Briacco inclined his head to Amycus in gratitude, an amused smile on his lips. “A prudent decision, my friend. Let us not sow discord when harmony could serve us better.”

Ben had maintained a solemn silence. As the tension eased, Amycus gestured toward him. “And you, sorcerer, you heard us; we’ll bring you to our elder. No funny business, or I won’t hesitate to put an arrow through you.”

He nodded and mumbled a nonsensical response. I don’t have much of a choice, have I? Ben thought. He followed Briacco and helped him put the scattered rations back in his knapsack. Amycus supervised the scene with martial stolidity. He saw Meda trot to where the wyrdknife was and pick it up with ease, despite her tall stature. She brought it to her male counterpart and then joined them as they finished tidying up.

“Briacco, help Ben hop aboard. I can carry both of you, and it’ll be faster that way.”

He nodded and turned to Ben, when a puzzled expression colored his face. “Ah, my apologies. We have neglected to inquire your name.”

Ben answered, handing the knapsack to him. “My name’s Benjamin Umber. You can call me Ben, though.”

“Well then, Master Umber,” Briacco replied, completely ignoring his entreaty to loosen his formality. “It appears you will join our journey back home. Fear not the stoic demeanor of Amycus; he may be as charismatic as a wall, but his heart is in the right place.”

He winked at Ben before he offered a hand to help him onto Meda’s back. “Now, let us hasten our departure. Amycus may be a stubborn horse, but he has a point. Time slips away, and the Blackwoods can be quite unpredictable at night.” With a gentle nod, Briacco assisted Ben onto Meda’s back. Once seated securely, Briacco hopped in front of him.

Meda addressed both riders with a graceful turn of her head. “Are you ready?”

“We are ready indeed.” Briacco affirmed.

Amycus overheard them, and he did not need further appeal. He broke into a full gallop, and Meda followed without warning. The whiplash almost made Ben fall off her back, but he held on to dear life. A small clearing blurred into streaks of green as the Blackwoods encroached on their periphery. The wind rushed past Ben, and the rhythmic pounding of hooves on the forest floor created a symphony of motion.

As they continued their journey, Ben gradually adjusted to the centaurs’ speed. His initial fear of crashing into every misplaced branch or abrupt turn dissipated as he realized the extraordinary grace and control with which they carried their equine bodies. Briacco, perceptive as he was, noticed the shift in his attitude.

“You are getting the hang of it, Master Umber,” Briacco remarked with a playful glint in his eyes. “The Blackwoods have served as our home for a long time now. We’re intimately acquainted with its nooks and crannies, its twists and turns. And it’s not just us, mind you. There are many other spirits dwelling here, other than us centaurs and satyrs.”

“Spirits?” Ben queried, intrigued.

“Beings borne of magic, such as us, just like you humans are borne of flesh and bone. For you are dust, and to dust you shall return, and all that,” Briacco replied. “Sorcerers and spirits, together, comprise the World That Is Not. Let us say, however, that we don’t always see eye to eye… Some of us opt not to mingle with the Circle, and thus we have carved out a livelihood in locales far removed from human cities. Our beloved village here in the Blackwoods being a prime example.”

They continued through the night in a companionable silence. Ben, more at ease now with the galloping motion, mulled over Briacco’s revelations. Witches, centaurs, and satyrs. A twinge of exhilaration flashed through him. What else lay in store for him? The constant thudding of hooves on the forest floor seemed to echo the beating of his contemplative heart.

Eventually, Ben couldn’t contain his curiosity any longer and he broke the silence. “Why take me to this elder of yours?” he asked Briacco.

Briacco glanced at him before he answered, a thoughtful expression on his face. After a brief pause, he said, “Someone, or rather, something, has made its hunting grounds out of our home. Spirits keep disappearing without a trace, and we’ve even found the corpses of ordinary humans by the road now. We’re one of a few scouting parties trying to identify and deal with the threat,” he said, turning his head around and quickly trying to reassure Ben.

“But fear not, Master Umber. Even Amycus realizes you’re not the one we seek. Our elder is a wise and kind spirit. At any rate, you’ll be safer in our village than out in the woods for the time being. Ah, speaking of which.”

He stopped as they emerged from the forest into a vast meadow. A blanket of tall grass dotted with flowers of every color carpeted the ground, which was a welcome respite from the brambly terrain of the Blackwoods. Fragrance from blossoms in bloom filled the air, and a subtle wind played a soft melody. The sun blared above them from its zenith, uninterrupted by the surrounding canopy.

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They slowed down to a trot, and Ben marveled at the landscape before him. For there, right in the middle of the meadow, lay what could only be the village of the spirits.

“Beautiful, is it not?” Meda asked.

Ben was too stunned to do anything but nod, his mouth agape.

“Welcome to Machen,” Briacco added with pride.

“Machen,” Ben repeated, dumbfounded. It was unlike anything he had ever seen.

In the center of the meadow, a copse of sturdy red oaks grew in contrast to the slender sea of beeches around the clearing. But it was not the copse of trees that awed him, but what lay on top of their trunks. Or was it rather what grew out of them?

The branches twisted and molded seamlessly into architectural shapes that Ben recognized—huts and buildings of manifold shapes. The village itself seemed to have grown out of the trees. The bases of their trunks, huddled together, served as a most solid foundation for the settlement.

