With time ticking away on her second casting, Lunish pawed at the ground, directing the group to the base of a wooded hillock. After a quick look around, Segwyn immediately began blazing a trail up the slope, the light from Tsuta's staff bobbing and winking in the darkness right behind. His hands free while Lunish waited to follow, the wizard cast a light spell of his own on the druid’s equine tail, vastly improving the visibility for those at the rear of the column.

  He shot Whydah a brief nod. “Sorry, I didn’t think of that before.”

  The caravan picked its way up the forested slopes to the hillock’s bald rocky crest. By the time Bird and Whydah came to a halt, Tsuta had already dismounted and was walking the perimeter, staff held high, scanning the wooded surroundings.

  “This should do.” His voice carried through the still evening air. “Reasonably defensible, probably decent sight lines in the daylight.”

  His assessment triggered a full dismount. Glynfir and Whydah required a bit of help before a green flash returned Lunish to her normal form.

  “How about here, Tiny?” The bald monk stood near the center of the rocky clearing, the butt of his staff wedged into a crevice, magical light bathing the surrounding area.

  Whydah’s tone was abrupt. “Yep. Everyone, gather around Tsuta with your gear.” She tossed her pack at his feet before plopping herself down unceremoniously, waiting for the others before starting the ritual. The halfling shielded her eyes as Lunish turned away, and a magical spotlight from her rear end swept across the clearing.

  “Now that’s what I call a full moon, Braids!” Tsuta quipped with a grin, nudging the halfling’s back with his toe from behind. He watched her shoulders relax before she turned with a smirk, offering him an eyeroll and a head shake.

  “What?” Lunish glanced back, scowling in embarrassment before rounding on the wizard. “Glynnie, do you mind?”

  “Sorry!” the wizard chuckled, “You do make a pretty good lighthouse, though perhaps a bit short.” Her scowl intensified, failing to see the humor, until he dismissed the spell with a snap of his fingers, deepening the surrounding shadows.

  Having tied off the horses, Bird was last to arrive at the gathering around the seated halfling. Whydah began the ritual, and within a minute, the white arcane spiral of the tiny hut wound its way to the ground in a sparkling dome.

  As everyone settled down for what remained of the night, Bird seized his window. “I have a small confession to make,” he began. Fishing the carved owl from his pack, he shot Whydah a nervous glance and a nod. Her expression was unreadable. They hadn’t spoken since her tumble back on the road, but he hoped she would still honor their prior agreement.

  He turned to Segwyn, opening his palm to expose the serpentine figurine, its polished emerald surface glinting despite the low lighting of the hut’s magical interior. “I grabbed this from a shelf at your summer house,” he continued, looking sheepishly at his feet. “I had every intention of presenting it to Lunish, as a bit of a gag, to honor her success back on the hillside—getting away with the stone and defeating the familiar.” He paused as the others gathered around to get a look. The tabby’s gaze came up as he offered it to Segwyn with a deep breath. “But a closer look at the craftsmanship, back in Chagrothlond, made me realize it might actually be pretty valuable.” His voice trailed off as the ranger held his gaze, unspeaking.

  “Anyway, I was wrong to take it without asking, and I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” He glanced at Whydah, finding no visual reassurance of her intentions.

  Everyone watched in silence as Segwyn leaned back, crossing his arms, gazing from Bird to the carved owl and back again. The tabby held his breath.

  After a long pause, the ranger finally spoke. “It takes a lot for someone to admit when they’ve made a mistake, especially publicly, like this.” His head panned from left to right, sweeping his gaze across the group before coming to rest on Bird. His chin dipped, eyebrows high as he spoke with deliberate precision, to reinforce the unspoken message. “I appreciate that, and because you’re a trusted friend, I have no reason to doubt your motivations. Thank you.”

  His forehead wrinkled as he considered the statuette, taking it from Bird’s palm. “I’ve never seen this before, but you’re right, it is extremely well-made.”

