Original Fiction Mystery of Misty Lake (Dungeons and Dragons)

[The Original Sixth]

Chapters
Chapter One


Prologue -- September 21st, 1488
It was a cold, dark morning. Peter had silently cursed himself for not bringing his heavier cloak. He was tempted to pull the hood of his cloak up, but he did not want to risk muffling any sound he might hear. Ahead of him his brother moved, quiet as a ghost in the early morning fog, a mud-covered dagger in one hand and his other hand on the hilt of his arming sword.

Peter followed, though even more quietly than his brother had managed. Behind him, at a bit at a distance and more loudly than the brothers was a man-at-arms, a soldier by the name of Riley Reevese, who had been under the charge of Second Sergeant Cooper Hawke, who had accompanied them on the hunt. Far to the left, though Peter could neither hear nor see them, the young man knew that his father led the sergeant and another one of his men, a soldier by the name of Ash Burkee down a nearly parallel path.

The six of them had set out to hunt down a raiding party of goblins. The goblins had boldly attacked a merchant wagon on the Long Road. The goblins had killed two men who had been paid to guard the wagon, but had captured at least four more. Peter’s father had been quick to gather his sons and three men from Fort Bradley to follow on the goblin’s heels.

Goblins, though hardy creatures, could not stand the bright sun easily and slept throughout the bright hours. Their father had led their company, allowing for minimal sleep during the middle of the day and moving at a brisk pace at all other times. They had followed the goblins for two days and Peter knew that they must have been reaching the far western edge of the Misty Forest, when it would move up into the hills of the Borderlands, where many goblins lived in deep caves.

It seemed that very fact had been the company’s fortune; the goblins, who had kept a hard march while within the heart of their lord’s realm, had slowed to a more leisurely march as they’d reached the border. The six of them had practically barreled over the four goblins that had served as the rear-guard. They had been fortunate though; the goblins had been preoccupied in an argument when they had come across each other. Before they could use their signal horn to alert the others, the six men had killed them all.

Fortunate and unfortunate, Peter reflected bitterly. Although they had killed the four before they could signal the others, they had set in motion a ticking clock. The rest of the raiding party would expect the rear-guard at their camp. When they didn’t show, the goblins would do either push on into the hills, despite the pain of the bright sun--or they would turn and march back against them. And from what they had seen, there must have been a dozen of them. The company had no choice but to strike before the goblins realized that something was amiss.

The plan was a simple one. His father had scouted ahead and learned that the goblins had set up a camp in a bowl-like slope a few miles ahead of the company. The prisoners had been tied to a tree a bit north of the goblin’s campfire. The company would split in two and make a loose half-circle around the camp. They would rain arrows upon the largest cluster of goblins, the move in and finish off the survivors. Their father expected the goblins to break before that. Almost immediately, there had been complications.

The Misty Forest was known for its mist and fog, but they had gotten the worst of both. A thick mist had spread throughout the woods. That would have made it difficult to find the goblins, but something safer for the company than the goblins; who had relaxed; they’d even started a fire and began to sing. An easy target. However, a sturdy wind had come from the east. The mist had dissipated, but the fog on the ground had remained. Worse, goblins were known for having the nose of hounds. If they approached from the east, they’d have been picked up.

The company had thus moved northward of the camp and had moved south to strike from the western end. Peter didn’t need his father to warn him of the danger; while they had secured the eastern approach of any goblins, they could not be sure of the western approach. Scouts, patrols, or even messengers could come across them and foil the raid. His father, Cooper, and Riley would secure the western approach. Peter’s team, led by his older brother, would take the northern side and would be responsible for rescuing the prisoners, should the opportunity present itself.

The camp came into view. It was indeed the bowl-shape that his father had described and Peter saw the four prisoners; two men who Peter guessed to be merchants, a young man barely out of puberty, and what looked to have been one of the wagon guards. All had been badly beaten and had huddled together for warmth and safety away from the goblins. The goblins were mostly focused around the fire, where they devoured the meal of some small rabbits they had caught. Peter counted about eight around the fire, with about a dozen in all.