Bridges adorned with bioluminescent fungi connected the various levels that made up Machen. As they inched closer, Ben noticed the leaves of the towering trees overhead, whose canopy was a natural awning that sheltered them from the elements.

A kaleidoscope of movement unfolded beneath it; the scattered light that filtered through the leaves danced between the branches. He could make out the distant silhouettes of the spirits—far different from each other in shape, size, and color—but he couldn’t outright discern their features.

What impressed Ben the most was the colossal oak that grew from its center. It was so tall that it would put those new skyscrapers from the big cities to shame. Now that he thought about it, he realized that the village itself, and the trees it grew from, were arranged meticulously around it.

Confusion replaced marvel. How was it that no one from Dunport-Salem, or any other human, for that matter, had ever seen such an enormous tree?

“Groat for your thoughts,” Briacco inquired.

“What’s a groat?” Ben asked absent-mindedly.

“Pardon me, Master Umber. I keep forgetting you’re a neophyte. Groats are the coins minted by the Circle. But I digress. An evergreen delight, is it not?”

“Seen better days,” Amycus interjected, fuming sourly beside them.

Ben ignored the centaur and agreed with another silent nod. He then pointed to the biggest red oak that had caught his attention. “How come I’d never seen that before?”

Briacco chuckled and unraveled the mystery for Ben. “The Blackwoods are an ancient weald, Master Umber, older than the Rive. Native mortals steered clear of the place for centuries, and the colonizers’ attempt to tame it proved futile. The dilapidated road we found you on is all that remains from the World That Is.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “This forest, well, it prefers not to be seen. Simple as that. And what can I say? We might have even added a ward or two ourselves.” He winked at Ben with a playful glint in his eye.

“We did not bring the sorcerer here for sight-seeing, satyr,” Amycus chastised Briacco, a stern edge to his voice. “Come, we are almost there. Let us not keep the elder waiting. Hyah!” He broke into a rapid gallop.

“Gods, give him patience.” Meda muttered under her breath as she rolled her eyes, and in a mere instant, she matched his speed. Machen surged toward them.

As rapid as their pace was, it wasn’t long before they arrived. The copse of trees, which had seemed big from afar, was an intimidating sight. As they reached the base of the village, Ben saw a contraption built into the side of the nearest trunk; a lift, supported by rickety scaffolding all the way up into Machen proper.

Briacco rubbed his hands together. “Ah, home sweet home. Ready to ascend?”

A sense of unease gripped Ben as he eyed the shaky structure. “Is it safe?”

Meda shrugged. “No one has fallen in months,” she replied nonchalantly.

Ben couldn’t discern whether she joked or not, but the ambiguity did little to ease his apprehension. The centaurs hopped in without hesitation. Once in the lift, Ben and Briacco unmounted Meda’s back. Briacco went straight to a lever in the corner and pulled it. The lift began its grating ascent with a groan of complaint.

He crawled to the center and sat there with his knees clutched in his arms. His spirit companions were unfazed. Amycus and Meda conversed in a corner in a low voice; Briacco regarded his surroundings with a pleasant smile on his face. After a few minutes had passed, his fear gave way to wonder. Below them, the Blackwoods expanded in every direction, a verdant sprawl—just how much distance had they traveled, he could only guess.

Ben strained to discern his hometown on the horizon, but the usual mist roiled from the sea and into the coast. It clung to the woodlands with special determination. As the lift continued its climb, a sense of liberation washed over him. The distant hubbub of Dunport-Salem faded into insignificance, only to be replaced by that of Machen itself.

The lift finally ground to a halt after what felt like an eternity, and Ben wasted no time. He immediately leaped onto solid ground—or solid wood, to be more precise. Amycus, Meda, and Briacco joined him without hurry. His composure secured, Ben lifted his gaze up, and was transfixed. If the spirit village had been surreal from a distance, up close it edged into the dreamlike.

The village hummed with activity as spirits of all imaginable descriptions went about their daily lives. Blue-skinned dwarves, their beards interlocked with ringlets of gold and precious stones, strolled along the branches with purpose. Piskies flitted between the motley flora as they left trails of dust that glittered in their wake. Centaurs and other spirits he could not recognize stood guard in aeries along the edges, vigilant in their stations. A group of goblins gathered near a storefront, loitering, engaged in a lively game that Ben couldn’t quite comprehend.

Briacco knocked twice on wood, which wasn’t in short supply. “As real as it comes, Master Umber.”

A watchman, who was stationed by the lift but Ben hadn’t seen in his hurry, welcomed the spirits accompanying him with a curt nod. His body was robust and human, but his head bore the imposing features of an ox: a minotaur. Ben was transfixed by the unusual sight before him, fascinated and intimidated in equal measure.

The minotaur addressed his spirit companions with a deep, rumbling voice. “Any luck today?” He then turned to Ben, his gaze fraught with suspicion.

Amycus shook his head solemnly. “Nothing yet.”

“Hmph. Don’t you worry, old horse. It’s but a matter of time,” the minotaur watchman encouraged.

Amycus agreed, and they said their farewells. Ben stood up and patted the dust off his knees. With that, he followed his captors into their territory.