Ben turned left into a dingy back street filled with shoppers browsing the wares of an open bazaar. He then proceeded down a lane sloping towards a lower level of the city. He didn’t run for fear of attracting unwanted attention but walked uninterrupted at a brisk pace.

He didn’t even dare check over his shoulder to see if he was still being followed. That would be an admission of identity to whoever the hooded figure was, and if experience served him right, it wasn’t a question of whether he had someone on his tail but whether he had shaken them off with his erratic wandering.

As Ben descended into the lower quarters of Dool, he noticed a subtle change in its aspect. The vibrant colors that had adorned it so far transformed into dreary, muted patterns, as if the very essence of life had been drained from his surroundings. The houses showed signs of weathering and wear, and as he got closer to the sea, the air became damper and more suffocating. Even the seemingly endless mass of people thinned and became sparser, zig-zagging its way across the now-cracked cobblestone paths.

An admixture of humid smells suffused his nostrils. Moss and barnacles overran every wall around him, upon which long shadows flickered menacingly, cast by the sporadic glow of the occasional lamppost here and there. The city took on an almost cavernous quality as the darkness deepened and the winding streets narrowed. Ben’s footsteps echoed hollowly against the damp stone, and he wondered if he had made the right choice coming here.

Ben squinted his eyes and halted his advance. In the next corner, he spotted a small figure with its back against the wall, skillfully flipping and catching a coin repeatedly. Its ears were as pointy as its nose, and there wasn’t a single hair on its head. He had encountered many of its kind in Machen and Dool; it was a goblin. If he had learned anything from them, is that they were always up to some sort of mischief or another.

Its indifference made Ben nervous. It felt oddly forced. Better go back and take a different street, he thought. He turned around with as much nonchalance as he could muster, but he didn’t go far. A trio of silhouettes emerged from the previous corner, blocking his way.

One of them towered over the other two. It took point and was the first to approach Ben. As it did, a streak of lamplight illuminated its face. It looked almost human. Almost. Its brow ridge was too thick, and its skin was too stony. Not to mention that it stood at a good nine feet tall.

It crossed its arms and smiled maliciously at Ben, revealing a set of yellowy, rotten teeth. “Looks to me, chaps, that we got a lost little lamb here. Maybe we can help him with some directions. Do our good deed of the day. Whaddya say?”

The other two followed suit and stepped into the dim light. Another goblin, and a ragged sorcerer. They each had a hand behind their backs. Ben cursed under his breath. That wasn’t a good sign. At all.

Ben turned, and the coin-flipping goblin wasn’t leaning on the wall anymore, but slowly crept up on him. A malicious smile decorated its face, and its teeth were as sharp as its other facial features.

Four-to-one, Ben calculated grimly. They were no barghest, but there was no Luparius with him this time around, and his luck was bound to run out one of these days. He moved a hand to the wyrdknife, his fingers slowly wrapping around the handle. One had to be realistic about it—he couldn’t fathom slipping away from them under the current set of circumstances.

Ben pulled the wyrdknife out and pointed it at the biggest one. Best not to look intimidated by its size. “Thank you, gentlemen, but I’m not going to be needing any directions today.”

“We’ve got a feisty one!” The big one said amidst chuckles, clapping its goblin companion on the back. It did it with such strength that the goblin sprawled to the ground, the weapon it held skittering out of its reach.

Three-to-one now. Ben wouldn’t get it any better than this. He quickly put one hand over the wyrdknife’s blade and took a deep breath, encasing it in magic. You’re not a dagger. You’re a sword.

The wyrdknife’s blade elongated until its tip touched the floor with a threatening clink. Ben extended his free hand at them, and they took a step back. He could have been pointing a loaded pistol at them for all they knew.

The big thug was the first to recover its courage. “Show me what you’ve got, runt. We ain’t scared.”

“You should be,” came a familiar voice from behind them. The voice exuded a sense of impending danger, causing Ben to struggle to maintain his composure. He pointed the sword at the source of the voice without moving his hand from the crooks.

A black-hooded figure approached them. Could Ben’s fortune get any worse? He had been right all along; that man had seen him back in the public court, and he had been following since. If his odds of making it unscathed had been low before, they had certainly dropped to zero.

