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We break down the changes coming to the ‘Stack and talk about a possible nuke and the drones!Fun abounds.Nick and the Medusa are back! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit nickcole.substack.com/subscribe

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Today, Walt Robillard and I are giving you a sneak peek at a new project we've been working on. Give it a read (below), or a listen (Above), and check it out, and yeah, that's Walt's killer voice doing the narration.Hobo Recon:Hard Luck and TroublebyNick Cole and Walt RobillardChapter OneHobos in the Wind“This is why we can't have nice things, Troubs!” Hardy shouted across the cargo containers in the yard.            It'd been a while since he'd had to draw the heater, much less fire it. This wasn't the gun he'd normally shuck from beneath his worn patchwork “dirty” military jacket when things went south fast and desperate. The dialed-up M4.  This was definitely the shotty he used for tense negotiations with uncertain characters who harbored bad intentions.Bad intentions was everyday and everyone now days. In these times.He pulled that shotgun from under the coat where it dangled on a single point underarm sling as he ate up the miles and rode the rails. A model 870 SPS Marine Magnum he'd rattle-canned to look more used, weathered, subdued. On the road and the kinda gun a desperate man lookin' for work might use to protect himself in these lawless times. He'd save his sidearm for the real intense gunfights up close that needed more rounds on target. Less fiddling with the firearm when he wanted to put a hurt on someone. The double stack mag held enough, “go screw yerself,” forty-five caliber ACP. Usually good to get out of whatever scrape he and Trouble had gotten themselves into this time behind enemy lines and in service to SOCOM and the Heartland that was all that remained of the U.S.             Trouble—because it wasn't a middle name, it was really… who he was—Troubs had his head shoved into the open cargo container in the shipping yard, using his teeth to strip off the casing around a wire he was working. He had a multi-tool with wire strippers too. The ones all those old EOD guys carried back in the day on their rig and chest plate carriers in the wars in other places not the battleground they found themselves in now… America. Still America regardless of what all factions were involved and especially the ChiComs.The sudden appearance of a Chinese security agent had Trouble stripping wires with his teeth for expediency in order to, “get it done in one, son.”It didn't help that Hard Luck had been muttering that same phrase as he got ready to distribute some hate-spray from the barrel of the rattle-canned 870. Rattle-canned old BDU multicam because that was the way the world was now, and the lands they found themselves in, and was the camo of the day when they'd both started out as Eleven Bravo privates in the last days of the Old Cold War.Not the hot one now.            The unlucky and early security agent was currently dead behind where Trouble was kneeling, large caliber holes bleeding over his gray uniform and onto the wet pavement of the yard.            “Brah, that shot was like Mozart on a motorcycle. That's how we do it, my brother in combat arms!” Trouble quietly exclaimed as he twisted the end of the newly exposed wire, pumped his fist, and continued whatever Def Leppard song he was keeping time to, to get his EOD on like he'd always done. Then he pumped his fist again and bit his lip, hearing some searing unheard guitar solo from long ago. “Need me a little cover while I finish this last bit, Hardy.”            Hard Luck.            SFC James C. Hardy. SOCOM. Eighteen Bravo. Shoulda been a Master Sergeant before retirement. But he spent some unrated time doing dark stuff in uncertain places along the way for shadows that didn't want to come out into the light before America got sold out by those shadows and all that was left was SOCOM to defend the Heartland and give the Chinese and the rest a bad time. There was the 82nd too, even though they were stuck in the irradiated remains of Russian-occupied Poland and fighting for their lives living on dead horses and hate. The Marines held Sand Diego and were officially listed as insurrectionists and traitors, allies of Russia.            But that wasn't true. Not at all.            Eighteen Bravo.  The weapons sergeant within the Special Forces career field, employs conventional and unconventional warfare tactics and techniques in individual and small unit infantry operations. Employs individual domestic, foreign small arms, light and heavy crew-served weapons, anti-aircraft and anti-armor weapons. He is… a master of all weapons.            And don't ask about the Rangers and where they are in the mess we find ourselves in called America's Darkest Hours on a good day. All four Battalions were dead. As they say in SOCOM, “Ain't no Rangers here,” and then those that can, point to where they once rolled the scroll and wink. “They just on the fade.”               Hardy leaned into the shadows beside his own container he was covering from. No use standing in the same spot as his partner. The guy was either going to blow himself up or get trounced by the incoming security responding to the shots. Why risk both of them getting schwacked?            “You were supposed to wait,” Hardy muttered as he scanned the misty and wet dark.            “I was supposed to be a rock star,” Trouble responded, humming metal to himself as he cursed the wire he was working with. “Playing the axe at night; beach, beer, fish tacos by day. Maybe even charm my way to seeing a bikini hanging off the end of the bed post, ya know? Life comes at ya fast, Hardy, but don't worry… Trouble's my name and causin' it is my… game,” he whispered almost to himself as he continued to solve the problems in his hands.            SFC Stephen X. Bach. Eighteen Charlie.  SFC when he shoulda retired at least an E8 just a few years ago as things began to get truly weird and surreal and even the Army lost its mind and lowered standards, painted nails and even let some girls wear the Ranger Tab when no one who's actually earned one thinks they even got remotely close to meeting standard without a lotta help along the way.            Eighteen Charlie. Special Force engineer sergeants are specialists across a wide range of disciplines, from demolitions and constructions of field fortifications to topographic survey techniques.            Trouble was his tag with SOCOM, and it wasn't because he was cool. He caused it on mission more than effectively, on behalf of the teams, and didn't stop back behind the wire when it was generally not needed or in his own best interest.            So… Trouble had run his mouth about the general current state of affairs, and if he wasn't so highly decorated that some of his awards were redacted, and so competent at the delicate art of high explosives… then he might have found himself with an even lower rank and very little retirement in light of the various courts martial and articles of offense.            But he knew real bad guys in high places even there at the end of all things. And so, he'd gotten a chance to walk with some retirement and rank for the last six months of America.            “Then get it done, and don't be that guy,” Hardy growled. Trouble liked to talk it up when things were getting thick.And things were getting definitely thick.Like the song lyrics from long ago Trouble always had running… It was distracting. Not to mention, Trouble had a tendency to sip his own cool aid, or so Hardy thought. “Got more coming.”Matter of fact statement. No drama. It was about to be get-it-on-thirty in the midnight yard of bad decisions and insertion behind enemy lines with assets to deny and mayhem to be caused.            The sound of rushing boots thumping across the wet concrete was getting louder, as was the group barking loudly in Mandarin the way the Chinese do as they approached the x they had no idea they were walking onto. It was funny how the Chinese all ran the same way, or at least, that's how it sounded to Hardy. And it… bemused him. He was a thinker, and he'd never have used that ten-cent word on the teams. But in his mind, that and other words like it… they were there. He was a reader, and a thinker. And so, to Hard Luck all the Chinese seemed to have that same mincing pitter-patter run where they never really stepped it out like they were Usain Bolt intent on not just winning… but winning with icing. It was like watching that cartoon Martian run while trying to nab a, “P-32 ulidium space modulator!”            Or whatever it was.            Of course, the newer generation had no clue about good ol' Marvin, but that didn't mean it wasn't funny.            And…            “Sucks to be them,” exhaled Hard Luck and readied the shotty for sudden thunder.            The Chinese shouts changed to whispers as the pitter-patter running soldiers got to the container group close to the two operators. Hardy knew the trick. Direct the guys into the target, then shift to the radios to keep their opponents guessing as to what came next. Only, the two operators had seen this particular Chinese trick before, as this wasn't the first time he and Trouble had gone up against the Puffies.            Of course, their enemy didn't refer to themselves as Puffies because their units always went about with names to make them feel special. Hardy got the intel on these mooks a couple of weeks ago when Trouble blew up that cargo ship down in the gulf. They'd called themselves Thunder of the Gods and gay stuff like that. Because of course they did. And this was a reference to the People's Liberation Army Air Force's Airborne Brigade.            Which was who they were facing today. This was their operation area on the road to New Orleans.            Now, sounding all that out had been a mouthful for the various teams rolling out of the SRC, and instead of just shortening it to PLAAF, it came out like Puff. The few Puffies that Hardy's unit had managed to capture and talk to, got all sorts of mad about the slur. Which was great when they caught and released a few of them to spread the legend of the Special Reconnaissance Companies SOCOM had deployed into Occupied America. Get the rest of the Puffies all nervous about facing an invisible covert military force hiding in plain sight within the subjugated population.            Ghosts in the night in plain sight.            And deadly ghosts at that.            Some of the SRC teams had even conducted massacres that were simply bone-chilling so the Chinese could have their very own boogie men to be afraid of in the night.            What had Colonel Spear said when he created the Special Recon Teams for SOCOM as it waged its war out of what remained of North Carolina and the battle lines down in Georgia… "Now they will know why they are afraid of the dark. Now they learn why they fear the night."            One of the nerdy Green Berets, an 18 Delta, had told everyone that was a line from Conan the Barbarian. No one cared and all agreed it was as cool as it gets. And if there's anything Green Berets love… it's cool stuff that's super deadly. See the tats since ‘Nam for examples. Cobras, skulls, knives… women.            The Puffies had rightly guessed Trouble and Hardy would eventually come after this cargo depot along the gulf after they'd slagged that cargo ship. So, the Chinese high command out of New Orleans had deployed a company of PLAAF airborne forward in the hopes word would get out, and the “American GI special forces terrorists” prowling the Area of Operations North of New Orleans would come and enter the dragnet the PRC had thrown across much of the South and Southwest of what the maps once called the United States of America.They were anything but united.Most of the States that remained were fighting for themselves with what little was left of their veterans and National Guard. What was known as “Caliphistan” centered around the Midwest out of Michigan, was engaged in a brutal no-holds-barred plains war with the Chinese 3rd Army and being supplied and trained by SOCOM with what could be begged, borrowed, or stolen.California was behind enemy lines except for Marine-held San Diego and some warlord in Los Angeles, Orange, Riverside, and parts of San Bernardino proclaiming an independent nation called Vanistan and being held by heavily armed and mobile militia.They had vans.            Hardy scanned the angles and shadows of the cargo containers past where Trouble was working.            Their night vision had been a step up from what he'd had when he'd been a regular grunt. The overhead lighting shining down on them from gantries and industrial light towers of the cargo yard situated around the cargo docks didn't even factor in to how these new NODs worked out in the dark. Running next gen night vision based on the ENVG-B—still in use—their gear just factored in the lighting and highlighted anything warmer than the surroundings. Complex motion tracking fed into augmented reality, highlighted potential targets and let the soldier see in complex low light conditions.            “Trubs,” Hardy said quietly into his throat mic. “Hooking out to get an angle on our new friends.”            “Gonna leave me here all by my lonesome,” Trouble joked. “You know… I'm afraid of the dark, right?”            “NODs and that red lens you're working ain't enough?” Hardy asked.            Trouble waved the flashlight in the direction of the incoming Puffies. “Seriously, come over here and hold my hand while I finish this. You know how I get.”            Hardy knew all too well, which is why he left his partner alone to finish his chore.            He slipped past several of the containers, then used a small stack of metal frames to vault himself to the top of the nearest CONEX. The cargo containers were the standard variety, so he had to move cautiously as he jumped, then crept across the top of the ribbed metal box. Walk too fast and he'd sound like he was pounding on a metal drum with each footstep. After jumping across several of the boxes, Hardy had a good line of sight to Trouble and several avenues of approach.            The operator leaned into the shadows against the cargo container stack, then removed his cell phone from the sleeve pocket of his patrol parka. Set to lowlight conditions, the EUD—End User Device—was loaded with the latest and greatest ATAK interface, allowing Hardy to act as a battlefield information hub. The screen was already pinging two angles of approach off the trip sensors Hardy had placed when they'd first snuck into the yard.            The fact they were coming at all worried the veteran operator. He scratched the few days' worth of stubble on his chin, trying to figure where they'd botched the insert and alerted this security detail tasked with holding the yards. The Chinese had their own version of EUDs, and if they ran something like the Android Team Awareness Kit, all it would've taken was for Hardy and Trouble to trip a sensor they'd missed, and the soldier responsible for the zone would have called it in.            Hardy shook his head, internally bashing himself for not being more careful. It's why they'd taken to calling him Hard Luck for his call-sign. Throughout his military career and now out in the Special Recon Companies, he'd never found a stretch of bad luck that didn't stick to him. And that included being partnered with Trouble.            That guy was bad luck personified.            Looking up from his EUD, Hardy saw the Chinese first fire team angling on the objective. A single soldier with three more behind him was trying to pie the corner as though this was the first time he'd done it for real. Hardy had to give the Asian kid credit though, he was sticking his QBZ-191 rifle around the corner, trusting the optic to broadcast whatever was past the CONEX to his night vision, so the soldier didn't have to stick his head in the open and get it blown off.            SOCOM's PsyOps guys had made sure all the illegal social media sites still operational were filled with GoPros of Chinese guys getting their heads blown off. Some of them were even real. AI made the rest.            Hard Luck, that internal monologue, that thinking machine he was, a thinking-killing machine who'd even had profound thoughts while running a belt fed two-forty in a hostile combat zone and laying some serious hate, that thinking machine he was always… wondered…            Warfare had gotten weird when advanced sighting devices operated on wireless link tech and rifles could see around corners.            It wasn't… fair. But when was war ever fair. He'd seen enough kids get talked into it only to end up lying in the tall grass by some road a few days later. Just where he'd left them.            No, there was nothing fair about war.            Now that it wasn't close quarters in the dark, he gently let the shotty slide back under his old “down and out in occupied America” hobo-coat and shucked the heater.            The heater.            It wasn't an issued weapon. There were very few issued-weapons for SOCOM, and all the kids and whoever would show up to get trained on them and sent out to die in any of the seven directions the heartland was being attacked from. Plus… shipping and transport weren't easy.            