Dean took a moment to process the new information before dismissing the window and focusing on the strange creature ahead of him.

  “Listen, I meant, what do I call you personally?” He asked breathlessly as he followed the nimble, dance-like movements of the Ellyllon-Teg through the forest.

  “My name? My name,

  Ellyllon-Teg all the same.

  To help keep you sane,

  you call me Arwain!

  For your guide, I be,

  our survival is key.”

  The sing-song tone of the conversation was starting to grate on Dean’s nerves as he struggled to keep pace. LuLu, unusually silent, clung tightly to his chest, her quietness heightening the mounting sense of anticipation.

  Suddenly, the landscape opened up— dense foliage, ancient trees, and mossy roots, giving way to scattered rocks as they neared the low rise of the treeline. Ahead of them stretched a rocky hillside crowned by a wooden palisade that encircled its peak. A wide, shallow river flowed at its base. The entire area was bathed in an unnatural, even light, reminiscent of an overcast day—so much so that Dean nearly forgot he was deep underground in the dead of night.

  The fact that this was some kind of enchanted fae realm made it easier to suspend disbelief, but the surreal brightness only added to his unease.

  Arwain stood facing the hill, its body swaying gently like a tree in a breeze only it could feel. Dean took a step closer, but a swift reaction from the sprite caused him to falter. Arwain shook its head sharply, not bothering to look back at him. Something was wrong, but Dean could not understand exactly what.

  “Go ye now, ye alone,

  take the fort, claim the throne.

  Must make haste; the shadows creep,

  Rouse your men within the keep.

  Steel yourself; the fight is nigh,

  Rally to you, or all will die.

  My brethren, oh, they trust you not,

  hearts of gold, yet some do rot.

  Watch your back, and use that wit.

  But most of all, you must not quit.”

  Before he could react, Arwain was gone. A blur of motion back into the woods.

  He crossed the river, LuLu cooing softly as she watched the water babble. Tension mounted as he climbed the hill; the fort loomed larger, only increasing the suspense. The walls were of blackened timber and stood at five meters high. It was ancient, intimidating, but far from abandoned.

  A small bucket helmet and the tip of a spear poked over the spiked palisades, and a rough, unimpressed voice with a familiar Welsh inflexion broke the silence.

  “So, you’re the one we’ve been waiting for, eh? Took you long enough; we was beginning to think you got lost or was dead already.”

  “Could be. Fancy lettin’ me in, aye?” Dean replied with mock confidence. Fake-it-til-you-make-it, and all that.

  There was a pause, and the tin hat disappeared once more. The gate creaked open, revealing a squat figure with leathery skin covered in disorderly stone plates that resembled ill-fitting armour. Not unlike Arwain in size, but where one was a leaf in the breeze, the other was a mossy stone.

  “You don’t seem to speak in rhyme like the rest?” Dean asked, somewhat relieved he no longer needed to interpret verse.

  In response, the figure let out a grunt and turned back toward the inner bailey. Dean followed suit as his monkey companion stirred nervously, her heads darting around as she gripped his shirt tighter.

  The atmosphere as Dean crossed the threshold felt even heavier than before, charged with a sickly anticipation. Something tugged at his senses just beyond his comprehension. LuLu’s fidgeting got worse. Dean made to calm her when the gate suddenly slammed shut behind him. He turned instinctively, but it was too late. The massive doors jolted as wooden joists fell into place, barring the gate closed.

  Turning back, the spear-wielding sprite’s face was momentarily hesitant before it solidified into a snarl. “This would have gone much easier if you stayed away, boyo...”

  From the darkened eaves of the stone building ahead emerged three more stout figures. They were armed and clad in similar helms and wore a look that was a twisted mix of mischief and malice. They advanced confidently, deliberately, savouring the approach like well-fed predators merely toying with their prey.

  Dean did not move.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  He merely held the now screaming LuLu in place and reached slowly for Shiela, only to remember, once again, he was unarmed. One of the newcomers, slightly taller than the others and wearing a wolf’s skin as a cape, stepped forward. Despite only reaching up to Dean’s navel, they were imposing.

  They looked like roided-out goblins with terminal small-man syndrome. They were not just soldiers, but bullies.

  From a few meters away, he spat at Dean, launching a glob of dark phlegm through the space between them and landing with a splat at his feet.

  “You don’t look like much. You could just roll over dead and let us take the reins. Everyone wins! Well, except you,” Ysgru taunted, leaning on his blade.

  Dean raised his hands slowly, trying his best to keep the situation from escalating. “Look, I’m not here to enter a dick measuring competition. I just want to get this trial over with and get home. Why don’t we workshop some—,” He started when LuLu decided it was a good time to scramble away from the impending trouble and out of sight.