Or had they? Ben arched an eyebrow. He had heard that voice before. Stepping back into the wall, he made sure not to take his eyes off of either threat. He gripped the sword tighter, ready to defend himself at the first sign of trouble.

The figure drew closer, and with a swift motion, he moved his hands to his hood and removed it—a familiar face was revealed from under its shade, shocking Ben. It was none other than Wilhelm, in the flesh.

Ben’s mouth agape, he tried to say something, but the words failed him. The sight of Wilhelm there, in the nick of time again, defied all expectations.

Before he could gather his wits, the miscreant leader’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. “Oh yeah? And why is that?”

“Because he’s with me, and I don’t have time for games. Begone!” Wilhelm answered, the lethal inflection of his voice amplified.

The big crook’s demeanor faltered; his bravado was shaken by Wilhelm’s imperative. The words hit them like a bucket of water in the face. They wasted no more time, immediately fleeing into the shadows of an alley as quickly as they had appeared. Even Ben had his knees buckle under him, such was the magical prowess poured into his command.

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As soon as they were gone, the tension dissipated like fog. Wilhelm’s expression softened, returning to his amicable old self. He extended a hand to help Ben up, his eyes reflecting concern. “Still a rabble-rouser, eh, Ben Umber? I got your rat-mail, by the way. That was ingenious of you. Not so ingenious to run around like a headless chicken, though, but that’s water under the bridge. Come, Sybil awaits us safe from prying ears.”

Ben wanted to ask him a hundred different questions, but he settled on simply nodding in response. With a reassuring smile, Wilhelm led the way out of the dim vicinity, guiding Ben through the labyrinthine streets of Dool toward an unknown destination.

⦶⦶⦶

“We’re here,” Wilhelm said as they stopped by a busy intersection back in Dool Proper.

Color had slowly returned to the world as they ascended, although they had taken a different route. He had explained to Ben during their walk that he had almost wound up in the Undercity, where unsavory spirits and sorcerers treaded and conducted their dangerous dealings away from the Warlock Corps’ meddling. That explains the cordial welcome, Ben thought glumly.

Wilhelm gestured towards the tavern located at the corner of the crossing. A sign swung gently above its door; its letters were barely legible. The Bean and Stalk. It was a quaint-looking tavern, its wooden façade lined by age and countless patrons. A cozy ambience exuded from within its entrance, which was framed by sturdy oak beams.

Upon entering, a soothing aroma of fresh baked bread and roasted chaiberry enveloped them. Fresh baked bread and another scent Ben recognized: roasted chaiberry. It was enough to lift a man’s spirits. The low hum of conversation filled the air, punctuated by the occasional clink of tankards and the crackle of the hearth.

Each alcove in the tavern was furnished with plain wooden tables and benches, with the majority of them unoccupied. A burnished bar stretched along the wall in the back, its polished surface gleaming in the soft light. Behind it, shelves lined with bottles of various decoctions Ben had never seen stood high over lined casks of ale, a layer of dust having settled snugly over them.

Sybil sat on a stool by the bar. She wore a hood like Wilhelm’s, but Ben recognized her frame from the back. Sybil hunched over a steaming mug of chaiberry latte, cocking her head suspiciously to the sides as she brought the drink to her lips. When she noticed their approach, she almost choked and spit it all over them.

“Look what the cat dragged in—the rat-mail wasn’t a trap after all,” Wilhelm said with a broad smile.

Sybil looked around the tavern and, satisfied, removed her own hood. She examined them with those deep purple eyes of hers, and Ben noticed that her ashen hair was braided short. An expression of relief clung to her face as she jittered in her seat. “Heavens, was I worried! This must be my third chaiberry in a row,” she said, then turned to Wilhelm and poked him with her index finger. “You’re paying, by the way.”

Wilhelm sighed. “No need for that. We’ll put it into the Society’s tab. I’m sure Briggs won’t mind.”

The Society. There it was again. Ben was so close to getting answers that he could almost taste them. The questions were practically ready to burst out of him, but he settled on the most pertinent one. “Who’s Briggs?”

