CHAPTER 55

“The thing about Delos is, he’s an ass,” Gedden says.

We made our way down the road and under the thick canopy of the forest. Gedden’s blue coat flaps in gusts of wind that course down the path. He doesn’t seem worried about being waylaid by vines, so I adopt the same relaxed posture.

“I’m not sure he is. At least he told me the truth. That’s rare around here. I’m still not sure what is expected of me.”

“Come on, Malco. I’m all for telling the truth, but that was unnecessarily cruel.”

Was it really? I wonder. It’s true that Godtouched get levels for free. How had Arbiter put it? Levels for killing mice?

“I don’t care about that. Do you know what’s going to happen now? What Lysander is talking about with the Black Sword people?”

Gedden shrugs.

“The future, I imagine. Valkas probably has his panties all in a bunch about someone hiding a Challenger, or, as he’ll call you, an infiltrate. Dunno if he’s looking for compensation or punishment, though.”

“Is that against Godtouched law, or something?”

“That’s not… Do you know why the guilds exist?” Without stopping to let me answer, Gedden launches in a tirade about how in the beginning, when Godtouched had proved they could handle most things the world threw at them and come out unscathed, their first instinct had been to fight amongst each other.

“Which, given the respawning, is a bit of a stupid way to behave, unless you’re willing to lock all of your enemies away forever. People tried that, too.”

“Respawning? Amelia used that word too.”

“To spawn again,” Gedden says. “When we die, we reappear at a place we define previously. Our equipment stays with our corpse, though, so it’s not ideal. But even buck naked, as long as I can pick up a rock and run back into the fight my enemies have a problem, right?”

Immortality. The word flashes through my mind. This was what Medrein meant; what Amelia was referring too when she said Muscle was back in the keep. This was the difference between Godtouched and us, the trait that made kings out of children. Except…

“But in the dungeons – the real Dungeons, I mean—”

“I’m not gonna talk about that,” Gedden says. “I only arrived after they’d already dismantled them, so I don’t know enough. But yes. They say people died then. Died for real.”

He taps my shoulder. Lost in thought, I didn’t notice Gedden wasn’t on the road anymore, but had turned up a little path half-hidden in the vegetation. I look down at the ground. There are no vines that I can see, but the underbrush is dense, with roots poking out at intervals and thorns fencing both sides of the path.

“Come on. I won’t let him hurt you.”

I scoff and brush past Gedden to take point. I’m decided not to let these people see me as a kid who needs their protection.

This Mssgreen person we’re searching for is apparently another ally of Lysander’s motley troupe. A normal person, not Godtouched, with his own set of hard-won abilities, who monitors the forest around the elf’s home. I heard Amelia speaking of an understanding between the two, which probably means this man is as much of a servant as she is.

“You were saying about the guilds.”

“Right. So, to curb the fighting, people started organizing. First it was adventuring groups, then those merged together and became strong enough to topple your kings. Those that did became guilds.”

Gedden pauses for a moment.

“This to say that when you talk about ‘laws’ it doesn’t really mean laws. Guilds work based on a gentlemen’s agreement: follow the line, and you get a piece of the pie. Don’t, and get thrown out to fend for yourself.”

“And that’s a bad thing, being thrown out?”

“Yes. Because the world is now divided into places the guilds control and places the strongest Godtouched aren’t powerful enough to visit.”

Wait, what?

“You know why I think the guilds like the Challenge so much?” Gedden continues, unable to see my confusion. “Why people sit around and cheer while kids hack each other to pieces? ‘Cause they’re bored. They’re bored out of their little minds. When they got here it was all adventure this, adventure that, kill a giant, save a princess, destroy the dark lord, all that crap, like it was a game. But the years kept passing and more and more Godtouched coming, and soon there was little adventure to be had. It’s either stay in the kiddie pool or get one-shotted in the wilderness because we fucked up the levelling process.”

In the middle of all the questions that are building up in my mind like water before a flimsy damn, I feel a strange sensation growing. It’s a pleasant fuzziness, growing from the center of my forehead and spreading all the way around my brain and down my spine.

Before I can begin prodding Gedden with questions, the path snakes into a little rock pool fed by a singing stream. Gedden points to the pool, but he didn’t need to. I already spotted the face under the water, the carved image of an enormous with a man’s face. It’s a sunken statue, staring up into the sky with empty eyes. I couldn’t care less about a statue right now. I decide to start off gently.

“So the guilds exist to stop to… what, preserve what’s left?”

“Exactly. They’re a civilizational effort. As long as we all get along we can exist in a mostly all right place. If you let a bunch of immortals with questionable morals do whatever the hell they want, well… Not a lot of world to go around.”