  Steadying himself, Dean tried again. “Right now, we have an army marching this way, and all I see is the four of you. We are wasting time here. We need to prepare for a siege.”

  Ysgru tilted his head in contemplation and nodded deeply. “Good speech, a bit dramatic for my tastes, though.” He stood up from his casual pose. “I’m a creature of action, see?”

  Ysgru lunged forward, drawing their blade from its sheath and stabbing at Dean in a well-practised sneak attack.

  Dean sidestepped fast, closing the distance by spinning down the length of the blade and releasing his elbow directly into the temple of his opponent. Ysgru stumbled sideways with a grunt, but recovered quickly.

  “The pretty boy’s got some moves,” he professed, cracking his neck. “How about we make this a proper party?”

  Dean moved before the others could take advantage of their numbers. He summoned a [floating light] in front of the approaching underlings, startling them long enough for him to lash out a low kick aimed at Ysgru’s knee.

  Ysgru stepped back, avoiding the kick, and let out an attack in the same moment. The Sword caught Dean a glancing blow that tore open his boots and drawing first blood.

  Dean tucked in and rolled out of the way of the follow-up attack. Getting to his feet, he narrowly avoided a spear thrust to his groin by turning at the last moment. Using his momentum, he kicked out and caught the sentry in the ribs, sending them flying backwards and into another of the soldiers.

  Again, Dean dodged back as Ysgru slashed out a flurry of strikes, but slipped in the muddy grass and fell to his hands and knees. Dean found himself cornered against the gate, the wall-walk enclosing either side, and Ysgru standing over him, sword resting on their shoulder.

  Dean had lost.

  “Party’s over, pretty boy. It was fun while it lasted, eh? Any last words?”

  Dean started to panic. “You’re gonna kill me?! Are you fucking stupid? The quest fails if I die!”

  With a look of disappointment, Ysgru raised their sword, “those are some piss poor last words, boyo…,” and brought it down. Dean raised his hands in a meagre attempt at protecting himself from the inevitable deathblow.

  “Enough of this, your antics grow old!” The voice of the Mamau-Teg.

  Time seemed to slow.

  Ysgru hesitated.

  [Flow] kicked in.

  Dean’s already outstretched hands grasped out at the sword arm, as he shifted his weight and turned to place his hips against his opponent. With all his strength, Dean pushed his body up and pulled the arm over his shoulder, throwing Ysgru flat onto the ground with a thud. An impeccable Seoi Nage.

  With the sword arm still in Dean’s grip, he applied perhaps a bit too much pressure to the creature's wrist and wrenched the sword from the stony fingers before driving the tip through a fleshy gap in the stony being's neck.

  Dean span, picking and tossing a pebble straight into the eye of the now partially blinded sentry. Another of the bullies, now enraged, charged at Dean. Dean simply leaned aside to avoid the spear tip aimed at his neck and ran the creature through with his own oncoming force.

  Kicking the lifeless form of the former fae to the mud, the last unharmed bully made to flee from the now overwhelming force of Dean in [flow] state. Dean bent, retrieving the spear from the ground, hefted the shaft and threw.

  Without bothering to check if the missile landed true, Dean turned his attention to the sentry, who lay cradling its damaged eye socket. Flicking the gore from the blade, the sentry finally noticed Dean above him. Fear and regret flashed in the sentry’s eyes.

  “No! Plea—,” it pleaded to an entranced Dean as he raised the blade and brought it down in swift action.

  “Oh! I’m a rite Dolly!” Dean’s own voice called at him from right behind, causing him to hesitate in the instant before the blade would behead the life beneath him.

  Turning sharply, he saw it was LuLu. She stood with one pair of arms crossed, and another on her hips. A look of disapproval on her faces. [Flow] ended, and Dean kneeled before LuLu with tears welling in his eyes.

  “I’m…. I didn’t mean to do any of that, LuLu…”

  The four-armed, two-headed, winged macaque reached her arms out and wiped Dean’s tears from his face. She cooed softly in reassurance. Taking a deep, ragged breath, Dean turned to the sentry on the floor.

  He tore a section of his clean shirt beneath his overcoat and began carefully administering aid to the impaired being. “I’m sorry I did this to you,” He muttered while wrapping the injured eye. “I never meant for this to happen, aye? I just wanted to do the trail, but that pal of yours…,” he trailed off.

  “No, it should be me who apologises,” the sentry replied, propping itself up timidly on its arm, “We had grown used to Ysgru’s brutality and didn’t dare to object.”

  Dean helped the wounded soldier to his feet, and after a second of contemplation, introduced himself.

  “Apparently, you shouldn’t tell fae yer name, but I’m Dean,” he said, sticking his hand out in greeting.

  “Ah, call me Golg. It means to watch. That’s what I do. I’ve got good eyes—well, eye.”

  Dean cringed, then burst into laughter.