  Bird risked another glance at Whydah without turning his head. Her lips were pressed tightly together in a half-scowl. Finally, her shoulders dropped with an exhaled breath and a subtle eyeroll as she leaned in. “Are you sure it isn’t magical?” Not her best acting, but hopefully, it would do.

  The tabby let out a long breath when Segwyn curiously turned in her direction. “What makes you ask that?”

  “Well, most of the magical items I’ve seen are always very well-made, and given the jug,” she nodded to the Jug of Alchemy’s crown peeking from his pack, “it doesn’t seem like much of a stretch to think your parents may have had other enchanted objects lying around among their knick-knacks.” The halfling shrugged. “I could cast an identify spell, just to be sure, if you like?”

  Segwyn’s features twitched in acknowledgement as he nodded. “Why not? You never know.” He handed her the figurine.

  Whydah twisted around, pulling the pearl and owl feather out of her pack, setting them on the ground in front of her. Taking the statuette in one hand, she began chanting the incantation ritual, her open fingers weaving pink energy in the air. Everyone waited in silence until a pink flash surrounded her closed fist, and her eyes snapped open with a grin.

  “It’s magic, alright!” She held up the tiny green owl between her thumb and forefinger as she looked squarely at Lunish. “We may not have to put you at risk anymore, particularly when we need the services of an owl.”

  Segwyn’s back straightened. “Really? What does it do?”

  Whydah handed it back to him. “If you toss it on the ground and say its name, this little fella will turn into a giant owl that obeys your commands and can even communicate telepathically for up to eight hours. Repeat its name and it reverts to this form. It’s called a Figurine of Wondrous Power.”

  Segwyn nodded, his eyebrows arched in surprise. “I had no idea this was even there.” He turned to Bird. “Your mistake might prove very helpful in the days ahead.” The tabby felt his cheeks flush, thankful that his fur prevented the others from noticing.

  The ranger turned back to Whydah. “What’s its name?”

  “Ho,” she replied.

  A mix of confusion and disbelief rose on Segwyn’s face. “Did you say ‘Ho’?”

  The halfling nodded, stifling a grin as she heard Glynfir giggle over her shoulder. “Wait, it can read your mind and follow every command for eight hours, and it’s called ‘Ho’? That sounds just like a woman I spent a wonderful evening with in Gola-Didrith a few months back,” he chortled.

  The group let out a collective groan before Iskvold, seated next to him, delivered a stiff backhand to the wizard’s shoulder.

  “Come on,” he pleaded with a wince, “that joke practically wrote itself!”

  With the excitement of the figurine concluded, everyone returned to laying out their bedrolls, preparing for a short evening’s rest. All except Segwyn. The ranger continued to gaze at the owl in silence.

  Noticing his unmoving form, Lunish placed a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, are you okay?”

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  The ranger turned with a mild start. “What? Yeah, I was just thinking about my parents.”

  The druid cocked her head. “What about them?”

  “The owl reminded me that thing is going to end up on their doorstep.” He shrugged. “Maybe it already has…That just made me worry about them, ironically. I even toyed briefly with the idea of sending a warning.”

  “So, why don’t we?” Lunish coaxed. “Glynnie could send a message to Lyraen if you like?”

  Segwyn shook his head. “I decided against it because it may already be too late, plus I don’t really want my father involved with any of this, and once I ring that bell, there will be no turning back.”

  Within the confined space of the tiny hut, the conversation now had everyone’s attention.

  “We came and went from the entrance to your garden. So, I would expect the creature to avoid the house and stay on our trail.” Bird offered from his prone position across the hut.

  “I came to the same conclusion.” The ranger nodded before dismissing the conversation with a wave of his hand. “I’m sure it will be fine.”

  “Speaking of messages,” Lunish said. “I should let Snuggles know we’re headed for Irdri. How long is the ride?”

  “Three days, I expect,” Segwyn replied firmly. “Assuming we follow the same approach we did tonight—ride hard under the cover of your spell for the first couple hours to throw off our pursuer, before taking a normal pace for the rest of the day, then sneaking off the road to rest each evening.”