Suddenly, Marshall stopped Peter felt his stomach flip and he stopped short of bumping into his brother. He looked around for any sign that they had been spotted. “What is it?” he whispered to his brother.

Marshal did not answer, only held up a finger for silence. His eyes darted around the trees and bushes that surrounded the small clearing the goblins had camped in. He jabbed a finger down to their right. A goblin was picking its way up the slope. It was about two-thirds the height of a man. It had pale yellow, dirty skin. A long, hooked nose and its red eyes gleamed in the early light. Stray strands of dark hair fell from patches on its scalp. It was dressed in a ragged tunic and trousers. It carried a spiked club of wood and bone. Peter felt his throat constrict.

“Wh-what do we?” he whispered.

His brother shot him an angry glare, but did not speak. He signaled for silence, then signaled for Peter and Riley to stay. Peter signaled that he understood, then passed the signal to Riley, who signaled his own understanding. Marshall left the two and crept after the goblin, taking a path that would keep him from sight.

Peter watched, anxious. He tried to soothe the fear he had for his brother, but he found it difficult. His brother had killed several goblins, but they had been loners with no tribe. Exiles who had scavenged in the lord’s wood. If his brother made a mistake, if the goblin was able to give out even a single cry, then a dozen goblins would attack them at once.

Peter watched with admiration as his brother skillfully navigated the forest obstacles to his target. The goblin had set about to relieve itself northward. His brother had moved southward, angled as much from the west as he dared. The goblin was in the middle of relieving itself when the call of an owl from the west echoed through the forest. Peter froze; it had been the three hoots that his father had told them; they had been the signal for the attack. They had been told that they were to respond with the whistle of a jaybird to confirm the attack. A mirroring hoot would signal that they were not ready.

The goblin turned its head toward the sound of the owl. Peter felt his heart stop. He feared that the goblin would have seen them. He knew their eyes were sharp in the dark, but the goblin showed no sign of having seen them. It cocked its head, as if it did not think the owl call had been entirely correct. Slowly, it turned its head northward again and continued to relieve itself.

Peter let out a sigh of relief. He saw Marshall, who had hidden when he had heard the owl call, move again. His brother moved with more urgence. It would be too dangerous to signal their father back with the goblin still alive. The goblin let out a satisfied sigh and began to pull its trousers back up when Marshall struck.

His brother snatched the goblin by a patch of hair and yanked it backwards. Fast as a snake, he reached around and slashed open its throat, flipped the dagger around in his hand and repeatedly stabbed it in the chest. If the goblin had made any noise, Peter had not managed to hear it over the sound of the goblin’s songs.

The owl call came again.

Peter mirrored the owl call, but made only two hoots. It was the signal to delay. Peter looked to Marshall, who had disposed of the goblin. He signaled further down the slope. Peter saw it; two trees and several near bushes that was just beyond the rim of light. It was to be their ambush point.
The three young men moved to take their positions. Marshall, despite having moved further up the slope, had an easier descent and made it there much sooner than Peter and Riley. Again, the call of an owl came with three hoots. Marshall signaled for the two to hurry, so he could give the jaybird’s whistle.

“Hurry!” Peter hissed to Riley and doubled his own pace. The side of the slope that Peter and Riley had taken had several large rocks strewn about. Riley slowed to avoid them, but Peter did not. He had quickly descended such slopes before in thicker fog. He had nearly cleared them when his first came down upon a stone that had not been as sturdy as it had seemed the split second before Peter had chosen to step on it.

The stone gave way and Peter felt a sharp yelp escaped his lips. He fell and rolled three times before he managed to stop himself, in time for Riley to stumble over him and crashed loudly into a bush. Throughout it all, Peter heard the poor imitation of the jaybird’s whistle. Cries of alarm could be heard.

Peter cursed and disentangled himself from Riley. He searched for his brother and found that he had already fired his bow and claimed two goblins in the initial confusion. Peter ran to reach his brother and join in the attack. He was halfway there when he realized that Riley had not followed behind. He turned and saw the young man struggled to his feet; he had badly hurt his ankle.
“Go! Go!” he shouted.