“And the places you cannot visit?”

“Areas beyond our level. It’s… well, it’s frustrating as hell, actually, knowing the world goes on forever and you’re restricted to a small piece of it.”

Gedden leads me down a flight of rough steps chiseled into the rock itself. We delve ever deeper into a humid, heavy-aired part of the forest. Ferns block our path, and the rock becomes so slippery we have to devote considerable attention to where we step. Silence descends while I organize my thoughts.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

“And Lysander broke those rules when he hid me?”

“It’s questionable. A lot of things went wrong with the Challenge this time around. There was an extra emerald key, an extra winner, and one Challenger who never came out the other side of the portal.” Gedden looks over his shoulder with an apologetic frown. “Sorry. I know she was your sister.”

“Is my sister.”

“Right, yeah. That’s what I meant.”

“No one knows where she is?”

“No one knows anything about anything. We’re all grasping at straws, which is worsening our standing with the other guilds. They hate sloppiness. So Valkas is looking at you as a likely string to pull on to unravel this whole mess while Lysander is trying to convince him that’s not the case. And that’s about it. Hush, now. We’ve arrived.”

We cross through a final mess of ferns to stand on a little clearing. Looking up, all there is is greenery, like a funnel leading to the exact spot we’re standing on. In front of us is a cave, dark in absolute. The sound of water comes from within, splashing and dripping and echoing in the darkness. Mushrooms line the edge of the cave, bigger and more colorful than any I’ve seen before.

“Moss? You there?” Gedden calls.

No one answers. I turn around to stare at the sheer green wall that surrounds us. A wall, at least, is what I would have called it before levelling. Now, I’m unable to miss the little details, the shapes and the contours, the distinct flowers and the jumping colors, the standing rocks and the moss that covers them.

Observant at work.

“Moss, c’mon. You there?”

Shapes begin jump at me. A lizard lying in wait for its prey, a large cobweb dotted with droplets and the struggling insects in its grasp. A cloud of old smells, bark and mush, putrefaction and life, spring up. A drop of sweat courses down my neck.

And then the entire image, the odors, the colors and the animals shifts, as if something has just changed without anything moving. A root becomes a gnarled foot. A stone curls five fingers around a twisted staff that used to be a young tree. Bark ripples and shows teeth. A leaf blinks.

“Gedden.”

“Please,” he says, staring into the cave. “Gedden was my father. Call me Ged—hey!”

I pull on his shoulder to turn him around. In the same instant, the entire shape I’m staring at unfolds, stepping forward. A figure, its skin any color between green, brown, and yellow, its greasy black hair and beard, indistinguishable from each other, so long they touch the forest floor. Its back is bent almost double, and still is stands much, much taller than any man.

“Mossgreen. How are you, you old nutter?”

“Gedden, my little fly,” says Mossgreen in an old, rumbling, breathy voice. “How have you wandered so far from home not realizing you were encroaching on my domain? Sure carelessness!”

Mossgreen’s arms are twice as long as his body. While he leans on his massive staff, his elbow nearly touches his knee.

“On the contrary, old man. I came down special to see you. Brought a new friend and all.”

“So I see. But what is it, Gedden? It’s mute as a spooked starling, but its eyes poke sharper than the hawk’s. I feel it stalking and skulking the borders of my kingdom and I am curious. Is it for me?”

Mossgreen leans down, down, to look me over. His nose is straight and pointy as a goblin’s and is eyes as deep and black as midnight except for a swirl of fog that covers them like a film. I realize Mossgreen is blind, or near it.

“Not for you, Moss. This is Malco,” Gedden slaps my back hard. “Malco, Mossgreen.”

“Hello, Mossgreen,” I say. Despite the closeness of his eager face I take a step forward. Don’t show fear. “I’m Malco. A pleasure.”

“Pleasure?” his face swings ponderously to focus, disbelieving, on Gedden. “It meets the last troll, and it feels pleasure?”

“You’re a troll?” I ask before I can stop myself.

“Last troll,” he answers in a voice deep and sonorous as a rolling river. “Mossgreen has lived longer than stones. He remembers the planting of the Soultrees. He remembers, from light to dark and back again, ages beyond your knowing. He is the troll of trolls, the last there is or ever will be.”

“Don’t be like that, Moss,” Gedden says. “Lysander is searching for others. You know that.”

The troll raises himself nearly to his full height. I’m sure I can hear his spine crack as he does so.

