“Earned,” Garrick replied, a hint of pride seeping through his exhaustion. “From…I dunno, some kinda hawk-monster. It almost killed me, but…well, I eventually wound up on top.”

“A commendable feat for someone new to these lands,” Beatrix acknowledged, handing it back to him.

“Wait,” Garrick said, surprised. “How’d you know I was new here?”

“Oh,” the woman began, her coy smile returning. “The way you speak, the way you style your hair, the manner in which you wear your clothing…I could go on, but I won’t. You’ve been through enough today. One thing is for certain, you are lucky to have survived, Garrick. But, you likely know that. Where are you from?”

“Uh…Earth,” Garrick said, having to stop himself from saying the name of his city first—as he didn’t think she’d know it.

“Don’t know it,” she said. “But geography was never my strong suit. In any case, today’s encounter hopefully shows you that there’s more to defeating monsters like this than an indomitable spirit and can-do attitude. That’s your first lesson: strategy and preparation are key.”

Garrick nodded, his mind replaying the moments before the adventurers’ arrival. He shivered.

“I thought they’d be asleep,” he admitted, feeling a bit foolish. “I didn’t expect…”

“That they would have a lookout,” Beatrix finished for him. “Never assume uniform behavior, especially with goblins. Careful observation is crucial before engagement. That way you’ll know what your next action should be.”

Garrick nodded again, eager to absorb whatever he could from this woman.

“Rarely is direct confrontation a good idea—which, once more I’ll emphasize: especially with goblins. For instance—I look at this camp…”

She gestured around her at the aftermath. “What can you tell me about its layout?”

Garrick took stock of the place, his eyes wandering over each feature carefully so as to not get his answer wrong.

“It’s…uh, pretty spread out,” he said finally. “Sorta…twisty?”

“Precisely,” Beatrix said. “It’s hard to see everything from a single spot—that is by design on the goblins’ part. They build their camps to make them difficult to discern until you’re right up on them, and even then, perceiving everything about it is nigh-impossible without flight or complex mantle astara.”

Garrick was going to ask what both ‘mantle’ and ‘astara’ were, but decided to remain ignorant for the time being. She’d used the terms so casually that he felt as though she’d expect him to know without explanation.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

I’ve already been here a week…should I know stuff like that by now?

“So, that right there will tell you that waiting around to watch would be a better idea than…what you did. Setting traps or choosing stealth can achieve better results than a straight fight—and increase your likelihood of survival.”

Garrick had tried stealth, but it had failed spectacularly. However, he thought it best not to mention that to the woman who was apparently doing her best to educate him.

A member of her party approached, and Garrick remembered him as the one who’d fired the arrow that saved his life. He was a scrawny…was he an elf? That seemed like a race that would live in this world, right? Anyway, he had the hurried gait of someone who was impatient.

“Heya, Beatrix,” he said, stopping a few feet away. “You ‘bout done?”

Beatrix turned, leveling a single irritated eye on the man.

“Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something, Carver?”

“Uh…” the elf started, looking back and forth from the imposing woman to Garrick in bewilderment. “...Why you spending so much time with this kid? Ain’t he saved already? Let’s get moving—it’s nearly mid-day and we’re gonna have to hustle if we wanna get to Clover Creek ‘fore nightfall.”

“I’m trying to keep him alive beyond this encounter, if you don’t mind. I’ll be along shortly.”

“Well, okay…” the elf looked back and forth between them again. “What should we be doing in the meantime? We’re all loaded up.”

“I don’t care what you do, Carver—that is entirely up to you. Just keep Vash away from any items you picked up that might be trapped or cursed—we can’t have what happened in Portia nel Ratha happening again.”

“Aye-aye, boss,” Carver said passionlessly, turning away before freezing, staring at Beatrix.

“What?” she demanded.

“Your, uh, eyepatch…” he said, grimacing. “It’s on inside out again.”

Beatrix’s face reddened, and she quickly yanked the leather strap from her face, reversing it and replacing it correctly. Garrick wasn’t sure, but he thought he caught a glimpse of a silvery glow before it was covered up.

Spooky…

As Carver stalked away, Beatrix turned back to Garrick.

“Now, where were we?”

She glanced at the hatchet, still clutched in Garrick's hand.

“Ah, right,” she motioned, “This. It is a fine tool for wood, but not for a fight. Based on your height and build, a two-handed sword would serve you better.”

“A two-handed sword?” Garrick wondered. “I didn’t really have any good options and figured something was better than nothing. Was that not a good idea?”

He was being honest. When he’d set out, he’d only had enough coin—trices, they called them—for either the hatchet or a rope flail with a single nail on the end. He’d hedged his bets and was thankful he had. While not much, the flail would probably have been far less effective at blocking rusty goblin knives.

“Sometimes that can be the case,” Beatrix continued. “Though, that will only get you so far, my friend. It's not just about wielding a weapon; it's about wielding the right one for you. ”

Garrick looked down at the hatchet, now seeing it in a different light. Beatrix was right; he had chosen it for convenience, not suitability.