Peter obeyed and went to aid his brother, who had claimed a third goblin with his bow, but had disposed of it in favor of his sword and a large buckler. Peter saw why; four goblins had started for the prisoners. No doubt they intended to use them as bargaining chips. Marshall held out his shield ahead of him as he ran, in hopes of stopping an arrow shot, but it had not helped. Three arrows him; two in his gambeson and the third had caught him in the thigh. His brother went down hard.

“No!” Peter yelled. “Marshall!”

The archers who had launched the arrows might have killed his brother then, but at that very moment their father and his men had emerged from the western side and cut down three of them before the goblins realized what had happened. The other five goblins hesitated and Peter sensed their will bend to the breaking point. They might have fled, had not another arrow caught Peter’s father in the collarbone and send him to the ground; the arrow had come from a goblin scout that had returned from the south.

Suddenly, the fight was back in the goblins. Two rushed to fight Cooper and Ash, while the scout from the southern end loosed an arrow. The last two turned and rushed at Marshall, intent on killing him. Before Peter knew what he was done, he had thrown himself into a full run, leapt through the scratching branches of a bush, and had imposed himself between the two goblins and his older brother. His sword was out and he had pulled his wooden heater shield free.

The goblins stopped short. Peter took stock of them; they had no shields or armor to speak of, but they did have spears in their hands and small clubs on their belts. The goblins snarled and showed him their small, jagged yellow teeth. Peter barred his own teeth and slapped his shield, displaying more bravado than he actually felt. The goblins sneered and moved apart from each other.

Peter realized that they were moving to flank him. Whether the goblin on his right had thought to catch him off guard or had simply been overeager, it lunged forward and drove its spear toward his stomach. Peter jerked his sword and deflected the blow, but he had been too frantic. A moment later, the goblin on his left made a lunge for his face and only reflex had saved him; he pulled his head back and raised his shield.

The right-hand goblin laughed and made another jab, but Peter deflected that blow away too. The left-hand goblin made a heavy jab at his shield. Peter thought the creature stupid until he felt the stabbing pain in his serratus anterior. It might have killed him, had he not reflexively raised his sword and pushed the the spear off course. His light gambeson had kept the spear from getting too deep.

Peter grunted and fumbled backwards. Somehow, he managed to retain his footing. The goblins followed after, expressions of cruel delight upon their foul faces.

“Watch out! Watch out!”

Peter stopped short. It was Marshall’s voice. Peter realized that he had given so much ground that he was perhaps a step or two away from tripping over his own brother. He looked at the goblins and saw the cunning in their eyes. They had hoped for such. Only partially foiled, the two renewed their attacks. The left-hand goblin came in first. He stabbed at the shield again.

Peter, conscious of his brother’s proximity, caught it on his shield. He felt, rather than heard, the thud of the spear tip entering the wood. When he tried to shift for the second attack however, the shield dragged him and he only just managed to keep the right-hand goblin’s spear at bay. Peter tried to jerk the shield free, but could not.

With a vicious jerk, the left-hand goblin nearly pulled Peter off-balance. The right-hand goblin lunged, but a wild swing of Peter’s sword managed to deflect it. Peter tried to regain his balance and use his greater mass to overpower the left-hand goblin, but he had been pushed too far and felt his brother’s limbs in the way. Before he could negotiate a proper footing, the right-hand goblin was moving for another thrust.

Realizing that the other goblin could not attack him with its spear lodged in his shield, Peter shifted his weight for the best possible angle to deflect the spear with his sword--an opportunity that the left-handed goblin had waited for. With strength that Peter could not believe possible from a creature so small, the goblin jerked on the shield with its spear. Peter reacted instinctively to retain his balance, but to do so, had put a foot back for stability--and found that he had nowhere else to go.

With a gasp, Peter felt his back foot lose contact with the ground. He sensed the impending spear jab and jerked away, so tripping backwards over his brother, as the goblins had planned. Too well, it seemed, for Peter had not only managed to avoid the spear, but had pulled the left-handed goblin down with him.

