That mysterious thunderclap must have been a signal to strike, Gohta reasoned.  It could not be coincidence the key stone camps were attacked shortly after that rogue boom.  Not only did the southwest camp report getting besieged through the communicator, but the northern camp as well fell into chaos. 

Commanding the sky in such a way was Sprite magic, which must mean one or both sprites from Bonnelle’s company watched Palical’s camp.  Or perhaps they’d followed he and Tad?  Tracking the goblin would have been easy given his constant chattering. 

Gohta looked at the boy, who crouched among shrubs and rattled like their leaves.  Tad started to rise, but Gohta shook his head in caution. 

The enemy was still out there.

Accounts of sprites were few and undetailed.  Reclusive enough in the World of Light, their kind rarely ventured into the Land of Darkness.  Gohta wracked his brain for anything that could be of use: they were mischievous forest dwellers who whispered to unsuspecting travelers to lead them astray; it was said they hid in piles of leaves with daggers, waiting for someone to fall upon them so they could slash them with tiny blades; and they had magic which was based on manipulating or exaggerating plants, animals, and weather.  It differed from dwarf magic, which specialized in enchanting objects like weapons and buildings, or wraith magic which warped and distorted the body. 

Being so small made them difficult to spot, but it also forced them to use animals to get about quickly, usually birds.  They could likely enchant the animals, too, to make them quieter.  While the beating of wings could be silenced, their surroundings would not.  Gohta closed his eyes and listened with intense intent.  His heart thrummed in his chest, Tad breathed anxiously, a squad of goblins waited in the tree above.  One of them murmured prayer to the makers.  Another nervously pulled his blade in and out of its sheath so the guard clacked against the locket. Then a branch rustled in nearby tree, where there were no other noises, not even a razor squirrel’s chitter or grumble newt’s claws scraping bark. 

Once he snapped open his eyes, Gohta glimpsed a mass reflecting the nearest bonfire’s orange light as it streaked into the tree beside him.  He stood back and drew his sword.  The glow of the molten steel cast the bark and the underside of the crown in red. For just a moment it shone against the eyes of the goblins watching from above.  “Get out of there! The sprite’s attacking,” he shouted at them. 

It was already too late.  The goblins’ faces disappeared behind branches which reached out for them.   There was screaming above.  Metal bit into wood as some fought off attack.  Goblins jumped to the ground.  Dirt caked their bleeding wounds as they rolled away. 

“It got me,” one of the goblins caught in the crown yelled.  He shouted for help, but it was cut off with a sudden snap. A moment later, his limp body dropped.

“Light up the son of a legless spider,” Gib, Palical’s foul-mouthed goblin scout, yelled from the shadows. His scratchy voice carried a cold menace to it.

A volley of arrows was loosed from all directions; bushes, other treetops, and one zipped up past Gohta’s nose as though it had sprung from his feet.  Some of the arrows were lit aflame, illuminating a spot some distance away before being launched at the tree.  Leaves flared to ash and lines of fire raced along the branches.  Somewhere amidst the pounding of metal into wood there was the pained squawk of an animal.  Then the buffeting ended. 

“That’ll teach that sap sucking gnat!”  Gib was still a disembodied voice, although now nowhere near where he’d been.

The tree’s limbs wavered as though caught in a windstorm. Then they snapped and cracked as they fell to the ground.  Lines of arrows stuck from the trunk, making it seem like a razor squirrel rearing up. In the glow of his sword, Gohta noted a small bird pinned to the tree. The shaft stuck from its heaving chest. The white feathers of its underside reflected bright against the dark bark.  One wing twitched in a feeble attempt to flap while its beak opened and closed, clow and voiceless. A line of blood dripped down the body and splattered on the ground.  Above, several limbs continued to be licked with fire while flaming leaves drifted down.

Tad crawled out of hiding.  “Did we get it?”

Keeping his sword raised, Gohta crept to the dying bird. He leaned closer to scrutinize it, bringing his enchanted blade closer for better light.  There appeared to be a tiny saddle affixed to its back. As he stared, struck by the craftsmanship of the black harness, buckles, and seat, he glimpsed something from the corner of his eye: a multicolored mushroom noiselessly bounded from one leaf to another.

The sprite!

“Stay back, Tad!” Gohta faced the attacker and readied his sword to strike. These sprites were little more than moths, Gohta thought, as the tiny figure swerved toward him.  Just as a moth might find itself consumed by a candle’s flame, he would burn his foe away!

“You killed Chirpers,” the minuscule figure shouted as she rode a leaf toward Gohta.  Bonnelle was said to have a pair of sprite siblings in her employment, Henri and Renaut. Gohta guessed this high-pitched attacker was the sister.