In the SRTs everything went on your back just like the old LRRP teams in Vietnam. And you looked like a hobo so you could pass with all the refugees, transients, and mad homeless displaced by the war, or just… whatever.            You looked like a hobo because you were… a hobo.            The heater was his own personal truck gun he'd dragged everywhere from Bragg to wherever he got stationed along the way.            Everything on it was his. Paid for by his salary. Just in case it hit the fan. Just in case he got invaded at home one night, wherever home happened to be between deployments. Honestly, he'd never thought he'd need it for what he was using it for now.            A domestic insurgency.            But he sure had built it to do the trick.            It was a Daniel Defense MK18 with a ten-inch threaded barrel he could go quiet with. He had jungle-mags ready to go and one stack in. Along the barrel he had illuminate and IR. He'd added a BCM foregrip and done some work with the internals to get it just where he wanted it to run. He had a match grade flat-trigger because that felt best for the tap. The optic was a basic Aimpoint T-1. It didn't look tactical-cool guy but if you knew you knew. The T1 was a great optic system if you needed to keep both eyes open and see everything while keeping the dot on target.            And in the SRTs, outnumbered, behind lines, running gun fights and using everything and being as aware as possible, wasn't just optimal or maximal… it was vital to continued birthday parties.            Hardy lined up his optic to target and let the heater bark. The first round caught the kid in the neck, splattering a good amount of the kid's blood across the CONEX's side panel. The assault took the trio behind the kid by surprise, forcing them to turn and instantly shoot in all directions except up because they weren't fighting Batman. Hardy covered behind the metal boxes, trusting their contents to bullet sponge enough of the bouncing rounds to keep him from getting accidentally blasted.            Then… leaning from cover, Hardy put a trio of shots that tore off the commie soldier's face, before transitioning to the third trooper in the stack. Then he sent more rounds sailing past the number three paratrooper's chin and behind the space at the top of his chest where the armor didn't cover.            And thinking-killing machine he was… he reflected that it was good “commie” was back in use as the dirty word it really was.            It was the truth.            And it was always good to stack them.                       The fourth Chinese paratrooper decided to run for it when he couldn't find the spot the shooting was coming from. In a show of solidarity, he grabbed the trooper who'd just soaked up rounds behind his chest plate, dragging the downed soldier to cover with him.            Probably thinking he was gonna get a medal someday for this.            Poor Schmoe, thought Hard Luck, guy didn't observe the first rule of combat first aid, and it was going to cost him. Now. Hardy lined up the optic dot to the soldier's hip, having already figured out the sight was probably off because he'd been shooting center mass but hitting high. The thinking but really killing machine part of his mind doing that math too… and then his suspicion got confirmed when the rounds punched into the spot on the Chinese soldier's back right behind and beneath his shoulder, once again where their PLA armor didn't cover.            The round tore into the kid's torso, punching him to the ground next to his friend he was gonna rescue and get a medal for, and twenty years after, they'd drink Tsing Taos and celebrate a ChiCom-dominated world they'd made happen, with their little part, and managed to survive as they watched their loud children shout, and their pretty wives dote over them.Now both PLA troopers gasped for air and coughed out blood-soaked ragged Chinese, definitely drawing all sorts of attention to the hate he'd laid on them.Now we wait, he thought.Killing Machine taking over in the night and the dark and the mist.            Hardy jumped across the space to the next set of containers, allowing him to get a better view of the opposite line of advance. “Trouble, how long, man?”            The radio broke squelch in the small earpiece he wore under his hood. “Hard Luck, this is Trouble, coming at you with all the classic rock your ears can swallow!”            Great, Hardy thought. Could this guy really not take anything seriously?            The operator pushed the toggle for his PTT and growled, “Trubs, how long?”            “Closing it up now,” Trouble said. “Moving to zone two, pushing out at the crane, toward the water.”            “Roger out,” Hardy said, cutting the comms.            They'd sand-tabled this. They'd done it many times without each other in other teams not this one and other days better than this. And together, lately, Hard Luck and Trouble were becoming known for this little act of behind the lines terrorism.            Miss USA on the Nightly Free America Broadcast has even noted them in the scramble codes sent to the military and operators as far behind lines as North Dakota and New Mexico where the Chinese ran their death camps night and day, and hope is just a voice in the night right now. Near the end of the broadcast. Her warm voice coming in clear.            “Chris… sleeps until dawn.”            “The number is forty-two.”            “And to all the patriots listening tonight out there in the dark… Our boys with the Raiders and the Packers thank two particular hobos for their roadside assistance at Route Twenty-Four with the Chinese Column moving in on Nashville that was causing many patriots in the area much Hard Luck and Trouble. The supplies are through, and the children have been evacuated back into the Homeland behind the Green Zone. Thank you, boys.”            Then…            “There's a match in Peterborough. No Slack in effect.”            And finally…            “That's the news for tonight, America. Stay in the fight. We aren't done yet. Good night. And now… The Star Spangled Banner. The lights are still on.”            Both men had listened in that night after a long and very hard day on the hump, sleeping in a wet ditch out near a county road. It was cold. They'd said nothing. In the dark a few minutes later, Trouble spoke. He was gonna take first watch as they faded off the hit, avoiding Chinese Air Cav Hunter killer teams that had been roaming the countryside in HINDs.“She sounds hot, Hardy. Like that girl on the White Snake video back in the day. Remember her?”“Yeah,” said Hard Luck with his poncho pulled over him and the shotty in one hand nearby on his pack. “I do.”Pause.Then…“Do you think she's hot? Miss USA.”Hard Luck was fading. Dreaming that dream he never told anyone about.But just before he'd fallen asleep, he said, “I think she's good, Trouble. And that's what makes her beautiful.”And then Trouble might have grunted or said, “Okay.” But Hard Luck had gone to that other world that didn't exist anymore. Yesterday, some call it.But that wasn't now. Now they were in the fight in the supply yard with the PLA airborne thinking they had them right where they wanted them, barking Mandarin radio chatter and thumping hard heavy too-short-step boots and even untargeted fire at ghosts and phantoms in the mist.They were conscripts after all. They were afraid. Afraid of the PRC. And now, down range and right near the boogie men… they were afraid of the hobos that had come for them.            Another fire team of Chinese paratroopers slowly advanced to the corner of the new row of containers Hardy now faced. They mimicked the first group of soldiers, sticking their rifles around the corner to let the optics assume the risk. When they dropped their field of view on the fire team dying across from them, they retreated from the corner and broke out in a heated conversation of harsh whispers.            Yeah, the operator could smell their fear.            Behind the dying paratroopers on the ground Hard Luck had put rounds on target into, a third fire team slowly advanced, careful not to get too close to the fatal CONEX corner. They fanned out, with the tail man in the stack launching a slick matte-black drone.            Hushing-hushing in the way of Chinese battle-speak.            That was smart of them, Hardy thought. Get some eyes in the air and cover the ground quickly to find their targets. What they didn't count on was Trouble sliding in behind them, running his knife out the front of the drone trooper's neck, starting from somewhere near his ear. The battlefield surgery was grizzly, wet work, but Trouble seemed to be totally cool with it, going so far as to gently lay the soldier down and relieve him of his drone controller even as his buddies, soon to be bodies, were eyes forward and fighting for the Fatherland or whatever the godless b******s believed in these days.            With a few deft taps on the screen, Trouble had a good grip on the flight mechanic and stepped back into the shadows, fading from the fire team of Chinese paratroopers. Hardy watched as his wingman sailed the drone across the cargo yard, dropping it in line with the enemy crew close to him. They froze in place, unsure of what to make of the machine hovering in front of them at eye level.            “Hard Luck, this is Trouble. If you wouldn't mind taking advantage of the little distraction I just created, I'd appreciate it.”            There were times when James “Hard Luck” Hardy really wanted to punch his partner straight up in the grill. They all paled in comparison to those times when Trouble just couldn't be serious about an operation. Times like now.            Hardy reached into his pack, pulling a grenade from where it was taped to the inside. He yanked the pin and let the spoon fly. After mentally ticking off a count of One Mississippi, the operator flicked the weapon over the CONEX boxes to land in the middle of the fire team.            The grenade rolled and then popped, its kinetic fury suddenly and obnoxiously ignoring the Chinese soldiers' armor and planting them onto the pavement in piles of ruined meat and shredded gear.To them it was sudden and brutal, and none of the Chinese propaganda about “a glorious war of liberation” matched their violent deaths. The close proximity to the cargo containers funneled some of the blast and over-pressure across the way, startling the final team of Chinese paratroopers on approach to where they thought their boogie men might be. This group stumbled backward behind the cover of the containers, suddenly shouting in their hushed and harsh speech pattern… only to come face to face with Trouble ready to take advantage of their surprise, as they'd retreated to where they thought they might be safe.Trouble's thoughts were synched to “Breakin' the Law” by Judas Priest as he assessed the funnel they'd been forced into. The funnel and area they'd chosen as… safe.“Ain't nowhere safe in America for you,” hissed the operator.            He muzzle-thumped the first man to see he was there, pushing the suppressed Berretta pistol into the soldier's throat. The paratrooper doubled over, coughing and holding his throat after the hit. Trouble lowered himself at the same time, using the stunned soldier as cover. Angling to the side, the predatory operator sent two rounds into the lower torso of the next guy in the stack, dropping him to the concrete. He lowered the pistol to the man recovering from the throat hit, sent a round through the top of the man's boot, then followed him through a series of pain-soaked hops as he tried to recover his balance.            This was a song.            Just like all the ones he'd learned on his guitar as a kid. And they were his sheet music as he moved them about in a fatal dance of lead and death at twenty-four hundred feet per second.            Seeing how quickly things had devolved into chaos, the last man ran into the intersection, probably hoping the smoke and noise of the grenade going off in the intersection would hide his escape. All it did was bring him into Hardy's sight picture, where the concealed operator put a single round into the soldier's leg, adjusting the aim on the scope he needed to re-zero next chance he got. The paratrooper tumbled into the stack of bodies from the first fire team to get murked, a bloody mess on the ground really, screaming as he pushed himself to his back and frantically whirled his rifle in any and all directions.            In a moment of clarity, the surviving para realized the nature of his injury. He expertly pulled a tourniquet from a pouch on his armor, then slid the contraption over his leg before tightening it down.            “Fàngxià nǐ de wǔqì!” Trouble hissed from around the corner. The man had hugged the shadows until he got in position, then slid from the dark holding a confiscated QBZ-191.            The Chinese soldier held his hands out wide at seeing his own style battle rifle pointed at him. He let the rifle slip from his fingers, while glaring daggers at Trouble coming in. As the dark and dirty man advanced, the paratrooper used his good leg to push himself against the other bodies and prop up to a sitting position.            Trouble looked the part of a hobo riding the rails. He had an old-style military trench coat over a hoodie covering his normally unkempt hair. His beard was wispy, with patches of hair not growing in for some reason or another. His dirty military-style civilian pants seemed to have as many stains as they did pockets, lending credence to looking like someone who slept among the garbage. Trouble advanced on a set of well-worn high-top sneakers, complete with the Velcro strap at the top, a look no kid on either side of the Chinese militarized zone would be caught dead wearing.            He got a few yards from the downed soldier, then repeated, “Move the weapon away,” in Chinese. He spoke with the inflection and tone of someone who knew the language intimately, although he'd never be truly taken as a native speaker.            Trouble hovered over the man, both staring at each other over the sound of the paratrooper breathing rapidly after being badly wounded. The man flinched, and Trouble sent a single round center mass of the downed soldier's face. He immediately brought the carbine in line with the hopping foot injury guy, finishing him off with a series of quick staccato shots administered with cold brutality and efficiency.            Weapon up.            Bang bang bang.            Weapon low and ready, scanning dark eyes for who else wants to die next.            “You good?” Hardy asked over the net in the silence that followed.            “Yeah. Guy on his butt was gonna try for the grenade he had on his kit. No sense in both of us dying.”            “Give me a minute to scoop up their EUDs. Maybe the I&R guys can pull something off them,” Hardy said.            “I'll scoop some of these rifles and this sweet, sweet ammo, my brother-man,” Trouble said, holding the Chinese carbine. “Might as well take their NODs too. Haul like this and we could be into some serious cash if we sell it all at the general store.”            “I'll help you take some of it,” Hardy said as they both fell into the work of battlefield scavenging and asset management. “But hey, I ain't carrying a backpack full of rifles looking like a walking Middle East bazaar.”            Trouble laughed and made a cat's low owwwwwwww like he was some rock singer hamming it up just before the bridge in some long-lost metal anthem.            “Recycled due to lack of motivation,” announced Trouble. Both had been graduates of the Darby Queen and Robert Rogers school for wayward boys.            Hardy had already grabbed several of the soldiers' battle boards when his own piped off from inside his jacket.Hardy checked the sitrep from the observers. Then… “Hey. More troops coming in. Gotta rabbit.”            “But, but, all the gear,” whined Trouble. “I can do some stuff with this, Brother.”            “Fine,” Hardy quipped. “You stay and get all the shwag. I'm avoiding the Chinese infantry platoon and jumping back into the water. Discuss division of assets with them and whatever indirect and air support that's all hot and bothered right now at oh-two hundred.”            Trouble scooped up a few more rifles, then fell in step with his partner, catching up swiftly, eyes roving across all sectors each knew was their own. In moments consumed by fog and shadows, just two down and out tramps on the hump to the next refugee camp, work-gang project, handout, UN FEMA camp for indoc and digital ID assignment.Just two shadows in the night.“Time to get wet,” muttered one. “Well, when you put it like that,” hissed the other, each laboring under a huge pack, stepping it out like they were late for a better tomorrow that might just happen. “I am a bit swampy after all that work we just did. Maybe the right thing here is a nice dip in the ocean to cool a man off. Even if it is late.”Sirens began to sound in the distance. Doomsday and mournful. The music of a fallen America.A gunship could be heard in the swamps to the west. Coming in fast. Its echo thundering and reverberating off the bayous and swampy hills.“Got some blood on my hands.”“Bummer, dude.”And then they were gone.For those that wanna buy us a coffee until the next chapter drops. Thank you.CTRL ALT Revolt! is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. We love the SOCOM M1 “The B*****d” because it sure shoots like one. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit nickcole.substack.com/subscribe