Terror seized Peter. He tried to get up or roll away, but there was nowhere to go with his brother’s body in the way. The goblin stood over him, its spear drawn back as it leisurely readied for the finishing blow. An evil gleam was in its eye. It lasted for only a brief moment before a horrible thwack stole the goblin’s gleam...and a leg.

The goblin howled as it fell. Peter was astonished; his brother, though on the ground and half-pinned by Peter, had managed a desperate sword-swing that had cut into the side of the leg and shattered the goblin’s shin.

“Get up! Get up!” Marshall screamed at him.

Peter struggled to get up, a task made more difficult by the left-handed goblin. It had realized what had happened to its fellow and rushed to make the killing blow itself--but it had forgotten that its spear was still stuck in Peter’s shield. It tried to extricate the tip, but this time Peter prevented it, trying to keep the shield at an angle that made it difficult for the goblin to get a straight pull. The two grunted and cursed as the goblin tried to free itself and Peter tried to keep it in check.

A loud snap and suddenly, Peter felt the shield grow lighter. The goblin rolled backwards. Somewhere, the tip had broken off. Free, Peter leapt to his feet. The goblin had gotten to its feet and had gone for the club at its belt. The club was no match; it was short and meant for attacking unarmed or vulnerable opponents. With his greater reach, Peter slapped the club out of his way and slammed his heater shield into the goblin’s fat nose.
The goblin went down screaming. A second later, Peter delivered an overhanded swing down upon its skull once, then twice. The goblin went limp and quiet. Peter stared down into the goblin’s ruined head. He felt warm vomit reach up into his throat. He fought to keep it down.

“Help! Help!”

Peter turned. Marshall was in a life and death struggle with the other goblin. Despite the loss of its leg, it had drawn its club and crawled over to finish Marshall off. Marshall was big and a strong man by any standard, but he was on his back and the goblin had a ferocious strength. It jerked to free its club-hand and when it did, it would kill Marshall in one stroke.

“No!” Peter screamed.

The goblin jerked and turned to see Peter, who had reached them in two great strides. Murderous fury turned to terror as Peter descended upon it. With the last foot of his sword, Peter shattered the side of its skull. The goblin must have released its hold at the last moment, for it practically flew off Peter’s sword and tumbled away. Peter took no chances; he leaped after it and drove his sword into its still form three times to be sure.

It was a minute before Peter was able to tear his eyes from the dead goblin. The battle had been won. Cooper and Ash had slain the other two goblins. The scout that had attacked from the south had fled when Riley, though still injured, had taken up a bow and fired on the goblin. Although he had not scored a hit, the goblin had been forced to retreat.

Relieved, Peter bent over and vomited.

 

[The Original Sixth]

Chapter One -- October 4th

“Here, right here!”

Peter stopped and bent low to examine the side of the road.

“You sure? I don’t see any tracks.” Stuart said.

Peter looked back at Stuart Winter. Stuart was a typical specisman of the people of the heartland; he had creamy white skin, deep blue eyes, and blond hair. He had a defined jaw and nose, with an average build. One of the watchmen of the town, Stuart wore the red gambeson of the watchmen and the steel helmet with a wolf-head nose guard. The watchman had been sent with Peter to track down an outlaw; a fisherman who had snuck out of town that morning and into the forest to fish on the shore of the western side of the Misty Lake.

“You won’t see any on the road,” Peter explained. He pointed along the old worn flagstones, then to the bush with the broken branches. “But someone came this way. This was recent.”

“How do you know it ain’t a deer or something that did that?” Stuart asked.

“I’ll show you,” Peter said. He took the watchman around the bush and to the slope. He found what he was looking for only a foot or so away, “See this? A boot print.”

Stuart was amazed. “You could tell all that by a broken branch?”

Peter nodded. “C’mon, he went this way.”

“What about the horses?” Stuart asked.

Peter pointed to a nearby tree, “Tie them to that branch so they won’t wander.”

“Won’t wolves get them?” Stuart asked.