“We’ll eat Chirpers!” What a silly name, Gohta thought. That bird was better off dead than suffering such humiliation.  It was almost as bad as a horse being named Morning Horizon.  He charged forward, rearing his arms back for a swing.  “Because there won’t be enough of you left!” He swung. The leaf that Renaut rode became ash against the flat side of Gohta’s sword.  Striking naught but air left the orc unbalanced, however, so he spun and smacked the body of his blade against the tree.  White smoke rose from the scorched bark.  Gohta pulled the weapon away and searched about, stamping smoldering leaves as he did. 

A goblin descended a tree, gripping its trunk with hands and feet.  “You move pretty fast for someone so—” He caught himself as Gohta stared him down in anticipation of an insult.  “I mean … greetings, Warrior Gohta,” his menacing tone was softened.

 “I faced the sprite, Gib.” Gohta swung his sword at the scout, whose voice was familiar, and held the blade a hair’s breadth from the insolent goblin’s nose.  “You killed a bird.” Gohta growled at the goblin.  “Do not forget your place.”

“Understood,” Gib said.  He slinked away from the molten sword, hands up in surrender.  “Where did the sprite go?” He pointed at the burnt leaves.

“Not sure,” Gohta said.  She was still alive.  If he’d landed a blow with his sword it would have left something more substantial than the puff of ash.  Without her bird, though, she couldn’t have gone far.  “She can turn the forest against us, apparently.”

Gib sneered at Gohta a moment, seemingly annoyed by such an obvious statement.  He wrapped his hands around his own throat to mimic being strangled, accompanied with choking gurgles. “Sprite magic.  It makes the branches come alive and strangle or stab you.” He shrugged.  “I lost Yob and Stayd in the camp. Peyn is alive.” He pointed above. “But his face is all sliced up.  One of his eyes fell out!”

Gohta winced. “Where is Palical?”

“I don’t know, somewhere out in the woods.” Gib waved his hands towards the bonfires.  Gohta vaguely recalled seeing Palical take off in the other direction once the attack began.  There was some noise in the distance; he was likely dealing with the other sprite over there.

Tad approached them.  The other goblin scouts gathered by Gohta’s feet.  Gohta sighed with the realization he’d been stuck with the lesser of Palical’s troops.  “They split our forces.  Their real target is Palical; he has the key stone.”

“The boss,” Gib shouted, panic twisting his voice.  “We need to support him!” The goblin attempted to dash away but found himself blocked once Gohta chopped Burn Blade into the ground before him.

“I am of War Master Hohza’s War Party; I give the orders here,” Gohta reminded the goblin.  “I haven’t ordered us to rejoin War Master Palical.”

Tad raised his hand.  After some awkward stares Tad spoke up. He pointed at the now still bird on the tree. “Gohta, if we’ve killed the sprite’s ride then it stands to reason its mobility has been impaired.  If we rush to Palical now then with the additional forces we could take out that sprite before this one can help it.”

Nodding his head, Gib said “the kid may be green as his skin, but he has a solid point.”

With a grudging “fine” Gohta began walking towards the main camp.  Although he would have preferred to move cautiously, watching their surroundings for the sprite, Tad raced ahead. 

Pausing at the brink of the campground, Tad turned to the others.  “Do you hear that?”

Gohta heard nothing besides the fires.  No, under it seemed to be some kind of babble. Voices? “Sprite tricks.  Ignore it,” he said.

Ignoring the suggestion the goblin threw himself toward his boar, still slumbering by the bonfire, and snatched up his satchel.

Although Gohta’s buffalo roamed about, snacking on the fauna, he had at least seemed ready to fight in the panic immediately after the attack began.  The animal approached Gohta, who patted the fluffy hairs on top of his head. 

“No, it’s the communicator!” Tad pulled the device from his bag.  The boar stirred with a snort and then lapped at his cheek as he held the communicator to his face.  Tad tried pushing off the animal, but Keg was insistent.

Gib, with his scouts following close behind, ran past Gohta to join Tad.  Not a one reached higher than his knees. It seemed an embarrassing troupe to command. The orc stayed behind.  If they wanted to be reckless, he would let them.  Instead, Gohta retraced his steps and returned to the tree which now sported more arrows than branches. 

The sprite’s bird, Chirpers, was gone.

“I came back for my snack,” Gohta announced with mocking bravado.  “The bonfire at camp reminded me I had a bird to roast!”  He waited a moment.  “I know you’re still here,” he glowered, brandishing the scorching blade in his right hand.  He circled around the tree while keeping his sword ready to strike.

In his periphery, to the right, was a thin line.  Barely a hair’s width, it reflected the blue light of the moon.  The bulk dangling at the end was no spider descending on its silk, but the sprite looking like an oversized mushroom grasping at the thread’s end.  Gohta twisted and raised his right knee to punt Renaut away.  

“Foul brute,” the sprite shouted as she was flung.  The thread pulled for a moment and then broke with a twang.  Renaut soared through the air and landed on a long-fallen tree’s stump.   

Gohta rushed over and reached for his foe as she lay there, centered among the rings.  Once his left hand was poised over her there was a whistle, followed by a sharp pain in his palm.  Pulling his hand back he angled it into the light of his sword and saw the sparkle of tiny shards caught there.  They stung as he swiped his right hand against his pant leg.  While some pieces dug deeper, most were scraped fee.