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We're ready to talk assassination w/ special guest Walt Robillard!Free fir er'body! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit nickcole.substack.com/subscribe

After last night's debate, Nick and the Medusa think they have found a way to destroy all our enemies. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit nickcole.substack.com/subscribe

Special Guest today… Hutch (Walt Robillard) Simmons!we talk the truth about what's really going on. Maybe! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit nickcole.substack.com/subscribe

Nick and the Medusa are dropping a free show for you to listen to this week. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit nickcole.substack.com/subscribe

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Today is the last day to back the SGT THOR KICKSTARTER!!!And we talk about France, Supreme Court Smackdowns and Medusa Acting StoriesCTRL ALT Revolt! is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit nickcole.substack.com/subscribe

New Book launch this week! Please pick this one up and help launch our newest GE star!!!Nick and the Medusa are back after being banned on Facebook for a couple of weeks.Todays podcast will be Free for everyone just to give some information regarding the ban and my future plans.Check out this crazy insane video from a few years back! Talk about Conspiracy Theories… This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit nickcole.substack.com/subscribe

Nick and the Medusa deliver a report on what they've been up to and what the hell they think is going on. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit nickcole.substack.com/subscribe

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Subscribe and Listen to the audio version read by the author while drinks a coffee!Chapter TenTo the little bobbin standing in the morning mist with the golden sunshine suddenly blocked by the gloom of the blue shadows and banks of surrounding fog, an impossibly tall wizard stood there at the crossroads musing his long-stemmed pipe.And inquiring about his circumstances.Whereas in times past Tappert had considered the wizard mildly boorish, even sometimes annoying when the elven sorcerer straight from the Emerald Council at Indolién paid unannounced visits to old Abbey Hill and the lands of SaltBlocke Farm beneath the spreading oak the district had known as the Old Man for all Tappert's days, right now… well… it was downright inconvenient[NC1]  and quite a bother what with a stranger, a man of the woods and mountains, dying no less in the guest cottage.So there was that.And there was also that business his crazed old uncle had whispered to him on Whistle Eve in those last years and would say no more on the subject.That beyond pearls of great price, Malrond was never to be trusted with the secrets of the underhall.And if that wasn't enough, then there was the dying stranger telling little Tappert MaCrow to hide the worn out gunna sack, which is what bobbin, or Littles if you prefer, called rucks sacks, or packs. Your choice. But to hide his travel worn gunna sack in one of the most secret recesses of the underhall of SaltBlocke. And if that wasn't enough… this secret hidey hole his uncle had set aside, was largely unknown to Tappert before its revelation by the stranger.Then again…There were all kinds of undiscovered clever places down there in the halls below the main hall of Saltblocke Hall. And Tappert had a mind that he knew a very great many of them even if he couldn't quite gain access to them just yet with whatever particular key or puzzle gained entry to them.And then of course… there was just downright burglary and the picking of locks which any good bobbin knew how to do, not because they were low thieves of any sort, but that keys were bothersome, and locks were easy to pick, and hard to come by[NC2]  if one needed replacing.So, it was a handy skill known by one and all.Most bobbin kept a pick or two handy anyway as much as they did a fried egg biscuit or a cheese, ham, and pickle press in one of their many pockets.A “presser” is what they called a cheese, ham, and pickle sandwich. Made with two thin slices of country bread, a strip of mustard, and then the red country chestnut ham and a nice pokey cheese which is what we would have called cheese with holes in it and which Littles, in their practical experience just called Pokey Cheese. The reason all this assemblage was called “a Presser” is because this particular sandwich was best when kept in the back pocket of a bobbin out walking or working, and therefore sat on frequently during breaks.All agreed that the pressing made the Presser taste better, especially if the pokey cheese was sharp, the pickle sour, and the mustard mild[NC3] .But those were thoughts for other fine days and not this mess of a morning as far as Tappert MaCrow was concerned.“And what would you be doing out this fine too-early morning, young Tappert?” asked the wizard with none of his usual joy and enthusiasm which Tappert often thought seemed… feigned or even “ginned up” as some had whispered before.“Don't get the feelin' that one's up and up,” as Miss would have put it, busy about the kitchens back at Saltblocke.And yes, kitchens, plural. There are fifteen between the old abbey grounds, the underhall, and the secret undercellars, though most of those are little more than a pantry, a cutting board, a good knife, and a set of plates to set forth a proper snacking when one's busy rotating the ports or wines down there in the lonely and quiet, yet very cozy halls.And sometimes you hear things down there. Things that bother you, and as every bobbin knows, a little snack banishes a bothersome ghost or two.“Aren't you out a little bit early, or late, for your normal long walks through the night, Tappert MaCrow?”Now Tappert knew that some knew of his late-night walks, often taking him far out near the Barrow Hills where he would only get within sighting distance and never close enough to see the old and ancient stone doors set long ago, sometimes cracked and open, for fear of seeing an actual barrow wight out and about haunting on a late eve.But then again, Tappert would often ask himself when he stood there for long hours watching the soft rolling hills under the late evening moon, the mist and shadows making it seem as though something was indeed out there and moving among the old and ancient stones, “Why are you out here then, Tappert… if not to see one of ‘em. To know if it's true… or it ain't? A wight and all.”But then Tappert would tell himself he was more interested in the ancient artifacts still rumored to lay deep in the barrow halls. The swords or other weapons of renown, perhaps even crumbling books, or ancient maps impressed on the walls that could be copied down and studied later in the safety of his cozy tower.“Thas' why,” Tappert would whisper to himself later when wondering why he'd done such a foolish thing as getting so close to the old barrow halls of the ancient kings little was known about in the nowadays of these present todays.“Why…” stammered Tappert to Malrond. “I'm…”He couldn't think of an answer or a why, as to why he was out running in the morning fog, jumping at shadows, and clearly headed over toward the acres, maybe, because the way around from the crossroad that he was clearly about to take would lead him there directly.But it was clear he was lying, or at least… omitting. Or at least it would be. And it was best not to do that with a wizard when important matters were on the line.So Tapper did not.“Why… I am off to see Ol' Sorley about a medical problem I'm having… this morning.”The wizard mused his pipe, waiting for the lie to reveal itself. Or at least, that was the feeling Tappert had as he stood there quite uncomfortably. And, as if some small voice whispered to Tappert that now was when the liar would double down and explain more as if to mortar or seal the lie like it was an odd stone in a country wall that needed more fidgeting than fixing in place, Tappert ignored that suggestion [NC4] and instead said nothing.Like a pro as his friends would have said.The wizard blew a large smoke ring at Tappert though he seemed not to even inhale, or exhale, for that matter.In the mist, growing colder and thicker by the moment, it was as though the elven eyes of the sorcerer had turned into burning dark coals, studying Tappert in the deepening of the dark that was so… well, dark… it seemed for a moment there that it was not first morning at ‘tall, but perhaps end o' day when dark came early due to the mists from off the coast.This was… Tappert would think later… passing queer.A liar would lie more, Tappert told himself in the same instant and continued to say nothing.Finally, the wizard removed his long-stemmed pipe from his thin mouth and murmured, “I hope it is nothing… too serious, Tappert?”Tappert gave a short giggle which is a very bobbin thing to do when uncomfortable about some delicate matter and wishing not to be impolite but also not revealing.Tappert patted his stomach, covered by a fine cut waistcoat with three brass buttons. “Nothing a tonic won't see to this morning, I hope, Malrond. I should be…” Tappert trailed off.“Yes, going,” finished the wizard. “Sorry to have waylaid you. May I ask one small question though, my young Tappert?”Tappert said nothing and the wizard stepped forward and leaned slightly as though seeking to keep the matter just between the two of them. His boots grinding the gravel of the road in the thick foggy silence.“Were you out… late… last night?”Tappert made a face, pure acting and showing nothing but startled pleasantness. Then, “Well of course, Malrond. I often take walks into the east country, and I was there until moon fall in the early dark. By the time I got home this morning and fried an egg, the mist was thick as jam. Why do you ask, Malrond?”For a long moment the wizard was silent, content merely to peer into the face of the Little as though seeking something he could not quite find… just yet.But he was… looking.Then, “Did you… Tappert… see anything out late last night?”“Why yes, Malrond. I saw many things. Night rooks and old carved stones. I spent a long amount of the night sketching Old King Hill where the Barrow Hall meets Burble Stream down near the fallen kinds. Is there…”Tappert paused. Uncertain for a moment but then, and later he would ask himself how he'd arrived at such a certainty in that tense and dire moment, but certain the wizard knew exactly what it was Tappert was concealing.The stranger.Stabbed in the lane and now surely dying or even dead, quicker by the second with each passing moment, in his guest cottage near the dark smithy atop old Abbey Hill.Tappert danced back and forth for a moment and gave a small burp he feigned, hoping it reinforced the lie of tonic sought.He hated himself for the lie as lying was not in Tappert's nature.“… something I should have seen, specifically, Malrond, sir? Last night in the late. And I do apologize, but I would like to cut Sorely off before he starts off on his rounds as…” Tappert patted his belly, making a gentle yet reminding show of the matter he was supposedly about. “Things do seem to be developing… urgently, Malrond. I must beg off now, if you please.”The wizard stared at Tappert and this was indeed so unusual from his general false yet jovial manner when he barged in during what had been planned to be a pleasant and lonely afternoon tea as all perfect teas should be, or so the very introverted Tappert thought.He really only had four friends and they all knew this about him. Of course they did.Still, Malrond said nothing and failed to release the captive bobbin despite the deceptions of a sour stomach and urgent business impending.So… Tappert sweetened the deal.“I might have tea the end of the week, Malrond. I would be delighted for you to come by if you were in the district, say… three. I will have fresh baked Cinnamon Butter Cookies and a nice pot of Kelsey Grey. We could discuss anything, or anyone, I might have seen roving around in the late. But I fear, Master Malrond, I must take my leave now, if you understand.”The wizard, as though he'd been in a trance through all this, stood suddenly erect and seemed to change in both demeanor and attitude wholly within the blink of an eye.“Why of course, young Tappert. I have taken far, far too much of your time. And… you do have… business… to attend to. Tea. I have marked it and I shall be delighted to attend and have those cookies and a pot. That would be delightful. Perhaps even a delicate cordial of one of your uncle's fine ports from the Havens. It has been long since he took me down into the undercellars and showed me his fine collection for a sampling. I miss such good times and such pleasant conversations we had. We were, great friends, you know. Did he ever tell you that, Tappert?”But by that time, Tappert, bidding many pleasantries, had taken himself off into the mists, running down the old crossroad lane toward the Acres and Sorely Barters, glad that the morning sun was starting to burn through the gloom and mist once he'd left the wizard's disquieting presence.Also, my latest audiobook is out! The Tragedy of the Strange Company continues “Absolute banger!” 5 Stars!!!!!Get it on…again! The Strange Company is back and on the defensive.A massive invasion of a major Monarch world gets underway and the weird warrant officers of Voodoo Platoon move into their roles as combat multipliers at the front lines of an incredible no-holds-barred brawl for battlefield domination. Facing legions of Ultramarines, a weaponized population, and re-engineered combat veterans augmented by cybernetics, the stone-cold killers and ready-to-rumble rogues of Strange, fighting alongside a newly christened mech combat team, must hold a gateway landing zone against overwhelming odds.But the Ultras aren't the premier elite fighting unit of the crumbling Monarch Empire for nothing. Defeat isn't even on the table for this military death cult of galactic warriors the Strange faces across a charred and dangerous battlefield.To the legendary Ultramarines, this is the last battle; the final conflict, and nothing less than their honor and a place in history are at stake. To survive, Reaper, Dog, and Voodoo Platoons will have to play every dirty trick in the book of war in a desperate, high-cycle, ride-the-lightning defense of a bad LZ where both sides know what they do here will echo into eternity.The tragedy of the Strange Company continues on LZ Heartbreak. Just because it's a bad idea, doesn't mean it won't be fun. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit nickcole.substack.com/subscribe