“We don’t get them this far to the town,” Peter explained. “Not much to eat. They stick farther south. And if they smell the horses, they’ll probably smell us too. We won’t be gone long. Old Clive probably won’t put up a fight.”

“Alright.” Stuart secured the horses, then returned. “They won’t be going anywhere.”

Peter looked at Stuart’s spear. “Do you really need that? It’s going to be a bit difficult if we run into some undergrowth.”
Stuart nodded. “Maybe, but I want to keep it. Just in case.”

Peter shrugged and the two descended down the gentle forest slope toward the lake. The sky was golden in the evening sun and sunset was not too far off. The lakeshore was draped in the shadow of the western sun. On warmer days in the middle of summer, it was not uncommon for the steward or the lord to spend their days relaxing on the western bank, impart due to the large deposit of sand on that side of the lake, which made it a nice place to relax. Peter’s father had often taken him and his brother to fish on the western bank, a perk of being a Forester.

The mist on the lake was light that evening, with only the fewest wisps of fog upon its surface. Only toward the center of the lake, near the forbidden island, did the mist remain stubborn. From their distance, they could see only the faintest hint of structures and trees in the evening sun. A shiver ran up Peter’s spine. He did not like the Forbidden Island and was glad that he had never set foot there.

It was not any trouble finding where the fisherman had gone. Peter picked up his trail of boot prints and his eyes followed it a few hundred feet along the lakeshore, to a spot where Peter easily spotted a blanket and a fisher’s basket.
“There he is.” Stuart said. “Damn fool is going to be in the dungeon for a week after this. The sheriff won’t put in a good word for him either.”

Peter nodded and the pair approached the blanket. Even before they had gotten there, Peter sensed that something was off. The blanket was there, the fisher’s basket was there, his fishing tools were there, and two flasks of liquor were there, and even the fishing pole was there...but not the fisher. Stuart noticed this too and scanned the water, then the treeline.

“Do you see him?” he asked.

Peter felt a growing sense of unease. “No, I don’t.”

Peter reached the blanket first and held up a hand. “Stay there. I don’t want you to spoil the sand. Keep an eye out.”

“For what?” Stuart asked, nervous.

Goblins is what had come to Peter’s mind first, but he did not say so. “In case he comes back,” Peter lied. “We don’t want him running off.”

“Oh, right.” Stuart said, much at ease.

Peter focused on the blanket and the sand. The blanket offered him no immediate clues, but confirmed that Clive had been fishing on the western lakeshore. The sand offered up clues, but ones that seemed to contradict themselves. The fisherman had been there, that much was obvious. Peter saw where the fisherman had walked to set up the blanket, then heavier prints near the pole, where Peter discovered a dead worm on the hook. Peter lifted the pole and examined the imprint. He frowned.

“What?” Stuart asked.

“Nothing.” Peter said. He intentionally dropped the pole. It kicked up a small print of sand, but Peter noted it had not left the somewhat larger impression that it had when Clive had dropped it, no doubt standing up. Peter looked followed what he guessed were Clive’s last imprints. He had walked toward the lakeshore...and had not come out. Peter looked out at the lake. His eyes fell upon the Forbidden Island and he felt himself shudder.

“Hey Peter, are we still looking for Clive or what?” Stuart asked.

Peter started to speak, but stopped. He was unsure how to explain it. He turned back to the blanket and checked again; he saw no return prints back the way Clive had come, nor did he see any that led into the woods.

“He’s gone,” Peter said.

“What do you mean?” Stuart asked.

Peter explained what he had found. Stuart was just as confused as he was. “I don’t like this. We should report this to the sheriff.”

“Hold on a minute, let me think.” Peter said. He did not want to go back empty handed. The sheriff had taken a liking to him after the bravery he had shown in the goblin raid. This was his chance to show that his skills as a forester could also be put to use as a sheriff.

Peter thought hard. Had the fisherman swam away in the water? That was the only way he could have left without leaving a trail. Peter looked out for any sign that the fisher was in the water; but saw none. Nor could Peter think of a good reason why the fisherman would have been that far out nor where he could hide. Peter was sure he would have noticed the fisherman swimming away.