“That would be me.” A gruff voice answered. A burly bartender crossed the hinged counter flap beside them as he carried a stack of empty tankards on each hand, which he deposited in a brass sink. He turned the tap on, and the faucet spewed water over them. He grunted in satisfaction and dried his hands with a threadbare rag, turning around to meet his guests.

The bartender, Briggs, was a sight to behold. He stood at least a head taller than Wilhelm, and his corded arms were as thick as Ben’s own legs. A snout-like nose protruded from the middle of his face, tufts of wiry hair sprouted from his porky ears, and beady eyes gleamed at them with shrewd intelligence. He was more porcine than human.

chapter_img_04 [https://imgur.com/fnttkgZ.jpg]

There was no doubt in Ben’s mind that he was a spirit. As Briggs wiped his hands on the ragged cloth, he gazed at Sybil with a kindly air. “I already met the Blake girl. She’s a charmer, alright. “Don’t worry about the tab, darling; those lattes are on the house—it’s the least I can do,” he whispered in a low, conspiratorial tone, ensuring that he couldn’t be overheard. He then turned his attention to Ben, and his attitude took on a brusquer edge. “So, this is the shoat you were telling me about, huh? He doesn’t look like much.”

Ben bristled slightly at the assessment, but knew better than to snap back at him. Sybil held back a chuckle, and Wilhelm grinned at him. “Appearances can be deceiving, my old friend. He already helped Sybil out of a tough spot, after all.” He put a hand on Ben’s shoulder and extended his other hand toward the bartender. “Ben, this is Briggs. He’s a friend of the Society, our eyes and ears in the city, and the finest wereboar I’ve had the pleasure of meeting.”

A wereboar. Why not? Ben scrutinized him and realized that he wasn’t so surprised anymore when he met a new type of spirit. He offered a hand, determined to prove himself.

Briggs grunted in acknowledgement, his snout curling into the semblance of a smile, and shook it. “That’s fair enough.” He reclined his elbows on the bar top and lowered his voice even further. “So, Wil, let’s cut to the chase. Are you looking for a safe passage?”

“I forget you’re all business, Briggs. That would be ideal, taking into account the nature of our friend here.” Wilhelm said, nudging his head at Sybil.

Briggs nodded his approval. “Say no more. You can’t trust anyone in Dool these days, you can’t. The rumors I’ve heard... Well, I’ve already told your associates all about it. You’ll hear from ‘em soon enough—done with your drink, milady?”

Sybil nodded abashedly, knowing they were discussing her. Briggs grunted and held the counter flap over for them. “Follow me, then. The faster you’re outta here, the better.”

Wilhelm followed without a second thought. Ben and Sybil looked at each other, confused, and then went after him. They shrugged and hurried to catch up with the adults. As they trailed behind Briggs, the burly bartender led them through a narrow passage behind the bar, obscured from view by a tattered curtain. The air grew cooler and mustier as they ventured deeper into the bowels of the establishment.

Finally, Briggs stopped before a nondescript door tucked away in a dimly lit corridor. With a grunt, he pushed it open, revealing a cramped storage room cluttered with boxes and crates. But amidst the clutter, something unexpected caught their eye.

A colossal beanstalk out of a fairy tale climbed toward the ceiling, its verdant tendrils twisting their way upward and disappearing through a gaping hole in the roof.

Sybil emitted a soft whistle of amazement. “I didn’t see a giant beanstalk from the outside.”

“Proprietary secret. Some paths in Dool are not visible to the naked eye.” Briggs said with a wink.

Before they could comprehend his words, Briggs clapped his hands twice, and to their surprise, a door manifested from the base of the beanstalk. There was an empty pod inside.

Wilhelm turned to embrace the wereboar, gratitude evident in his expression. “Thank you, Briggs. We owe you one.”

Briggs waved him off, a rare smile revealing his tusks as he turned to Sybil with a twinkle in his shrewd eyes. “Just keep that one out of trouble, will you? For all our sakes.”

Ben could feel her shoulders tense, but Wilhelm interjected as he stepped into the pod and beckoned. “Come on, you two, we can’t keep our benefactor here all day long!”

Apprehensive but curious, Sybil and Ben exchanged one last glance before they followed Wilhelm into the beanstalk. Immediately after they entered, the door sealed shut with a soft hiss, and they began their ascent up the towering beanstalk.