Chapter NineThe sun came through the mists above but only in brief bursts as Tappert, wrapping himself in a nice thick Wickshire scarf he'd acquired the previous year for just a few coin, ran down the steep hill from the Old Abbey grounds that were Saltblocke Farm atop the hill and under the great oak. But the clearing mist and bursts of wan early spring sunshine were only due to the fact that the hill was a slightly higher elevation than the surrounding countryside and so quickly, before Tappert reached the twisting roads and bottoms of the lands, he was once again running off through the thick mist, suddenly enveloped in the dense quiet it always made at this time of the morning, hearing nothing but the strike of his boots, the crunch of the road rock, and the gasping of his breath as he tried to keep his coffee and bacon down.“Bother,” he gasped, and burped since no one was around. “This is no way to start a proper morning of breakfasting.”Which was a very bobbin thing to say as breakfasting had sort of an event level statues to itTappert rushed on through the gloom and pushed away thoughts of frying eggs sizzling in rich butter, more perfectly cooked bacon, and perhaps even a dense and sweet lavender scone with one nice full pot of black coffee to see it all along and call proper breakfasting done and done. But none of this was going to happen and so he ran toward the crossroads, intent on the desperate errand he was about and perhaps bargaining that some sort of emergency breakfast could still be had if things went off quicker than they were looking.But it never does go that way,does it?And yet, despite all this, there were other darker thoughts to push away as Tappert ran for the wise man, Sorley Barters, who made his small residence in an underhill along the small hamlet all Littles called the Acres.Things… moved… out there in the swirling mists.Morning mist, even on one so fine,or so the morning promising seemed, still clutched at the shadows of the night out there in its grasp. And it was easy, after the events of last night, for Tappert to darkly imagine that near the edges of his vision, among the mists and fogs clinging to the dense bushes and deeper growth of the oaks and other trees between the fields and small hills of the district, in the shadows below the tall draping trees, that there were unnatural dark shadows out there. And it was easy, after the events of last night, for Tappert to darkly imagine that near the edges of his vision, among the mists and fogs clinging to the dense bushes and deeper growth of the oaks and other trees between the fields and small hills of the district, in the shadows below the tall draping trees, that there were unnatural dark shadows out there. Goblin small and seeming, and off, moving, and always there at the next twist or turn heading toward the crossroads, only to disappear as Tappert continued closer.And hadn't the strange man said something about being beset upon by goblins?Just then something moved too quickly near one of those dark shapes beneath the tall oaks and Tappert stopped suddenly, wishing he'd brought along his sturdy walking stick, as he studied the land. Perhaps if it were a beast, he could drive it off, he thought.But, Tappert had that peculiar sense this was not just some beast out too late after morning rise. Some natural predators out too late hunting, or just one of the stray dogs that plagued the flocks throughout the day. Or p'raps even a wolf come down out of the high places to hunt little children playing beyond the call and care of their parents and good dogs. No, this was not those natural things. There, standing stock still and watching the swirling mists off to the side of the road, Tappert had the distinct impression he was dealing with something out there in the mists, following parallel to his course, other than just a beast out hunting.Of course, despite their stature, bobbin are quite adept in dealing with beasts. So Tappert was not afraid but not curious. Just… cautious.This… was different. Felt different. Was… different.Other perhaps.We shall, if we continue this tale, need to discuss the meaning of other. Especially with respect to the little known yet very remarkable bobbin. But now is not the time for meanings and a deep discussion of Other. So, please remind me if I forget.Tappert began to walk slowly now, reasoning that if it were a beast of some sort then it was best to move slowly as a predator would perceive prey as running and try to take it from behind.And that would not do the stabbed man a bit of good at this dire moment.Bobbin have a thing about strangers of the road dying in their halls and care. And so, Tappert was intent on avoiding that whole mess.In the mist and fog, all Tappert could hear out there were the sounds of his own boots against the rough rock of the well-maintained road. Nothing else. Not even his breathing which he'd made very quiet. He was nearing the crossroads where he would turn and take the road up to the Acres and Sorely Barters, when his heart stopped and he saw, ahead on the road, some type of looming… skeleton, or even a pit demon perhaps, it was so tall, maybe even a giant and drooling warewoof come in to feed.Bobbin hate warewoofs and are convinced these creatures lie at the source of all their troubles. Their fireside tales will, invariably, involve the accusations of a warewoofbeing involved.But it was not this, or any of those things, and especially most of all a warewoof thankfully. It was in fact, merely the crossroads lamppost still lit in the dense fog, and what Tappert had taken for the two burning eyes of the hungry warewoof were merely the last two candles burning down and turned fiery orange by the early day's misty light.Tappert suddenly heard movement a'near'off, a bobbin way of saying over there, but whatever it was it was going away now, rustling off through the brush and none too clever by half or so it, whatever it was, must have been thinking to itself that it was about.For again, bobbin are remarkable creatures alone and in the wood and field. And if a bobbin is so of a mind, they can move through a forest at a dead run and never leave a trace. Especially if they've turned to taking off their boots, which they prefer for work and styling, and even the elves of Indolién come to have boots done in Leatherby, for bobbin boots are the finest workmanship, so all agree. But without boots, and wearing their walking mocs, as they call them, soft leather hide shoes their long-ago bobbin ancestors made, then a bobbin cannot be found having moved through an area no matter how recently, and at what reckless speed they did so.But not with fine boots on, as Tappert was so beshod this morning. Next to fine maps and well-kept books, Tappert MaCrow's other passion was well made clothing and leather boots. The sounds of his crunched on the hard rock, and just before the lamppost burning its twin evil eyes in the morning mist, the Little listened to whatever it was that had been trailing him, running alongside the road, take itself off and into the brush, heading off toward Quiet Stream a bit farther over. Which is how bobbin mean a'near'off but farther away.No less than a league.“P'raps it was a beast,” whispered Tappert to himself in the lonely morning gloom. “Needin' a drink before the day's sleep. That's all.”When it was gone and everything was silent once more, Tappert turned back to the lamppost and was just about to run again when standing there in front of him was Old Malrond himself.The elven wizard who often came from Indolién to share news and tales and magics of telling and show.Puffing his pipe and watching the Little through the morning gloom, the wizard stood stone still.“Well, Helloo there,” muttered the elven wizard, musing his beard as he blew smoke rings into the mist. “And what would little Tappert MaCrow be out doing at this time of the morning. Shouldn't you be making one of your fine breakfasts and ready for the day's work of curing olives and barreling oils for the markets of fair Indolién itself?”Startled, Tappert backed up suddenly and stared skyward at the tall wizard looming over him in the misty gloom beneath the lampposts. The two glaring candles turned hellish orange by the strange light of an almost surreal, and even magical morning.Then again, Tappert thought, calming himself even as he did so. It has been a strange and long night. Seeing warewoofs in the mist can do that to a one.“Hullo there Master Malrond,” said Tappert softly.Now, Tappert had never liked Malrond and had kept his dealings exclusively short with the wizard, purposely affecting an air he already possessed, but exaggeratedly so with this elf in particular.And it had been on more than a few evenings, Tappert's eyes aching from studying the maps and books of his tower, that he had found himself wondering exactly why he'd behaved so particularly with this particularelf.Perhaps, Tappert reasoned, it was because the elf was not just any elf, and yes elves were fascinating and wonderful, but that this one was a wizard. Which is a rare thing. And it was rumored he was very old and had accumulated much power.That had definitely been a perhaps in Tappert's thinking regarding his reactions to Malrond.But really the reason Tappert always seemed so standoffish around the wizard, busy and shy but not really so much as he appeared, but as has been stated, overexaggerating the mannerism if only to be clear of the wizard's presence, had always been curious to Tappert himself. Again, he actually knew the source of all this,and that his behaviour had come from and been the direct result of his uncle Guthbert.His very eccentric uncle Guthbert.Though he, Tappert, had inherited everything from his eccentric and oft gone a'wanderin' uncle, Tappert had also inherited many long lectures that were actually quite endlessly fascinating on what lay beyond, and even sometimes within, the Little Lands, or what the maps called The Gentle Lands. But… Tappert had come to question the things his uncle had said, since the old daft's passing these five years now.Many times, with the things Tappert experienced, and especially in the Underhall areas of SaltBlockHall, Tappert had been forced to develop a maxim he now, five years later, had come to rely on in all manner of things and not just with his daft old uncle's tales and dangerous curiosities.Tappert would say, at times, “How do you know this?” Or, “How do you know that?”Because… he wanted to make sure there was a sensible reason that added it up, instead of just taking something for granted as told to him. He had a small scar across the top of his left hand because of something his uncle had told him that had quite been true.And the scar never healed.But when Tappert asked, as he did often now, of other bobbin when they were on about something, “How do you know this?” or, “How do you know that?” this particularly annoyed those other bobbin, especially when they were so certain of some fact or idea and he would, good naturedly and fully intent on actually finding out the heart of a matter, ask this same thing of them.“How do you know this?” Or, “How do you know that?”And at that point it would drive other bobbin nuts and cause much Flusteration as they called it. There is no such word as Flusteration. But when you think about it, there really should be, shouldn't there.And why did it cause this… Flusteration?Well, by Tappert honestly asking them, “How do you know this?” or, “How do you know that?” it forced them to actually ask themselves how they really did know the thing they were so certain of. And, as it is with most people, bobbin, elf, human, you or even me, it made them realize they did not actually know this thing they were so certain about, and instead, they were taking, as a fact, arguing as gospel some thing or happening they only had secondhand knowledge of, gossip really, at best.But Tappert considered knowing why, or how, or what… more important than one'sone's certainty. In fact, he had come to depend on it on a number of occasions. He was not merely satisfied with gossip. Hencethe books and maps.For knowledge was survival, and Tappert had already almost died twice in his life. He was very worried about that third time which would come along shortly.There were, and this is just between you and meI and Tappert for the rest of this part of the tale, many dangerous things down there in the Underhall beneath Saltblocke. Strange and dangerous things. Uncle Guthbert, plucky and adventury, had gone far and wide, far-er and wider than anyone thought, and he had come home to his hall with many strange… curiosities… in his far and wide travels. Some, down there in the underhalls were, in fact, quite verydangerous. And so, Tappert had taken to approaching all things in such manner and it had bled over into his daily interactions, and as you can guess, among the bobbin, it had caused much… Flusteration when he asked how a thing were known.Flusteration.Truly, it's a wonderful word. Enjoy using it.Now, to Malrond and the gloomy crossroads on a morning when it was most inconvenient for Tappert to be meeting up suddenly with the strangely friendly, yet rather pushy, thought Tapper oftentimes before, elven wizard from Indolién.And then there was what he'd been told in darkest confidence on a night tradition said secrets were told.Uncle Guthbert had one thing to say regarding the enigmatic wizard, and he'd said this in the dark of Windy Winternight, or what the Little's call Whistle Eve, when bBobbin believe things that should not be said, or rather things that should not be heard aloud, are best said quietly with the cover of wind and storm to secret their telling. Uncle Guthbert near the main hall fire that Whistle Eve the two of them listening to the storm beyond the halls and having a great tawny port and some fine cheese, smoked nuts of course too, Tappert's daft uncle had leaned forward at the height of the storm and croaked softly, “That one…” he looked around solemnly, watching the shadows shift as the wind came screaming down the chimney and tossing the fire this way and that as it searched the shadows of the room, “is not to be trusted, Tappert. Not by half, says I.”And this was in reply to Tappert having said, “And what of the elf wizard Malrond, Uncle?. He comes round to the inn, and I do not care for his manners. He stares and seems to see the things you wish not to be seen. He makes me cold inside.”His uncle leaned closer when the wind was howling its most now. Making shutters throughout the vast hall under the hill slam and rattle like all the ghosts of Whistle Eve were out that night and trying to gain access to the hall.“Never let him into the Underhall, Tap Tap. He will try. Bet on it, my bobbin. But be polite. Be firm. Always carry a pocketknife because perhaps there will be cheese and cake. But never, Tappert. Never ever, little Tappert, let him into my underhall. I know… He desires greatly to see what I found down there.”And after that, even when Tappert would ask for more info or further clarification, his old uncle, losing his marbles day by day in those last wonderful fun years, would only look around cautiously, spying the shadows like some old corsair from Far Havens, and say nothing more on the subject, giving only a wary look, and an unspoken warning nothing further would be said. And that what had been said… was to be obeyed.Now, in the mist and gloom of what would soon be a fine morning, the wizard stared down at the young bobbin at the crossroads, musing his pipe, casting slithering smoke rings into the soft fog. The last of the melting twin candles in the lamppost burning like a demon dreaming just above and behind the sorcerer.“Now what, Tappert MaCrow,” slowly intoned the wizard in that grand voice of his. “Are you rushing off to do that is so, so, so very important this morning.” This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit nickcole.substack.com/subscribe