Another, darker idea bubbled to the surface of Peter’s thoughts, but he pressed that deep down. He glanced toward the Forbidden Island and shuddered. Instead, he focused on a more rational idea, unlikely as it seemed. Peter walked the length of the lakeshore. His idea was that the fisherman had walked in the cool water and had left the beach further up.

“Hey, where are you going?” Stuart asked. The watchman jogged to catch up.

Peter explained his idea. The watchman slapped himself on his helm. “Of course! That’s how the fox did it! You’re brilliant Peter! I would never have thought of that.”

Peter hoped he really was brilliant, because he had no other plausible explanations and the farther they walked the beach, the less credible his theory seemed. Stuart grew quieter as they walked. Peter was sure the watchman could sense his doubt. He felt his face darkened and tried to hide it by keeping his eyes glued to the sand, hoping that tracks emerged.

At last, they ran out of beach and Peter had to admit defeat. “Not a damn sign of him.” he cursed.

“Goblins?” Stuart asked, barely above a whisper.

Peter shook his head. “No sign of a struggle. No goblin tracks.”

“What if they had a boat?” Stuart asked.

Peter shook his head. “Goblins don’t like water, I think. They’ve never gone anywhere near the lake.”

“Then what happened to him?” Stuart asked, frustrated. “A man doesn’t just vanish off the face of the earth!”

“Let’s go back,” he told the watchman.

The two men returned to where the fisherman had set up his camp. Immediately, Peter began to shed his clothes.

“What are you doing?” Stuart asked.

“If he didn’t swim away, if he didn’t walk away…” Peter said, “Then he must have drowned somehow.”

“Peter…” Stuart hesitated.

Peter felt a chill. He took in a deep breath. “What is it?”

“What if...what if, you know…”

Peter looked at the watchman. He knew, but he did not want to. Stuart pointed out to the lake. Peter followed the finger to the Forbidden Island. Peter shook his head. “No.”

“But the old stories…”

“All those men vanished while on the island,” Peter said. “People don’t vanish just by being by the lake. Or on the lake, for that matter.”

“Still…”

“Are you coming or not?” Peter demanded. “We’ve wasted enough time. Sunset is coming.”

Stuart sighed and began to shed his own clothes. Peter was in the water first. He first inspected the water close to Clive’s camp, but found nothing. After Stuart joined him, they expanded the search around the area, then further out. Finally, as the sun began to set and the church bells rang the seventh bell, the two returned to the beach to warm up.

The two dried themselves on their cloaks, then began to quickly dress. It had been cold enough without having gotten wet. Stuart’s teeth chattered. “I’m going to catch my death.”

“You’ll be fine,” Peter assured him.

“If that damn fool ain’t here, then where is he?” Stuart demanded.

Peter had no answer. He consciously avoided the Forbidden Island. “Let’s gather his things. The sheriff will want to see them.”
Peter and Stuart gathered Clive’s belongings. It was only then that Peter remembered the horses. “Damn! We forgot about the horses!”

“I’ll go!” Stuart exclaimed. He raced up the beach and into the forest. Peter shoved the fisher’s tools and the blanket back into the basket, grabbed the fishing pole, and hurried to catch Peter. He couldn’t believe he had forgotten about the horses.

Ea it seemed, had been merciful. Before Peter had made it back up the slope, Stuart had reappeared. “They’re safe Peter!” he called down to him. He helped by taking the fishing pole and leading Peter back up, “They’re cross, but they ain’t gone or dead.”

Peter was relieved. They untied the horses, who were indeed grumpy, but seemed to forget their anger after the two mounted and started them at a brisk pace toward town. It was dark by the time they’d reached the gate and Stuart had to explain to the watchman at the gate that they had been out searching for Clive.

“Where is he then?” the watchman asked. He gave the two a wink. “Don’t tell me he escaped.”

The two bored him with their eyes. “Open the damn gate.” Stuart snapped.

The watchman sighed and unlocked the gate for the two. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it,” he said.