“Do you have any experience with swords?” Beatrix asked, her tone more curious than condescending.

“Not really,” Garrick said. Thinking about the time he’d taken a week-long introductory fencing course in eighth grade. He’d only attended one class and had to sit out the remaining days because he’d sprained his ankle trying to do an unsanctioned ‘jumping slash.’

“...And definitely nothing like what you showed today,” he finished.

“There's always time to learn and improve,” Beatrix said with an encouraging smile. “And if you're willing, I could show you a few basics.”

Garrick hesitated, then nodded.

“I'd…appreciate that…uh, ma’am. I need to be better prepared.”

Beatrix’s smile broadened.

“In that you are correct. Nine fights out of ten, the better prepared combatant is the victor.”

Garrick nodded, then slipped his bag over his shoulder.

“Well, then let's start with the basics,” Beatrix said. “The right weapon is a start, but knowing how to use it—that’s what will keep you alive.”

“Right now?” he wondered, glancing around. “In the middle of…this?”

She followed his glance as if it were a perfectly ordinary training ground and raised her eyebrow.

“I see no issue,” she said. “Hardly a better place, if I’m honest—plus, your adrenaline is likely still pretty high.”

“Yeah…I guess,” he said. It wasn’t so much the location that took him by surprise, but the abruptness of having to go from a short meeting with the woman to a spar. But, maybe that was just how they did things here? “Okay. I’m read—”

Before he could even finish his sentence, Garrick found himself flat on his back, staring up at the blue sky. He groaned as the shock of his impact rattled through his ribcage.

“Lesson number two, is the same as lesson one,” Beatrix said, appearing above him with a charming smile. “Always be prepared.”

—

Somrstad 12th, 924 F.L.

(Present)

Time Until Road-building Resumes: 0 Days

Garrick awoke in the wee hours. The cabin around him was still, save for the occasional protest of a floorboard, as if complaining about being awoken so rudely. Blearily, he reached out for Ember, but discovered that his fox companion and occasional bed thief, was nowhere to be found. In her place, a chorus of overly enthusiastic birds were giving their all to a performance only they seemed to appreciate at this ungodly hour.

Reaching for the lantern he was sure he'd left burning, Garrick found it cold.

"Did I somehow blow it out?" he wondered. The idea of sleep-blowing-out-lanterns seemed like a dubious new talent, especially considering the fire hazard it presented. He pictured himself explaining that to a roomful of charred furniture, "Sorry, all–it was an accident."

The remnants of a dream lingered, feeling oddly like a nudge—one from the past. It was difficult to get used to—all these dreams he’d been having of late. But at least this one had been a pleasant one: a memory of Beatrix and her cohorts. Though, once more, he wondered as to its meaning. Now, he was not the type to assume every—or really, any—dream he had was meaningful, but there was something about this one—and more so, the fact that he’d been dreaming at all lately—that made him think there was indeed a purpose for it. Not a mystical one, no, likely something mundane that was drifting at the edge of his own consciousness. But…well, it felt that way for sure. He just had to unravel what it was.

Was the dream suggesting he'd forgotten something important?

As he sat up, the cabin felt a bit too quiet, the kind of silence that had a weight to it, as if the air itself was holding its breath.

"Maybe the dream was trying to tell me I forgot to pack my socks," Garrick mused, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he eased himself out of the bed and crossed the room to where he’d placed his pack and satchel the night before. He reviewed his checklist: clothes (check), rations (check), mysterious dream advice (double check).

There was much, much more that he’d decided to bring along. As he remembered from his dream, Beatrix had drilled in the idea of being overly prepared, and to never second-guess bringing along a tool or weapon that would be the deciding factor in an encounter. On more than one occasion she’d explained it was “better to lug a trinket around and curse its weight, than to need it and wistfully recall where you left it as a bandit stabs out your eyes.”

It’s possible Beatrix had a few issues, he remembered fondly.

As he browsed the belongings in his pack, he couldn't shake the feeling that whatever he'd forgotten was nudging him closer to an unseen truth.

"Probably just forgot to water the plants," he joked to himself. But that was clearly preposterous—if there was one thing that Garrick always remembered, it was to properly garden.

Though, apparently that raven thought I’d not done a good enough job yesterday—else why would he have told Levi/Tate to do so?

He looked at the other package, sitting next to his pack and his satchel. A large box, holding the greatest treasure of all. Inside were a whole heap of tomatoes—ones grown from Twyla’s seeds. Garrick would be bringing these along as a present. He’d sorted the whole issue of travel early on, using the last of his paint of preservation on the box itself. Breaking the seal would ruin the enchantment—which meant that it couldn’t be opened until he arrived, but that would be alright, he considered. He’d keep it safe until the coast was clear.

Finally, he slipped the talisman from Claudette around his neck and stuffed the tortoise shell pendant into his shirt. He had a feeling he’d be needing to draw on it quite a lot in the coming months.

“Well, nothing for it then,” he sighed, “best be gettin’ if I’m going to be in Bellwater by the third bell. Now where is Ember—the little rascal?”