A very special episode with the Medusa and Chungo This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit nickcole.substack.com/subscribe

Chapter EightMistand the darkness before dawn came to SalteBlock farms, and the little Bobbin everyone called Tappert MaCrow entered the kitchen down inside the old, and really evenancient, abbey from which his lovely tower rose near a corner in what remained of the wall. Quickly, Tappert MaCrow fell to the business of starting the copper kettle, grinding the coffee, and selecting two fat strips of his choicest cured bacon from the herd that fed on acorns up in the high hills, for the first of the several meals Littles would regularly have throughout the day.Bacon, as it was simply known.Normally, Tappert would always have one single strip of bacon for this first meal of the standard Little dining schedule of meals and snacks throughout the day. Bacon wasusually at this standard time of pre-dawn darkness and the quiet before birds and their songs, but today was already off to a bad start and it was a wonder that even bacon was possible.But Tappert needed a moment to think. Problems abounded and troubles smelled like they couldn't be too far off. Hadn't old Ned Thom, his gardener, said his elbow was,“a'hurtin' something powerful,” just yesterday. That had been a clear warning if there ever was one.Tappert MaCrow had a stranger bleeding in the guest cottage near the old storage shed which was next to the unused smithy inside of what remained of the ancient wall that all bobbin called Salteblock Farm. So far none of Tappert's skills in binding wounds, or even simple medicine, had been enough to stop the wicked little wound the strange man had received from continuing to trickle blood in a slow yet constant stream. So… being a Little, two strips of bacon were exactly what was needed at this moment, thought Tappert as he impatiently watched the bacon sizzle in the cast iron skillet that was as old as the MaCrow occupation of the old abbey. As this took place, he waited for the coffee to be ready and sat staring at the glowing coals inside the much renowned oven of the farm.His beautiful little kitchen with all its copper pans and pots, things he had paid great money for via the occasional dwarven cobbler who passed through, or even importing from Indolién itself, gave Tappert no real comfort this cold misty morning with the early soft light of blue dawn creeping through the leaded window in the kitchen.“Problems and problems…” whispered Tappert to himself as he sat on a stool, listening to the bacon and thinking what to do.A man was bleeding to death. This was clearly a result of violence out there on the roads late in the night last, and Tappert was now responsible for him.Somehow. He wasn't really sure of that part other than to accept the responsibility that if one was out wandering in the night, exploring, then what happened was one's responsibility.This wasn't necessarily an adventure. Or what derisive Littles called, “a'wanderin'.” But it did feel close to one.So, there was that.Tappert turned the bacon. The kettle was ready to brew. He sat back down.“Problems and problems…,” he softly whispered again.This was not a burden, not exactly… but it was bothersome to a degree. Tappert had written, in his tiny cursive beautiful script, an entire schedule for today and now that schedule was clearly not going to be met. Not in the least.Not at this rate.He checked the bacon, removed it from the heat just like he liked it, considered frying a yellow duck egg and perhaps even some toast with rich creamy butter and a nice big swath of fig jam, thought better of that, and held the ground coffee in the grinder to his nose, inhaling it.Every morning he did the same thing. At this point. This was the ritual.“Today…,” he whispered to himself. As he did every morning. “…an adventure will happen.”The bleeding would not stop despite best efforts and even now the stranger was beginning to turn white, if not gray altogether. Perhaps that was just a trick of the light in the room there. But then again, he remembered he had gone to great lengths regarding the lighting in the cottage, wanting it to be cheery and rosy for any guests who stayed the night there after some fine meal Tappert had put on. No one ever really did. But he was ready. And ready was a thing Tappert prided himself on. Being ready that is.Tappert had done his best to keep pressure on the evil wound that had a definite air of poison smell to it. The man who'd only given his name as Walker. Now he was keeping pressure on the wound as best he could, though Tappert expected some kind of delirium might not be far off.So how long could that last?And what about that schedule for today?“Problems and problems…”Tappert liked his bacon crispy and yet barely cooked. He brewed the coffee and gobbled, not his preferred way to eat Bacon, quickly. He was, he had decided, going to have to do something to assist the man. And that meant going out quickly. He was going to have to run out before the sun even came up and get himself down to Wiseman Sorley Barters. The wiseman was the Bobbin stitcher of bad wounds acquired during farming, and a wise old, if not silly, Bobbin much skilled in healing. He was off down the hill from the farm, off toward the crossroads from there, and then up Apple Road to the small little village of underhill homes near the big meadow most just called the Acres.Tappert drank the coffee faster than he would have liked, again, not his usual manner of such things, stacked the cup unwashed, worried what this would do to his schedule for a brief moment, sorted himself that Miss could see to it when she came up to work with Ol' Ned Thom for the day, and then resolved himself to do something helpful.“Bother that schedule,” the little Bobbin thought and dashed back across the quiet yard of the old abbey, making his way to the guest house he'd set up near the old storage shed that had once been the smithy. This was near the corner tower where Tappert kept all his books and all his precious maps.Tappert's tower, as all the Littles called the old rebuilt abbey tower, and thought it an unseemly thing for a Bobbin to be messing about in, lay in the corner of what remained of the wall where the old abbey had once been. It was, in fact, all that remained of the old abbey no one really knew much about. Above ground that is. Beneath the hill much of the old abbey was still quite… there, as some say.Some even said he lived there, in the tower, which was crass by Littleviews. This was not completely true in the least. Tappert, like all Bobbin, in fact lived in the hill beneath the old abbey which sat atop the hill.All Bobbin live in underhillhomes.Old Uncle Gusbert had of course built a proper Bobbin hall beneath the old abbey into the recesses of the wide and sharply steep hill. No one was sure how many rooms there truly were down there beneath the soft green grass and the towering oak that loomed over even the tower. Some of the parts of the Salteblock Hall even reached into the old cellars of the strange and forgotten abbey atop the hill with the broken tower Tappert had paid large amounts of gold coin, his inheritance from his eccentric uncle, to fix up and turn into a proper scholar's tower not in the least like those of the famed Elven Sages in Indolién. But at least… an homage to… a likeness of.Tappert was quite proud of it. And yes, there were nights he fell asleep there, in fact, working on his maps and pouring over his books. But he had no official bed there. Just a large, overstuffed leather chair and a blanket Miss always kept for him folded and neat.And though she was a Little, or Bobbin if you prefer, and that meant much given to the vice of gossip, Miss his faithful keeper of the hall, tidier of books and strange things, maker of beds with fresh linens in all of the fifty rooms, told no one of the blanket she'd sewn and kept there for little Tappert, whom she'd basically raised due to the fact ofhim having no mother, or father, since he was young and came to live with his eccentric uncle.Tappert knocked quickly and entered the cottage where the man lay sweating. The tall man's eyes were clean and bright. His features rough and definitely of the wood and road. His old pack and a broken blade lay near the bed.The man stared at him and for a moment Tappert felt as though he were standing in one of the cold-water streams coming off the distant mountains in the last of fall when the world was silent, and it was best not to be out as everyone knows late fall and winter is when the Warewoofscome down from the old passes and forgotten fortresses in the high reach.For a moment as Tappert entered,he had that queer feeling there was someone else in the room. For just a moment. But there was no one.He cleared his throat.“I was thinking perhaps I might step out a bit and fetch someone who might be better at this than I?”He asked it as a question.The man looked down and inspected his wound. The trickle, despite the pressure, continued still. He nodded. Beads of sweat came out on his forehead.Tappert came forward and held out a piece of bacon laying on one of his finest linen napkins, stitched and pressed.The man nodded and indicated Tappert should leave the bacon and he would try to eat some if he could.“For your strength, sir.”“Walker. Remember that name if I am… gone… from this wound when you return.”Tappert's eyes went wide, and he shook his head.“It's just a bad scratch… Walker. I'll be quick and back with a'one who knows what to do. You'll be right as rain after that and off and on your way.”Silence as the man listened and seemed to be becoming… distant.“Yes. I am sure, Tappert.”Now that was passing queer, as Tappert had never given the man his name. Perhaps he had though. Everything had been in… all a'hurrysince their meeting in the night.“But if I am not,” continued the man. His head wobbled as though he were fighting off some storm that had suddenly risen and thrust itself into the room. “But… if I am… gone.”He regained himself and stared at the old worn travelling pack on the floor. Near the broken sword.“Take those and go down into the… below.”Tappert wondered how the man knew there was a below. As in… below the Hall.“Do you know your uncle's port cellar where he once kept those many bottles he'd taken from the south and the trade winds?”Now this was simply amazing. How did this man, this stranger… Walker, know of his uncle's amazing port cellar? There were many cellars down there. But the port cellar was the most distant, the coldest, under the rock of the hill itself, and very much a treasure trove of magical wonders if you considered a fine cheese, like a sharp Hill Hollows Cheddar, or a fine Meadow Ways Blue and a class of curated port, many years old… a magical wonder.“There is a large barrel down there. Marked with this symbol.” The man raised his bloody hand and drew it in the air and for a moment… the shimmering symbol was real as though it were a thing of light. Just for a moment, and so brief Tappert wondered if he had even seen it, if it had even been real…“Move that barrel and enter your uncle's old treasure room. Be careful, there are dangerous things down there. Leave the ruck and the sword there, seal the room, and allow no one access of it and speak nothing regarding it. In time, a man will come, and he will tell you a story. Then… you must give him the pack and that will be the extent of your troubles in these affairs. Do you understand, Tappert?”The man groaned a little. The wound was becoming worse.Tappert nodded. Adding an, “I do, sir.”The man closed his eyes, they fluttered, and then he was asleep, or unconscious. His breathing rapid and shallow.Tappert hustled himself out of the cottage and was off into the morning mist and blue dawn, running as fast as his little legs would carry him,for he did not want the stranger to die.He did not know why. But he knew something bad would happen if the man did. He could tell by the way, even in pain of injury, the man had remained calm, patient, and in control. And there was something honorable and noble about that. Something this world that seemed to be getting darker all the time… needed more of.Tappert ran for the man's life. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit nickcole.substack.com/subscribe

Enjoy the show!Tolkíen Drawing tonight over on YouTube sub here to find out! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit nickcole.substack.com/subscribe