Stuart was more understanding than Peter was. “Just keep it to yourself. We gotta speak to the sheriff. Where is he?”

“Still at the barracks, I think.” the watchman said.

“Thanks.”

The two didn’t detour; they went straight for the watchmen barracks, stopping only to stable their horses and see to it that they were fed. They found the sheriff leaving his office, a candle lighting his way.

Sheriff Cuthbert Reevese was without a doubt one of the most influential men in the town and the way he walked, spoke, and dressed showed it. He had a wide-shoulder build, with thick arms and legs of muscle and fat. The man had grown a beer belly over the years, as he had ran les and drank more, but his face seemed resistant to age, with few wrinkles. His black hair had greyed at the temples, as had his goatee, but his eyes were as bright and blue as a man half his age.

Dressed almost like a noble, the sheriff preferred fine tunics of robin blue with silver lining and tassels. He wore a matching cloak and well polished brown boots and gloves. At his side he always kept an arming sword in a dyed red leather sheath. The crossguard was covered in so many sapphires and rubies that rumor had it that it was poorly balanced.

“There ya two are. I was thinking of sending out a company to find ya. Clive?” He called, then leaned over, as if the two were hiding the man, “Where is that drunk sod?”

Stuart looked to Peter, who took in a deep breath. “We couldn’t find him sheriff.” he held out the basket and the pole. “This is all we could find of him.”

The sheriff gave a low curse. He opened the door and led them into the office. Using the candle he had taken with him, he began to light several others. “Close the door,” he instructed.

Stuart did and the sheriff sat down. “What happened?” he asked. “Goblins?”

“No sheriff.” Peter said and he and Stuart explained what they had found at the beach.

“Tiamat’s teeth,” the sheriff whispered. He looked to Peter, as if he had an answer that he had not shared. “What happened to him boy? You know those woods better than me.”

Peter shook his head. “I don’t know sheriff. Near as I can say, he vanished into the lake. Drowned maybe.”

The sheriff nodded, his eyes heavy with thought. “Maybe. Maybe he wanted it to end. The man was a drunk. No telling what was going on in his mind.”

“There is something else sheriff. I didn’t want to say nothing, but I told Peter about it back at the lake.” He looked to Peter for support. Peter tried to hint that Stuart should keep quiet, but the sheriff interrupted.

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

“Well, I was thinking...you know those old legends? About the…” he lowered his voice, “About the island sir?”

The sheriff rolled his eyes. “Stuart…”

“Just hear me out sheriff!” Stuart protested. “We know something got those men long ago! My great, great, grandfather was there! Never came back! Our family never recovered his loss! I’m just saying that maybe whatever it was that got them, came and got Old Clive.”

The sheriff rubbed a temple. “Don’t be going around spreading things like that! I’ll have a riot on my hands!”

Stuart tried to protest, but the sheriff cut him off. “I said don’t! You got no proof. From what I figure, the poor fool found a way to drown himself. And I don’t want to hear any other theory from your mouth. You got me boy?”

Stuart had shrank. “Yes sheriff.”

“Good.” the sheriff said. He reached into his purse and pulled out eight pieces of silver. “You didn’t catch me my outlaw, but you boys did good work. And you seem to know when to keep your mouth shut. Take this.”

“Oh...thanks sheriff!” Ecstatic, Stuart took four of the silver coins.

Peter smiled and took the silver, but he had his doubts. “I appreciate it sheriff. I wish we’d found him.”

“Me too, me too.” the sheriff said. He seemed to have aged in that moment. “You two boys get some rest. You staying the night Peter? That road is dangerous at night.”

Peter shook his head. “I appreciate it sheriff, but I can take care of myself. I don’t want my old man to start worrying about me.”

“Suit yourself.” the sheriff said. “Stuart. Get to bed. You got the early shift tomorrow. I want you up by first bell, understood?”

At that moment, the eight bell rung. It was the curfew. The sheriff put out his candles and ushered them out of his office. Stuart and the sheriff left for their homes. Peter got his horse out of the stable and left through the west gate.