Phaze Doubt

But how could she? It would require strenuous effort to make another like her, which was impossible in the face of the Hec conquest, and even then the result would be at least ten years younger than she. So she was alone in her special fashion.

“Why do I have the feeling that despite all your talents,” Lysander asked, “you have an emptiness like that of mine before love?”

“Because you know I’m one of a kind!” she snapped. “IT never have true love!”

“You don’t need another like you for love,” he protested “All you need is a suitable companion, and a love potion. I happen to know.”

She laughed, feeling better. Maybe he was right.

The harpy returned. She flapped clumsily down until close to the ground, then manifested as Echo. “Which side do the goblins serve now?”

“Ours,” Nepe said. “All the creatures are with us, because they’ll all die if Phaze is despoiled. But if they don’t know the importance of my mission, they may figure it’s business as usual.”

“Then we had better steer around the goblin camp to our west,” Echo said.

They steered around, cutting north. But as they followed a path beside a streamlet, they heard a commotion ahead. There was a crash and a yipe, as of an animal getting snared.

“Sirel!” Nepe exclaimed, as Flach recognized the sound. “She’s in trouble!”

They charged forward, and soon were there. Sure enough, the werewolf was caught in a raised net, that had evidently been set to spring up around anyone who stepped where it was hidden across the trail. This was goblin mischief!

The net had formed a bag, that gave Sirel no purchase for escape. It closed into a rope above, that passed over a fork in a medium small tree and back down to the ground. The tree had been tied down, and when released had carried up the net, closing it about the prey. It was a clever enough device, the kind that goblins had been proficient at for centuries. All that was required for release was to untie the knot at ground level.

But the goblins were as fast as their party had been. Five of the tough little creatures charged up from the opposite extension of the path. “Dinner!” one cried exultantly. “Bitch stew!”

“Keep quiet, ‘Sander,” Nepe warned. “Echo, you talk.” She hoped they understood: the goblins must not learn the full nature of this party.

“No you don’t!” Echo cried. “That’s my wolf!”

The squat goblin chief paused, looking at her. “Thy wolf be at thy side,” he said.

“Both be mine. Cut the bitch loose, or we shall have a reckoning.”

The four other goblins began to move forward, hefting their knobby clubs. “Methinks we shall eat e’en better than we thought,” the chief said.

“I will use my talent to hurt you,” Echo threatened.

“Ye be Protonite,” the chief replied. “No magic.” Meanwhile, the four were coming close.

Echo pointed at the chief’s head. “Hurt!” she cried.

Something struck the big head. The goblin blinked, but seemed surprised rather than hurt. He brought his club around.

“Hurt!” Echo repeated, pointing to his feet.

Something crunched down on the chief’s big toes. This time he reacted more vehemently. “Ooooff!” He danced on one foot, holding the other.

Now Nepe understood what was happening. Invisible Lysander had gotten close, and was striking the goblin at Echo’s command. First on the head, which was relatively impervious, then stomping a foot, which wasn’t.

“Now cut down my wolf, or it will go hard with you,” Echo said.

“Listen, bitch—“ the goblin started, and since his kind had no respect for wolves, this was no compliment.

Then his eyes goggled. He squirmed a moment, as if suffering some kind of seizure. Lysander was putting some kind of hold on him.

“Let her go,” the chief wheezed.

The four, about to attack Echo, were puzzled. “But Chief—“

“I changed my mind,” the chief said, wincing. “We want bitch stew not.” He winced again. “We’ll hunt for something else.”

“Well, I want bitch stew!” one of the four said. He took a step forward.

But Nepe, standing quietly, had extended a tendril along the path, making it the same shade of brown as the forest floor. It had reached the goblin’s foot and fastened to it. When he took his step, she yanked—and he crashed down on his ugly face.

Echo strode forward herself, brushing past the three surprised goblins. One tried to swing at her, and she touched his shoulder with her hand, seemingly lightly. But there was the force and hardness of metal in that soft-looking hand, and the goblin jumped, bruised.

Echo caught the rope that supported the net. She started to untie it.

“Hey, thou canst not—“ the chief started. Then he winced again, and was silent.

Echo completed the job, and the rope separated. She clung to it, so that her weight counterbalanced the smaller weight of the wolf, and let Sirel down gently to the ground. The net fell open, and Sirel got to her feet and scrambled out.

The chief made one more effort to protest, but failed again. They walked past him and on down the path. When they were at a bend, the goblin gave an exclamation and crashed into the brush. They heard feet pounding.