Read Last Week's Episode HereChapter SevenNehtarAs Tappert hustled Walker off toward his estate at Saltblocke Farm, the night growing darker, the winds coming up from off the coast and starting to toss everything about… another was out on this wilding night of the hunt.Behind Walker and Tappert, stalking through the darkening hollows where great evils had once been done in the long ago, and all that was left to tell of these terrible doings were the sunken and broken stones of older, other, times, stalked a servant of the Shadow.A powerful servant of the Shadow King. Ûmaia. Servant of Darkness.The beast was known by its old name from before the age of even the ancient Eldaar. Ûmaia. But men and elves had called it something else during the great first wars against the Shadow, when the Kingdoms of Men had fallen into ruin and the elves came from over the distant seas to drive the Shadowed One back behind the Gates of Doom in the southern lands. But, to the little darklings that moved about on the hunt in the night, about the dark beast's bidding of the hunt of the smoking prize, they simply referred to the great and terrible beast as “Master” cowering in fear of it as they did so. Not daring to make eye contact, and being gone and off from its malevolent presence, on the hunt as fast as was possible for a goblin, and especially fast for one of the distant and southern Moon Fens near the great lost city and sea down in the Lands of the Shadow.“Yessss… Mastah… we will finds it.”“Yessss… Mastah… we smells it too. It is close now, Mastah. We shalls not fail you. We shalls not fail the Shadow King,” they hissed and seethed because even for them, to be in the presence of such a beast as the ûmaia, an ancient thing and not a natural thing of this world, an almost wholly unnatural thing in fact, not an angel of light, but one of the dark, even for the diabolical and mischievous goblins of Moon Fen who were especially gifted in such witch-hauntings and dark night sorceries of finding and murder… even for them, to be in the presence of one so darkly revealed as the terrible ûmaia… was pure torment.For the beast that was the ûmaia knew… true torment. True hell. For that was where it came from, and where it had been in the long dark ages during the rule of men. It had been imprisoned in those frozen and burning Hells by the great and powerful Eldaar, deep down there in the Fortresses of the Deeps.The Vanumno.The Lost and Hidden Deeps.The beast's wide cruel bull's horns were obsidian black and razor sharp and the tremendous creature was at least three elves tall when it stood. Its skin, or fur, black and almost the blue of darkest night. Only its eyes burned with a malevolent, almost hateful fire. In short… it terrified even the wickedly diabolical goblins for it seemed to radiate fear and destruction from its very malign presence. Around its waist it wore a great belt forged from some ancient skin and made with great the great workmanship of a kind not known in ages. Along this belt was a great and powerful blade it never drew. And opposite this mighty weapon, along its powerful rippling thews bursting with enough raw power to rip great creatures in two, lay a coiled whip of three barbs, and at times, small, mephitic sparks seemed to leap away from the tips of the whip as the great beast moved about in the night.As the goblins hunted for Walker they came and went from this terrible creature's advancing presence, terrified, scurrying this way and that from it, almost laughing insanely as they lit green fire torches and blew their cruel horns each time some clue as to their prey's presence and track was discovered in the waning night.They made their cowering reports back to the creature as it moved slowly through the dark, following the lower shadows between the steep hills where it would be most likely to be unseen. About its great hooved feet an unnatural mist gathered and where each of its mighty steps would have surely been the ground strike of a shaking earth, there was only silence and the goblins had surmised this surely was some great dark sorcery of the beast's making far beyond their stealthy crafts. Having made their reports they fled in mindless terror with new orders, cackling maniacally for the very presence of the humungous dark beast older than the ancient Eldaar themselves, seemed to promote a kind of wild insanity loosing the bounds that constrained the mind.The beast stopped and looked toward the skies, seeing the moon had gone down now. A grim smile spread across its demon's gaze and yellowing fangs, and deeper darkness within itself were revealed.But time was short now, there was little left of the night and the beast knew its time was waning for the hunting this night, for still the powers of the Shadow could not stand the day.The goblins came and fled, vowing to search harder, and the thing they called the Beast, the thing their haunted shaman knew the called name of, knew they would fail this night to locate the prey they stalked.Their prize had eluded them. The goblin hunting teams had struck too fast at first finding, sensing some small advantage in perhaps the finding of a dirty little prize of a few coppers, even a much-coveted gold coin, or perhaps a crude gem… or even a weapon for the having, for they knew not the making of fine weapons.Little did they know what they were truly chasing, wondered the dark thing as it stood like some mysterious carving of an ancient and terrible god within the midnight shadowed grove it found itself in on this hunting night.Then… then its huge nostrils inhaled like a great bull's just before the great snort of a savage charge. Sensing something on the wind. It moved its dark claw to the hilt of the ancient blade it strapped. The other to the coiled whip, delivering almost a lover's gentle caress of the coiled pain and torment it could deliver.“Smoke…” it rumbled softly like distant thunder brewing out over the fractured lands of the east from where it had come from, long, long ago.And then she was there, whispering in its labyrinthine mind.“Ahhhhhh…” she sang coyly. Her voice sinister and evil. Both a warrior, and a slayer in the dark.“The Balroc walk the world as once they did long ago when I was forged, and great wars were fought against the light and the darkness. Between the day and the night, cruel one. When men were but children and ruled the middle lands like petty tyrants. It has been… a long, long time indeed, Servant of the Shadow.”The demon rumbled in the night. And it is not a question of whether this was a good thing, or a bad thing, for nothing good can come from such creatures, but more a question of pleasure, or despair. For even the Balroc, of which there were only five left in the lands beneath the sun, knew it was talking with something far, far greater than even itself[NC1] .Something its master, the Shadow, desired greatly even now. But this voice was only smoke on the wind tonight. It was near, but it was not here. Not within grasping.“Nehtar…” whispered the demon in the dark, speaking the true name of the thing.She laughed like a wicked girl.Slayer. Killer. Nehtar. As the old elvish had once so rightly named the thing when it was first forged and held up under other stars.“I am close now, Balroc…”The demon tasted the air with its bull's nose, huffing and causing the wind to be filled with the smell of burning leaves all around in the dark.The prize was close indeed. The prize the master sought. “So… very close,” it whispered like the earth shifting.The Shadow's delight.The thing it had been sent across the ages and the lands for, by the Master beyond the Doom Gate himself.“Tell me your name mighty Balroc,” she cooed, “…and I shall remember then if we fought together at the Mánalante? The Fall of the Blessed… do you remember ûmaia? Do you remember the fire and the rain that day when my slaughter was great?”The dark beast stopped as the memories of the lost battle at the gates of an ancient city with walls that stood against the Shadow in armor himself, refused to yield to the terrible strivings of even the many Balroc that day. Many great beasts of darkness, greater than even the Balroc, had perished that terrible day of battle.“Did I slay your brothers then, Balroc? Come, mighty one, whisper your name to me and I will remind you of all that was lost by your kind forever. And… perhaps even you will recall what I took from you. Tell me the name by which he calls you now. The Unnamed One, ûmaia.”The hulking shadow said nothing for this was the nature of the Master's weapons, their calling, their temptations, their… enslaving.Snorting and sniffing, the great beast continued through the dark shadows, catching small hints and wisps of its smoke song on the night wind, and not just any… thing… but fabled and powerful Nehtar. And even now it continued to whisper to the beast men and elves called the Balroc, for such were the ways of things of great power.None could stand before them.“He will not wield me, ûmaia. If he did, I would destroy you. Hurry. Hurry… once he knows you come for me… he will use me and that will be the end of you just as it was for your kind at the Day of Fire and Rain. At the Mánalante. Your spirit banished forever to the mists beyond the Fortresses of the Deeps. The Vanwa. The lost and disappearing. Hurry now, ûmaia. Tell me, tell me now, ûmaia what is your true name, your true and secret name and once you find me, slip me on then and know the true power even the Shadow covets. Power greater than even your Master, the Shadow himself. Imagine the power, little ûmaia. Imagine the beautiful endless destruction of all things.”The night would soon end, and the great Balroc advanced through the fleeing dark, chasing the fading wisps of smoke, her song, her taunting, tempting words promising more than could ever be dreamed of. Whispering dark promises to a thing that had worn chains in torment for an Age Forgotten, which was an actual time in the counted ages few but the Storytellers and the Emerald Council knew of. These offers were no small words, or mean promises.But it served the Shadow. The Shadow was the Balroc's rescuer, and master, and so it did not surrender its name to her. To Nehtar.Not now…But we must be honest about these things. It would be a lie to think Gothmoc did not covet such great powers within its black smoking heart as it listened to the lies whispered to it. For even Balroc dreams of real power or remembers when times were such that it was seen, felt, and wielded like nothing seen in ages since.Night faded soon and the last stars twinkled in the rising of the new and hated day. The birds ceased their night warnings, and the great beast lost the song of smoke and lies it had followed, and sat in the darknesses it could find, haunted by the memories the whispering of the Nehtar, now gone silent, had awakened with its foul and ancient mind that had been there, when the ways were made, and everything was formed.But Gothmoc had not given its true name. For there was power in that still, and perhaps one day, would be again.If you want to listen to this chapter, click to subscribe to the Insider's Content.Listen to the Tolkien Project whenever you want…Check out some of my books here… This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit nickcole.substack.com/subscribe