He looked against and saw the stump was unoccupied. 

“Your bird is still dead,” Gohta taunted.  He roamed the clearing, still watching for anything out of place.  It was for the best Tad and the other goblins were occupied in the camp; they’d only be a distraction.  He and the sprite seemed determined to duel it out.

The tree they’d attacked until it was bare no longer burned.  Why had Renaut taken the bird?  They were in the middle of a battle and claiming the bodies of the dead seemed a silly thing to distract oneself with.  Even the goblins she’d slain remained piled at the base.  If the distant sounds were any indication, her brother could use help. Did she mean to bury it like some fallen comrade? No, it would take too long to dig a hole deep enough to hide the bird’s body from scavengers. 

A pyre! Gohta turned, his bare feet sliding against the forest floor and sweeping it clean of brush in a wide arc. His enemy would be too rushed to cover her tracks.  Holding up his sword like a torch, Gohta looked at the base of the damaged tree and saw a spot where the bird’s blood had dripped. The twigs and old leaves were cleared there and the trail of something dragged through the dirt lead Gohta to a pile of twigs and leaves some paces away.  An arrow shaft stood up from it while the edges of feathers peeked from the bottom.

“A little excessive for a bird, isn’t it?” Gohta touched the tip of Burn Blade to the pile.  He held it there a moment and it began to smoke.  Then flames burst along the twigs.

“How would you feel if I killed your buffalo?” She sounded disturbingly near, as though she sat on his left shoulder.  A glance there showed she wasn’t.

“I’d find another animal to ride,” he shrugged.  The pyre was now lit, smoke rising from it with the faint aroma of roasting bird tainted by the acrid odor of burning feathers.

“I bet it’s hard to find one that carry your fat.”

Almost at eye level, to his right, Gohta saw the sprite.  She stood on a bough, her robe draping over the side.  Gohta wandered in her direction, but kept turned to the right, as though he still sought her.  “It was a challenge, but not impossible.  Probably only slightly harder than killing you and your brother will prove.” Now close enough, the orc reached out and snatched the sprite in his left hand.  In it a mushroom draped in leaves crumbled.  Something mixed into them stung the cuts on his palm.  Gohta pitched the decoy to the ground.  “Enough of this! Face me,” he roared, raising his sword into the air.  It sizzled some leaves as he held it aloft.  Then something struck his hand.

When he lowered the sword, he looked and saw spiderwebs wound about his fingers which bound his fist around the hilt.  “You idiot! You’ve only made my grip surer!” He stepped away, waving the blade from side-to-side while his tongue hung from his mouth in lurid delight.

“But how will you eat if you can’t free one hand and the other’s all cut up?” The sprite lowered herself from another line of web.  Did she think he’d be dumb enough to reach for her with his free hand?  With a cruel smile Gohta punched at her with his web-covered fist.  The sprite’s robe clung to the sticky substance.  She screamed as he tore her from her tether and wasted no time making a fist with his other hand to pound her.  He was surprised at how much cushioning the robes seemed to provide as they were crushed under his knuckles.  He could barely feel her minute body beneath the clothes. 

“Now what have you to say for yourself?” Gohta smiled at Renaut.  Her hood had fallen back, revealing her bulging black eyes and almond shaped, iridescent face like a beetle’s back.  Her antennae spasmed wildly. 

“Burning and bile ends your smile,” she snarled.  She turned her head to the side as her cheeks ballooned.  Then she yawned wide to spew bright yellow stream that coating Gohta’s hand.  A moment later the fluid began to bubble, and his skin burned.  The webbing dissolved away. 

Opening his hand, the sprite fell away along with the sword.  It was all a blur of light and shadow while Gohta’s eyes welled with tears from the searing pain of Renaut’s vomit. More concerned with the sizzling on his fingers than the fuming undergrowth around his dropped sword, Gohta fell to his knees. He grabbed a fistful of rotten leaves and rubbed them against his burning right hand.  Their dampness soothed as the frothing milky acid was scrubbed away from his knuckles.  The skin there was worn and bright now, as though layers had been stripped off, and blisters grew over his knuckles. He retrieved his sword and stomped out the flames which had sprouted around the blade’s edges. 

He stalked towards the tree. The sprite lay against a root, her head lolling in a daze, the robe rising with heavy, uneven breaths. Not bothering to spare a jibe, Gohta lifted his right foot, ready to crush her.   

Renaut flung her right hand into the air and whistled the tune of a summer breeze. At that moment, several leaves plucked themselves from their stems and blew into Gohta’s face.

“Is that the best you can do?” Gohta stumbled back, laughing, as he picked a leaf off his nose.

“Now you are bidden, branch to your children,” the sprite said.

There was a creak. Gohta looked up, and barely glimpsed the tree limb that cracked across his face before he fell unconscious.