The Green King's page

“Go, child! Your protection will not last forever.”

The Green King arches a knowing eyebrow. “Longer than your grievance will last, daughter mine.”

The Green King raises a hand. “You may not harm them. They have safe passage.”

With a sad smile, the ancient being shakes his head. “Even if it were within my power to send you that far, your journey in this land is not done.”

He leans forward, fingers steepled against the leaves on his chin. “Oh, to see as I see.” Staring at each of you in turn, he begins to speak strange words.

“Ansuz,” he intones, staring at Syper. “Thurisaz,” he continues, directed at the blacksmith. “Raidho,” he utters, gazing at Jade. “Eihwaz,” he says, pointing at Okoteck. “Kenaz,” he continues, staring at Kork. Finger outstretched toward Jaym’row, he intones the name “Fehu.”

He continues until he has spoken an eldritch word over every crewman.

“The runes shine brilliantly above your heads for those with the gift to see. Alas, by ancient law I may not prophesy for mortals, so if you wish to find your fates, follow the path to the left and seek the crone Irila.” He points to an opening in the mushrooms that you had not seen before. “Go, for your grant of safe passage grows thin.”

At that moment you notice that the flowers the Green Man gave you are already beginning to wilt.

The Green King takes in your words, blades of grass falling to earth as his brow furrows in concern. “So, the tuunbaq stalks the wastes again.”

He motions the crew to their feet again, then steeples his fingers under his chin, eyes momentarily closed in concentration.

“The old enchantment holds; it cannot enter Graenirvellir or work its dark magic on those within. But the time for dealing with him must come later. Now, as to your friend…”

The fae lord motions with his hand, and the crew drag the sled holding her slumbering form to the base of the tree.

He reaches out with his hand and places it on her forehead, a touch quite gentle for such a large being. After a moment of concern, he smiles reassuringly.

“She is strong and pure. This is good. If she had been weak or evil, she would be beyond even my power to save.” He glances at the captain and the bosun nearly straddling her sled.

“Stand back,” he commands, and they obey reluctantly. The old crone stifles a giggle, and the maiden shoots her an admonishing glance.

The Green King plants his shillelagh in the ground, and a thick carpet of leaf-coated vines begin to slink up over the sled, covering Mirian and swiftly obscuring her from sight. After a long minute, when the silence begins to grow beyond uncomfortable and verge on alarming, there is a gasp from inside the thick agglomeration of leaves, which is then swiftly torn apart as the crew works to free Mirian. As she sloughs off the leafy covering, she rolls to her left and vomits crushed ice. The gelid mess is dirty and gray, and the faintest scent of lions clings to it. But within seconds it melts, and the last of the tuunbaq’s curse vanishes with it.

“Ah, mortals. And not from Graenirvellir or the Frozen Wastes.” He inhales deeply, his mind turning with ancient memories.

“It has been many a moon since those such as you have come here.” His old, emerald-flecked eyes sweep the assembled crew. “I see that you have come to know the passionate loneliness of soul that a man can feel when the Wilderness holds him in the hollow of its illimitable hand—and laughs.” He alights on the nearest member of the party. “What business have you in my realm?” he asks kindly.