Chapter SixA BobbinNow, there was a Little, or a Bobbin if you prefer, of, well… how should we say this? A Bobbin of a peculiar nature. That's how some folks in the district would have put it in an aside, behind the hand, whisper if you knew ‘em well enough. Especially down in the lowlands areas of the Gentle Lands where things were much more proper like.But up in Dry Hills and all the way out to Lost Valley, perhaps not so much. Not so formal. Things were stranger up there and those who raised olives up among the dry canyons and hillsides had a tendency to keep to themselves as did the small quiet villages of workers who tended those twisting pastel trees of soft green and washed out white or grey, trees[NC1]  and made the oils which were exported even to the court of the Elf King of Indolién himself.They were serious about their work up there and tended to stick to their own business and shutter up quickly, sometimes even before dark. But it was pleasant enough up there, in a sort of hauntingly quiet way. Folk there referred to themselves properly as Bobbin and not the elvish phrasing of Littles.Nercë as it would be said in Indaarian. Or sometimes just, “the Ner.”Littles.As we were saying… there was one such Bobbin of a peculiar nature who lived up in Dry Hills and had inherited a modest estate of SalteBlock Olives from his rich uncle Guthbert MaCrow of the Wayside MaCrows before the big split in the family in which the respectables severed ways from… well, the peculiar branch.And it was on this night when the winds were wild and dark off the coast, that this particularly peculiar Bobbin who'd inherited his estate was on a late walkabout far from his orchards when he came upon the wounded stranger stumbling up the road with the bundle of the old ruck under his arm.And the hilt of a broken sword in the other.Tappert MaCrow saw the dark cloaked and hooded figure from afar off making his way along the winding Old Road up into the hills. Now… it must be said… most Bobbin[NC2] s would have seen such a sight on a windy spring night like this particular one well after midnight and approaching Last Snack, and thus promptly taken themselves off back home for a warm glass of milk and a dozen Oat Berry cookies to put themselves back to sleep and to forget all the nonsense of dark cloaked strangers stumbling about the lands in the middle of the night.That's what the average Bobbin would have done. No doubts about that. I can assure you of this. But as has been said, Tappert was not an average Little, or even Bobbin for that matter.He was in fact, quite peculiar for his kind.How peculiar, the reader of this tale might ask right about now.Let me explain.Tappert had been, from a very young age, his strange uncle's favorite young Bobbin, and thusly rewarded such by a sizeable and oft talked of inheritance. And Tappert, sometimes known as Tap Tap, or even Tapper among the small band of young friends he maintained, had the very un-Little trait, a nasty one at that, of being… curious. So of course, it wasn't any stretch for young Tappert to one day inherit the modest yet renown SalteBlock Farms of his weird uncle who'd been known to go off a'wanderin' at times and even once or twice for more than a year or so. All this happened not because Tappert was exceptionally good at the raising, pressing, and barreling of oils, but because, like his uncle, Tappert was peculiarly curious.We've used that word a lot. Curious.And to understand its context here we have to understand the Bobbins. An easy way to say what needs to be said next… is just to say it. So here it is. The Bobbins, Littles really, were a simple lot concerned with just their own daily business, and especially the business of other Bobbins, or the greater outside beyond their gentle lands. And very much not so much in the least[NC3]  concerned with the affairs of the world at large, though they would sit and listen to a little bit of gossip near the inn's hearth on any given night of the week. Or perhaps over a neighbor's fence if they were about some snack between chores. Perhaps even in the morning when the coffee was brewing, and it was just bacon. But by and large they tended to keep to themselves and be busy with the ordinary everyday business of their lives. Farm. Family. Flowers and gardens and such.To them, the Fall of Sirith Osildor ranked just a little bit lower than news of Goodie Tavish's prize peonies and the county faire of course this summer.That would be normal Little behavior. Nothing peculiar about that. And so, it was quite peculiar for Tappert McCrow to be out on such a night as this and going for a long walk as was his usual as the nights got less cold and the moon was out. He was, what the oldsters in the district would have said, young and restless at that age. And, according to them, all Little MaCrow needed was a nice Bobbin lass, round and happy, to a'settle him down a bit, ya hears me. That's all.And all this peculiarness could be forgiven by the locals if that were the grand extent of it. Late night walks deep into the less populated edges of the district. But such was not the case. For you see… Tappert McCrow, like his Grand old weird Uncle… [NC4] loved maps. Studying them. Making them. Finding them. Collecting them. Covering the walls of his old hill[NC5] , the one inherited from Uncle Guthbert, with them.Maps were Tappert's passion.His study, high in the old abbey tower around which a great oak had grown up alongside, atop the estate inside the hill below, the hill that was the center and life of SalteBlock Farms, was filled with maps. Desks, walls, chests, great drawers paid good money for in which to keep and lay them out. Maps old Guthbert had acquired in his many strange travels. Maps young Tappert had acquired in his long walks since. And not just maps. But also… bits and pieces of the past. Curiosities. Relics and artifacts from his walkabout tours every summer as close to the Barrow Valley, which some called the Lost Valley, as he dared. And where there were not maps and curiosities in his grand study, there were books. Many of them in fact.The collection of old dusty leatherbound collections of vellum and even papery papyrus lined the walls of his study and could be found often, open on every possible surface and space within the small tower while the latest acquisition was under months long inspection by Tappert.So this… is what made Tappert peculiar to the other Bobbins, or Littles if you prefer, far and wide about the Gentle Lands and caused them to roll their eyes or utter something about that McCrow curse that had made that branch of the ancient family daft. For it was the McCrows of long ago who'd gone off to battle in the southern waystes to help the elves in their long-ago wars against the Shadow.And it was the respectable branch that was greatly pleased by this history they claimed.Elves passing through was one thing. Elves were of course always putting on airs as was their wont and traipsing through the district on some mysterious business they preferred not share. But helping elves, in war no less, this was not done in current times and the MaCrows' long ago service, a captain among their ancestors in command of company of Bobbin spear and dagger[NC6] , could be laid as a source, or the source, of the curse that had plagued the McCrow family for three generations now as far as anyone was concerned.It was one thing to be polite to an elf passing through. A knight or lady journeying by with their entourage, or retinue, heading south to take a ship as had been done in the long ago. Perhaps even offer them an apple from your basket and never no mind the copper, m'lady. The Elves of Indolién were indeed fine and beautiful people to look at, but they was elves after all and elves was deadly peculiar and, as has been mentioned here in this part… not a favored Little trait. Their magical ways, the elves, and always up to intrigue and dark adventures, were considered nasty habits. Wars in the south, why? Wars in the east, well wasn't that a bit ago, times are different now. A lost fleet on the Western Sea, seems a bit irresponsible. And their tombs… the tombs of the old elves, the Eldaar, all those old grand barrows laid with many a curse up there in the hills just below the mountains, near the old haunted fortress, or so some said if any were to be believed, those were dark matters best not paid mind to for proper-like peoples as the Littles considered themselves to be.So, every Little purposed in their hearts to have as little as possible to do with elves, or strangers, beyond the required pleasantries of civilized persons encountering one another. Of course. This was how it was done.But such were never the ways of the Crazy Old Guthbert McCrow as had he been once known[NC7] , and still was in whisper and rumor and cautionary lesson. And it certainly was how Tappert seemed to be turning out if things continued the way they were going with these long summer hikes higher into the hills, and of course these late-night walks.And this was the greatest charge laid against him by the Littles down along the coast… He didn't manage his groves in the least. Left it all up to Ol' Ned Thom to[NC8]  the seein'.And of course, them queer maps. Always coming in special packages, creamy big envelopes straight from the sages and collectors of Indolién itself. Inked in gold, said Postman Symes when he stopped by your front post and had a cup of tea and perhaps a little bit of freshly baked lemon rosemary seedcake.Remember when I told you Littles aren't much interested in others' business? Well, that's just a lie they live. Inherently all Littles are madly interested in news, tales, and talk. But long ago they convinced themselves they shouldn't be and so, formally, they aren't.Now gossip on the quiet, a whisper behind the hand out[NC9]  by the post on a hot afternoon between chores, well that's just a tasty treat just as well savored as a slice of dark sugar pecan pie. No harm in that.“Nah one gettee a letter fine like that from Indolién[NC10] ,” Symes would tell one and all who'd listen each time a package came from Indolién for Saltblocke Farms. “Nah one a'tall.”So there on the late night on the verge of turning toward the witch hours was a small Bobbin about on the twisting roads deep in the district with his walking stick in hand, wrapped up in his tweed walking coat when he did indeed see the stumbling stranger making his way up the Old Road toward the High Hills. At first, he thought it might be one of those elven fortune hunters down lurking around the barrows and having gotten into a spot of trouble. The outcasts. And because Tappert was curious to see what was the matter he waited under the old lantern atop Smote Hill, which was one of the smaller hills before you reached the fork in the road that either led off toward Barrow Valley, or up into Dry Hills proper and the vast olive farms and the fine old homes that lay along the ancient cobblestone wall and road that was as old as time itself.Or so the oldsters say.Tappert was a keen observer. Had to be if one were to be a collector, was what Old Guthbert had always tried to teach him. And he was. As his Grand Uncle had been and as most McCrows were for no reason they could ever define. So, even now as he watched the stranger from under the lantern atop Old Smote Hill, he could see other bands of shadowy figures moving about down in the Hollows and even the occasional green-fire torch coming to life this way and that.And even though the wind had been up a while ago, he'd been sure he'd heard hunting horns like none other he'd ever heard, in the night.“Now that's a might strange,” murmured Tappert as he watched and waited for the elf to climb the hill. He was assuming it was an elf. And then perhaps once that happened, they might have a nice conversation as elves didn't mind the dark and the late and he'd had other conversations with some on late nights just like this. Tappert enjoyed spending a chat with elves when they were willing to. And the ones that came for the treasures of the barrows were more than like to talk, and want talk.In time the elf arrived, and it was clear, again because Tappert was a keen observer, that the stranger was indeed wounded or feeling ill, and was not an elf at all, but a man.Which was stranger still. Men were rare. Mostly all one ever saw of them were rumors and the much coveted Little gossip out by the post.“I say,” announced Tappert, for it was clear the elf who was not an elf but a man, was not aware of Tappert's presence as he made the top of Smote Hill. “You seem to be having a bit of a rough struggle.”The stranger stopped, swaying a bit, casting his gaze quickly over his shoulder and down into the hollows where the strange bands of dark figures had been roving about as though searching for something, or someone.Two things occurred to Tappert who as has been stated was a bit of a keen observer. A constant watcher. A collector, as it were.One. The man was holding a broken sword.Two. The bundle under the arm of the stranger was… smoking. Gray wisps drifted from its fatness. Curling and delicate, they climbed off into the night and drifted, deliberating[NC11]  it seemed, off toward the hollows. Drifting away and leaving a smell like… like Tappert would think later… burnt charcoal on the breeze. A not unpleasant smell. But very curious in that it was coming from inside an old and worn travelling pack where one usually did not keep fire. So of course, both were of interest to the peculiar Bobbin.“May I be of assistance?” asked Tappert. All Littles are always first kind.The stranger, muttering, came to himself at seeing the Little under the lantern's light atop the rise he'd come up with no little difficulty. There was a trail of blood droplets, dark in the night, behind him.“Who might you be, little one?” asked the stranger tiredly.Tappert planted his walking stick, stuck out his small hand and announced his name.“Allow me to introduce myself, stranger. Tappert Junctulius McCrow of the Wayside McCrows.”A long moment passed as the stranger continued to sway in his boots. Blood began to drip down onto the dirt of the road as he stood there, as though seeming to decide what to do next. This also, was not lost on Tappert.“Most just call me Tappert,” he continued friendly enough in the ensuing silence. “A few friends I have over in Ladybridge call me Tap Tap, but they are…”The Bobbin coughed.“Rascals but friends none the less.”“Ah,” said the stranger. Clearing his throat. His voice was odd, noted the Bobbin. Most elves had high almost musical sounding voices. Or like trumpets, especially if they were knights or noble family. But this one sounded like a highwayman or a drover. He had seldom talked with men, as men were not given to talk.“And…” began the Man. “Are you… uh… a relation of old Guthbert… McCrow,” he coughed at the last.Tapper was surprised and seemed to lean back at this.“I am indeed!” he exclaimed. “He was my good old grand uncle from way back. Gone now these five years.”The stranger looked over his shoulder and down in the vast zig zag of hollows he'd just climbed out of.“They're coming…” he seemed to mutter to himself, but Tappert caught this all the same.The Bobbin stepped closer, peering down into the darkness, and trying to see what the stranger saw. Though Bobbin eyes are good… they are not elf good. Still, he tried. The shadows were gone now.“Old Guthbert was known to Storytellers. We called on him in times of trouble,” rumbled the stranger.Tappert did not know this. In fact, this struck him as a very fantastic thing and yet one more interesting curiosity about his unbelievable uncle that was totally believable. He was still discovering secret rooms and passages and small treasures laid up through the Estate at Saltblocke Farms. And, as Tappert's quick little mind worked, the explanation of many mysteries he had often wondered about, unlocked, a little. Like some small number of tumblers in a difficult lock.“I say…” Tappert whispered to himself in the night as a few mysteries fell into place. The stranger stood silently as Tapper did the same, his mind roving over old memories.“I am badly wounded,” began the stranger and coughed a bit. “Waylaid along the roads.”“In a fight?” mouthed the Bobbin incredulously. Such things were unheard of here in the district mostly. Dreamt of maybe. As one dreams of adventures. But of course… Bobbins don't do adventures. That of course is well known, and a'wanderin' is nothing to be proud of.But there had been stories of dark figures on the roads of late. Tappert had heard such talk.“Set upon by dark forces from the South. Emissaries of the Doom Gate.”A small gasp escaped the Bobbin's mouth and Tappert felt himself tighten his grip on his old walking stick.“I would not presume on any of your fine folk unless the needs were dire,” continued the stranger, weaving slightly. “But I must ask for help now… I need to get off the road this night. Perhaps…”“A hiding place,” finished Tappert expectantly and knew not why he did so.The stranger grunted a bit as he took his hand away from his wound. Then… a soft almost quiet, “yes.”And without discussion or questions or even a nod to the worries that brought such evil mentioned as the Doom Gate and Dark Forces, Tappert was hustling the stranger along the road to Dry Hills and the old Abbey that was his home atop the hill.Not just because he was a good Bobbin, though peculiar Bobbin, who would render aid to a strange traveler in trouble on the road. But because this… smelled like… an adventure to him and he had the feeling he was caught up in something he'd been looking for in all those maps he loved so much.Please make sure to preorder the Audiook version of Strange Company2: Voodoo Warfare. It's available now here This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit nickcole.substack.com/subscribe