  “Okay, I’ll ask her to give Sugarplum a heads-up to expect us.” She glanced at Glynfir. “And to have our pay arranged for pick-up somewhere in town.” Stepping outside the magical confines of the hut, the druid dropped to the ground, cross-legged, sending stone already in hand. Closing her eyes in concentration as the others drifted off to sleep or meditation, she sent her magical message racing toward her counterpart at the Hub.

  Snuggles, we’re being hunted by RQ’s demon dog, headed for Irdri and Sugarplum, three days out. Please make an introduction and arrange payment.

  The glow of morning seeped in around them. From the crest of the hillock, Tsuta gazed westward out across a golden sea of wheat fields, rippling in the early morning breeze. Split only by the main road, islands of green, similar to where he now stood, dotted its surface all the way to the horizon.

  When she woke, Lunish already had a response.

  Sweetheart—will do. Be careful and keep me posted on any major developments.

  By the time the sun broke over the Glimmerstones, they had packed up, broken camp, and returned to the main road, under the veil of the druid’s Pass Without Trace spell. With one last confirming nod to the group, Segwyn dug his heels into the flank of his horse, and the caravan resumed their journey west into the arms of the Dominion stronghold of Irdri, in search of Sugarplum.

  Later that afternoon, a canine figure lurked in the leafy shadows, intently watching the southern quarter of Chagrothlond. Their scent here was about twenty-four hours old; he was gaining, but the road in either direction offered no fresher indication of departure. They had to be still in town somewhere. Even from this distance, his olfactory senses could pick up their very recent stink from either the pub on the corner or the stable next door. He sucked air through his teeth, sizing up the community. When his gaze fell on the fort, he let out a snort of disgust.

  Becoming the subject of any organized manhunt by a well-equipped military must be avoided. It was risky to engage them in town under the shadow of the fort. No, he would pinpoint their location, observe from a distance, then catch them on the road. In the meantime, he would take in the activity around the pub and stable. Long, slow breaths whispered through the quiet underbrush as he settled down to watch and wait for the cover of darkness.

  The pub proved very active and unpredictable. A constant stream of visitors came and went alone, or in groups, but always through the front door, and none gave off the scent of his prey. The rear entrance on the alley provided a second option. The floor above had potential—modest lodging that must be accessible from the interior. However, it seemed unlikely they would all spend the entire afternoon holed up in such a small space, regardless of their purpose in town.

  The stable. They had arrived on horseback and would most likely leave the same way. If their mounts were still here, so were they, at least some of them. He tracked seven humanoids, but only four horses since departing the abbey; perhaps three could move very quickly, or even fly. Regardless, the horses were the key.

  The Barghest rose to a crouch, picking his way through the foliage to a new vantage point offering a direct view of the stable’s rear doors and the side alley next to the pub. A smaller building buffered the main barn from the street, most likely the commercial front of the operation. Between the two, an open stretch of gravel offered a staging area for the deposit and retrieval of lodged horses. Over the next hour, he witnessed one of each. First, an elven woman led her white mare down the alley, and later, a slender human retrieved a brown quarter horse. In both cases, the same lone figure emerged from the barn to perform the exchange before retreating into the structure—perfect.

  In a flash of blue energy, the Barghest shifted forms, his muscular canine shape transformed into a small, green goblinoid. Straight, lank, thinning hair limply framed his reshaped, narrow face, with scaly, pointed ears protruding from either side. A bulbous, hooked nose, with gaping nostrils to match, perched above a scowling mouthful of blackened, broken teeth. Scars crisscrossed its bare chest, giving way to a ragged and dirty studded kilt and soft leather boots. Less than three feet tall at the shoulder, this more compact appearance befit the stealthy infiltration that circumstances demanded.