“The elf makes pretty sounds, that he does,” Mossgreen intones. “He made sweet music and convinced Mossgreen to slice him a part of his kingdom so the elf could build his house. He sang so Mossgreen would feed his growing clan with sweet fruits and helpless beasts. He played his instrument artfully, and made Mossgreen use his powers, hard won in the Dungeons of long ago, to defend his house and catch his prey. But now he doesn’t bother with music, and sends his lackeys and their rough, gruff voices, to make discordant noise. Why? Does Mossgreen not leave the road untouched? Does Mossgreen not catch the little sneaking spies and deliver them to the death-stinking woman’s beasts like a meek sapling? Then why, o why must Mossgreen be bothered in his sanctum, reminded of false promises, baited with young little flies that he cannot have?”

“Big guy, all I need is for you to not try and snag people just because they overstepped the border a little.”

“Little fly,” Mossgreen says, ignoring Gedden and turning his enormous face to me. “Are you strung up in a web, kicking feebly while the spider dances and coos, ever closer yet mockingly patient? Well? Answer truthfully now!”

“Hum. No.”

“No!” He turns to Gedden again, bending down to his height. “No, it says. And is Mossgreen not strong enough a spider to trap it ten times over? Tell it, friend Gedden, tell it please, so it will know.”

“Moss…” Gedden crosses his arms with a huff, but the intensity on the troll’s face appears to give him pause. He sighs. “Moss could have probably caught you if he wanted, Malco.”

“Yes!” Mossgreen says, nodding. “Yes! He could. So you see now, that Mossgreen is not plucking little flies that are not his to have. He is not so crass and so cruel to deprive others of their meals.”

“Mossgreen,” I say. “If I may?”

Both turn to me. Gedden’s quizzical expression mirrored by the troll’s frank amazement at my interruption.

“I’m sorry that I encroached on your territory. I didn’t know it at the time, but that doesn’t excuse my mistake. I’m from the Barrow Hills, and there we know to respect the places that aren’t meant for us. I beg your pardon.”

I bow and don’t raise again until a deep, guttural vibration shakes me to my guts. I look up to see Mossgreen’s twisted and dirty face has contorted further. His open mouth, filled with brown teeth, opens, and the deep, growling sound echoes in the green pit. Mossgreen is laughing.

“A respectful fly! Of all the things Mossgreen thought lost, to find respect is still alive! Ho! Ho!”

He clutches his belly and laughs slowly and pleasantly.

“Stay there, little fly, stay.”

He steps around us and disappears into the cave, dragging a large moss-and-twigs mantle behind him that sweeps the forest floor without actually disturbing it. I look over at Gedden to find an impressed look on his face.

“I didn’t know you for such a charmer.”

I give him a smirk.

We can hear Mossgreen fussing inside the cave. His mutterings flowing out unintelligible but excited. He walks out holding a piece of charcoal.

“Now, the fly will stay very still. Yes?”

With my nodding agreement, Mossgreen swings his staff quicker than I could have imagined him capable. It strikes the floor right next to me, sending dirt sprawling in all directions. I manage to refrain from moving. Then the troll bends down and holds his massive hand close to my head. I close my eyes to stop from flinching. To one side, I hear Gedden’s slight alarm, unsure if he should intervene. But just like that, it’s over.

Mossgreen steps back, looking at his staff. Exactly at my height, he’s drawn a black line with the lump of charcoal, which he now observes appreciatively.

“So, Moss – agreed?” Gedden asks, relaxing. “No more scaring the guests?”

“No more!” Mossgreen says. “No more. As long as the little fly comes by the kingdom sometimes. I’d like to see more of it and learn what it has seen of the world. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” I repeat with only a hint of hesitation.

“Now you want to make your way back. Mossgreen hears hooves on the road.”

“Ah, the riders must be getting back. Lysander will have finished his meeting.”

“No, no, this is another thing. It goes to the elf’s place. Two horses, and behind it rolls a laden cart. On wheels. Wheels, in Mossgreen’s kingdom!”

“On the road,” Gedden specifies with care. “Alright. We’ll see what that’s about. Thanks, Moss. Talk soon.”

Mossgreen mutters to himself, still observing the charcoal mark with a critical near-blind eye. We make our way to the stone steps.

“Ah,” Mossgreen rumbles. “Friend Gedden, a final, minute thing. Would you be so kind as to tell the elf that Mossgreen’s patience, though long and gentle, is wearing thin of late? His sweet music does not land so agreeably upon his ear as it once did.”

“Sure thing, big guy. I’m sure he’ll jump right on it. Alright, see you soon.”

Gedden turns back to me, his smile forced and frozen. He shakes his head, and in his quick, mirthful eyes, I see worry.