  In the lengthening shadows of the aging afternoon, with the town’s activity dwindling, the barghest crept from the underbrush, scuttling across the road to the barn’s rear door. Pressing a pointed ear against the painted wooden wall, one eye scanned the darkened interior through the narrow gap between the sliding door panel and the open interior beyond. Satisfied with the still silence, one green hand lifted the edge of the hanging door just wide enough. With the slightest of groans from the roller hinge, the barghest eased through the gap and into the barn.

  In the process of mucking out one of the front stalls, the creak of the rear door’s hinge caught Gern’s attention. Pitchfork in hand, he stuck his head out the stall’s open gate toward the back of the building. Currently boarding only four horses, the stable was fairly quiet, evidenced by multiple enclosure doors folded back on their hinges, disrupting his line of sight. A flash of sunlight and the gentle slap of wood on wood at the building’s far end convinced him the afternoon breeze was the culprit, and he returned to the task at hand. The tines of his pitchfork whispered against the stall’s gravel floor before sliding under a clump of soiled straw that he promptly deposited into a large bucket.

  Working his way deeper into the stall, he heard one equine snort, then another, followed by the familiar thud of horseshoes on gravel.

  “Relax,” he called over his shoulder, continuing to work. “It’s just me cleaning up the shit.”

  When he turned with another forkful, headed for the bucket, a haggard goblin with glowing red eyes stood silently in the doorway. Gern flinched in surprise, sending the load from his pitchfork back to the stall floor with a faint plop. Retreating deeper into the stall, the stable hand leveled the tool defensively in the intruder’s direction.

  “You’d better get the hell out of here, or I’ll run you through.” His muscles tensed as he shifted his weight in preparation to strike.

  A menacing grin spread across the goblin’s face as it took a step forward. In a flash of sparkling blue, the creature’s form stretched and swelled before his eyes. While some facial features remained intact, its diminutive bipedal body transformed into a hulking, otherworldly canine predator. Lower at the shoulder than a horse, it was nearly as long and just as broad; its terrifying muscular bulk crowded the doorway, blocking any hope of escape.

  Gern’s face twisted in fear as he instinctively retreated another step, his back now pressed against the stall’s rear wall. With a throaty chuckle that could easily be mistaken for a growl, the creature advanced, blocking all hope of escape. Its lips stretched into a toothy sneer as it addressed him in a deep raspy timbre.

  “You have one opportunity. Tell me what I want to know, and I may spare you. Refuse, and your pathetic existence will be forfeit before you take another step.”

  Jaw trembling, Gern felt a warm wetness spreading in his britches as he nodded dumbly.

  The barghest took another half step into the stall, his form instinctively spread wide and low. “A group of seven riders, four horses. They were here yesterday. Where did they go?”

  The words tumbled from Gern’s lips without hesitation. “West, toward Irdri.”

  The Barghest held its position, as another growl rose in its throat.

  Desperate to offer any detail that might save his life, Gern began spouting answers to questions unasked. “Right after sunset, they took off at a gallop, one transformed into a horse carrying two others.”

  The barghest raised its head, shoulders relaxing. Gern let out a long breath, the tip of his pitchfork dropping ever so slightly, believing the creature satisfied with his compliance. In one smooth motion, the barghest flexed and pounced, its full weight pinning the stable hand to the rear stable wall, jaws closed around his throat. The limbs of its prey still flailing in futile defense, an arcane sparkle surrounded the creature’s jaw before it hyperextended in gross disproportion. With gulping spasms, the barghest rapidly consumed the entirety of Gern’s twitching body in under a minute, leaving only blood spatter and a pitchfork as evidence on the straw-covered stall floor.

  Finished with its meal, the creature raised its head, drawing in a deep breath as tendrils of orange glowing mist circled its midsection, the warm sensation of the stable hand’s consumed soul stoking its power, the third he’d swallowed in the last twenty-four hours. Initially resentful after being dragged onto this plane, it was starting to really grow on him. With one final snort, the creature returned the way it had arrived, through the barn’s rear door, and took a sharp left turn on the road, headed west at top speed.

  The Glimmerstone Enigma and The Siremirian Conundrum?

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