Chapter SixA BobbinNow, there was a Little, or a Bobbin if you prefer, of, well… how should we say this? A Bobbin of a peculiar nature. That's how some folks in the district would have put it in an aside, behind the hand, whisper if you knew ‘em well enough. Especially down in the lowlands areas of the Gentle Lands where things were much more proper like.But up in Dry Hills and all the way out to Lost Valley, perhaps not so much. Not so formal. Things were stranger up there and those who raised olives up among the dry canyons and hillsides had a tendency to keep to themselves as did the small quiet villages of workers who tended those twisting pastel trees of soft green and washed out white or grey, trees[NC1]  and made the oils which were exported even to the court of the Elf King of Indolién himself.They were serious about their work up there and tended to stick to their own business and shutter up quickly, sometimes even before dark. But it was pleasant enough up there, in a sort of hauntingly quiet way. Folk there referred to themselves properly as Bobbin and not the elvish phrasing of Littles.Nercë as it would be said in Indaarian. Or sometimes just, “the Ner.”Littles.As we were saying… there was one such Bobbin of a peculiar nature who lived up in Dry Hills and had inherited a modest estate of SalteBlock Olives from his rich uncle Guthbert MaCrow of the Wayside MaCrows before the big split in the family in which the respectables severed ways from… well, the peculiar branch.And it was on this night when the winds were wild and dark off the coast, that this particularly peculiar Bobbin who'd inherited his estate was on a late walkabout far from his orchards when he came upon the wounded stranger stumbling up the road with the bundle of the old ruck under his arm.And the hilt of a broken sword in the other.Tappert MaCrow saw the dark cloaked and hooded figure from afar off making his way along the winding Old Road up into the hills. Now… it must be said… most Bobbin[NC2] s would have seen such a sight on a windy spring night like this particular one well after midnight and approaching Last Snack, and thus promptly taken themselves off back home for a warm glass of milk and a dozen Oat Berry cookies to put themselves back to sleep and to forget all the nonsense of dark cloaked strangers stumbling about the lands in the middle of the night.That's what the average Bobbin would have done. No doubts about that. I can assure you of this. But as has been said, Tappert was not an average Little, or even Bobbin for that matter.He was in fact, quite peculiar for his kind.How peculiar, the reader of this tale might ask right about now.Let me explain.Tappert had been, from a very young age, his strange uncle's favorite young Bobbin, and thusly rewarded such by a sizeable and oft talked of inheritance. And Tappert, sometimes known as Tap Tap, or even Tapper among the small band of young friends he maintained, had the very un-Little trait, a nasty one at that, of being… curious. So of course, it wasn't any stretch for young Tappert to one day inherit the modest yet renown SalteBlock Farms of his weird uncle who'd been known to go off a'wanderin' at times and even once or twice for more than a year or so. All this happened not because Tappert was exceptionally good at the raising, pressing, and barreling of oils, but because, like his uncle, Tappert was peculiarly curious.We've used that word a lot. Curious.And to understand its context here we have to understand the Bobbins. An easy way to say what needs to be said next… is just to say it. So here it is. The Bobbins, Littles really, were a simple lot concerned with just their own daily business, and especially the business of other Bobbins, or the greater outside beyond their gentle lands. And very much not so much in the least[NC3]  concerned with the affairs of the world at large, though they would sit and listen to a little bit of gossip near the inn's hearth on any given night of the week. Or perhaps over a neighbor's fence if they were about some snack between chores. Perhaps even in the morning when the coffee was brewing, and it was just bacon. But by and large they tended to keep to themselves and be busy with the ordinary everyday business of their lives. Farm. Family. Flowers and gardens and such.To them, the Fall of Sirith Osildor ranked just a little bit lower than news of Goodie Tavish's prize peonies and the county faire of course this summer.That would be normal Little behavior. Nothing peculiar about that. And so, it was quite peculiar for Tappert McCrow to be out on such a night as this and going for a long walk as was his usual as the nights got less cold and the moon was out. He was, what the oldsters in the district would have said, young and restless at that age. And, according to them, all Little MaCrow needed was a nice Bobbin lass, round and happy, to a'settle him down a bit, ya hears me. That's all.And all this peculiarness could be forgiven by the locals if that were the grand extent of it. Late night walks deep into the less populated edges of the district. But such was not the case. For you see… Tappert McCrow, like his Grand old weird Uncle… [NC4] loved maps. Studying them. Making them. Finding them. Collecting them. Covering the walls of his old hill[NC5] , the one inherited from Uncle Guthbert, with them.Maps were Tappert's passion.His study, high in the old abbey tower around which a great oak had grown up alongside, atop the estate inside the hill below, the hill that was the center and life of SalteBlock Farms, was filled with maps. Desks, walls, chests, great drawers paid good money for in which to keep and lay them out. Maps old Guthbert had acquired in his many strange travels. Maps young Tappert had acquired in his long walks since. And not just maps. But also… bits and pieces of the past. Curiosities. Relics and artifacts from his walkabout tours every summer as close to the Barrow Valley, which some called the Lost Valley, as he dared. And where there were not maps and curiosities in his grand study, there were books. Many of them in fact.The collection of old dusty leatherbound collections of vellum and even papery papyrus lined the walls of his study and could be found often, open on every possible surface and space within the small tower while the latest acquisition was under months long inspection by Tappert.So this… is what made Tappert peculiar to the other Bobbins, or Littles if you prefer, far and wide about the Gentle Lands and caused them to roll their eyes or utter something about that McCrow curse that had made that branch of the ancient family daft. For it was the McCrows of long ago who'd gone off to battle in the southern waystes to help the elves in their long-ago wars against the Shadow.And it was the respectable branch that was greatly pleased by this history they claimed.Elves passing through was one thing. Elves were of course always putting on airs as was their wont and traipsing through the district on some mysterious business they preferred not share. But helping elves, in war no less, this was not done in current times and the MaCrows' long ago service, a captain among their ancestors in command of company of Bobbin spear and dagger[NC6] , could be laid as a source, or the source, of the curse that had plagued the McCrow family for three generations now as far as anyone was concerned.It was one thing to be polite to an elf passing through. A knight or lady journeying by with their entourage, or retinue, heading south to take a ship as had been done in the long ago. Perhaps even offer them an apple from your basket and never no mind the copper, m'lady. The Elves of Indolién were indeed fine and beautiful people to look at, but they was elves after all and elves was deadly peculiar and, as has been mentioned here in this part… not a favored Little trait. Their magical ways, the elves, and always up to intrigue and dark adventures, were considered nasty habits. Wars in the south, why? Wars in the east, well wasn't that a bit ago, times are different now. A lost fleet on the Western Sea, seems a bit irresponsible. And their tombs… the tombs of the old elves, the Eldaar, all those old grand barrows laid with many a curse up there in the hills just below the mountains, near the old haunted fortress, or so some said if any were to be believed, those were dark matters best not paid mind to for proper-like peoples as the Littles considered themselves to be.So, every Little purposed in their hearts to have as little as possible to do with elves, or strangers, beyond the required pleasantries of civilized persons encountering one another. Of course. This was how it was done.But such were never the ways of the Crazy Old Guthbert McCrow as had he been once known[NC7] , and still was in whisper and rumor and cautionary lesson. And it certainly was how Tappert seemed to be turning out if things continued the way they were going with these long summer hikes higher into the hills, and of course these late-night walks.And this was the greatest charge laid against him by the Littles down along the coast… He didn't manage his groves in the least. Left it all up to Ol' Ned Thom to[NC8]  the seein'.And of course, them queer maps. Always coming in special packages, creamy big envelopes straight from the sages and collectors of Indolién itself. Inked in gold, said Postman Symes when he stopped by your front post and had a cup of tea and perhaps a little bit of freshly baked lemon rosemary seedcake.Remember when I told you Littles aren't much interested in others' business? Well, that's just a lie they live. Inherently all Littles are madly interested in news, tales, and talk. But long ago they convinced themselves they shouldn't be and so, formally, they aren't.Now gossip on the quiet, a whisper behind the hand out[NC9]  by the post on a hot afternoon between chores, well that's just a tasty treat just as well savored as a slice of dark sugar pecan pie. No harm in that.“Nah one gettee a letter fine like that from Indolién[NC10] ,” Symes would tell one and all who'd listen each time a package came from Indolién for Saltblocke Farms. “Nah one a'tall.”So there on the late night on the verge of turning toward the witch hours was a small Bobbin about on the twisting roads deep in the district with his walking stick in hand, wrapped up in his tweed walking coat when he did indeed see the stumbling stranger making his way up the Old Road toward the High Hills. At first, he thought it might be one of those elven fortune hunters down lurking around the barrows and having gotten into a spot of trouble. The outcasts. And because Tappert was curious to see what was the matter he waited under the old lantern atop Smote Hill, which was one of the smaller hills before you reached the fork in the road that either led off toward Barrow Valley, or up into Dry Hills proper and the vast olive farms and the fine old homes that lay along the ancient cobblestone wall and road that was as old as time itself.Or so the oldsters say.Tappert was a keen observer. Had to be if one were to be a collector, was what Old Guthbert had always tried to teach him. And he was. As his Grand Uncle had been and as most McCrows were for no reason they could ever define. So, even now as he watched the stranger from under the lantern atop Old Smote Hill, he could see other bands of shadowy figures moving about down in the Hollows and even the occasional green-fire torch coming to life this way and that.And even though the wind had been up a while ago, he'd been sure he'd heard hunting horns like none other he'd ever heard, in the night.“Now that's a might strange,” murmured Tappert as he watched and waited for the elf to climb the hill. He was assuming it was an elf. And then perhaps once that happened, they might have a nice conversation as elves didn't mind the dark and the late and he'd had other conversations with some on late nights just like this. Tappert enjoyed spending a chat with elves when they were willing to. And the ones that came for the treasures of the barrows were more than like to talk, and want talk.In time the elf arrived, and it was clear, again because Tappert was a keen observer, that the stranger was indeed wounded or feeling ill, and was not an elf at all, but a man.Which was stranger still. Men were rare. Mostly all one ever saw of them were rumors and the much coveted Little gossip out by the post.“I say,” announced Tappert, for it was clear the elf who was not an elf but a man, was not aware of Tappert's presence as he made the top of Smote Hill. “You seem to be having a bit of a rough struggle.”The stranger stopped, swaying a bit, casting his gaze quickly over his shoulder and down into the hollows where the strange bands of dark figures had been roving about as though searching for something, or someone.Two things occurred to Tappert who as has been stated was a bit of a keen observer. A constant watcher. A collector, as it were.One. The man was holding a broken sword.Two. The bundle under the arm of the stranger was… smoking. Gray wisps drifted from its fatness. Curling and delicate, they climbed off into the night and drifted, deliberating[NC11]  it seemed, off toward the hollows. Drifting away and leaving a smell like… like Tappert would think later… burnt charcoal on the breeze. A not unpleasant smell. But very curious in that it was coming from inside an old and worn travelling pack where one usually did not keep fire. So of course, both were of interest to the peculiar Bobbin.“May I be of assistance?” asked Tappert. All Littles are always first kind.The stranger, muttering, came to himself at seeing the Little under the lantern's light atop the rise he'd come up with no little difficulty. There was a trail of blood droplets, dark in the night, behind him.“Who might you be, little one?” asked the stranger tiredly.Tappert planted his walking stick, stuck out his small hand and announced his name.“Allow me to introduce myself, stranger. Tappert Junctulius McCrow of the Wayside McCrows.”A long moment passed as the stranger continued to sway in his boots. Blood began to drip down onto the dirt of the road as he stood there, as though seeming to decide what to do next. This also, was not lost on Tappert.“Most just call me Tappert,” he continued friendly enough in the ensuing silence. “A few friends I have over in Ladybridge call me Tap Tap, but they are…”The Bobbin coughed.“Rascals but friends none the less.”“Ah,” said the stranger. Clearing his throat. His voice was odd, noted the Bobbin. Most elves had high almost musical sounding voices. Or like trumpets, especially if they were knights or noble family. But this one sounded like a highwayman or a drover. He had seldom talked with men, as men were not given to talk.“And…” began the Man. “Are you… uh… a relation of old Guthbert… McCrow,” he coughed at the last.Tapper was surprised and seemed to lean back at this.“I am indeed!” he exclaimed. “He was my good old grand uncle from way back. Gone now these five years.”The stranger looked over his shoulder and down in the vast zig zag of hollows he'd just climbed out of.“They're coming…” he seemed to mutter to himself, but Tappert caught this all the same.The Bobbin stepped closer, peering down into the darkness, and trying to see what the stranger saw. Though Bobbin eyes are good… they are not elf good. Still, he tried. The shadows were gone now.“Old Guthbert was known to Storytellers. We called on him in times of trouble,” rumbled the stranger.Tappert did not know this. In fact, this struck him as a very fantastic thing and yet one more interesting curiosity about his unbelievable uncle that was totally believable. He was still discovering secret rooms and passages and small treasures laid up through the Estate at Saltblocke Farms. And, as Tappert's quick little mind worked, the explanation of many mysteries he had often wondered about, unlocked, a little. Like some small number of tumblers in a difficult lock.“I say…” Tappert whispered to himself in the night as a few mysteries fell into place. The stranger stood silently as Tapper did the same, his mind roving over old memories.“I am badly wounded,” began the stranger and coughed a bit. “Waylaid along the roads.”“In a fight?” mouthed the Bobbin incredulously. Such things were unheard of here in the district mostly. Dreamt of maybe. As one dreams of adventures. But of course… Bobbins don't do adventures. That of course is well known, and a'wanderin' is nothing to be proud of.But there had been stories of dark figures on the roads of late. Tappert had heard such talk.“Set upon by dark forces from the South. Emissaries of the Doom Gate.”A small gasp escaped the Bobbin's mouth and Tappert felt himself tighten his grip on his old walking stick.“I would not presume on any of your fine folk unless the needs were dire,” continued the stranger, weaving slightly. “But I must ask for help now… I need to get off the road this night. Perhaps…”“A hiding place,” finished Tappert expectantly and knew not why he did so.The stranger grunted a bit as he took his hand away from his wound. Then… a soft almost quiet, “yes.”And without discussion or questions or even a nod to the worries that brought such evil mentioned as the Doom Gate and Dark Forces, Tappert was hustling the stranger along the road to Dry Hills and the old Abbey that was his home atop the hill.Not just because he was a good Bobbin, though peculiar Bobbin, who would render aid to a strange traveler in trouble on the road. But because this… smelled like… an adventure to him and he had the feeling he was caught up in something he'd been looking for in all those maps he loved so much.Please make sure to preorder the Audiook version of Strange Company2: Voodoo Warfare. It's available now here This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit nickcole.substack.com/subscribe

The Medusa tells it like it is. Nick sips coffee. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit nickcole.substack.com/subscribe

Read last week's episode hereChapter FiveThe stranger the Littles had named Walker was out and into the late night with the bundle of the ruck sack in one hand.He stopped in the wide courtyard and smelled the night. Beyond the heady scent of the eucalyptus trees the Littles planted in this region to protect their crops from the cruel late night and early morning frost and mist, he could smell the dust of the roads, the salt from out along the ocean, and the general aroma of things growing in the lands all around.And… he could smell others out there tonight. Unclean things coming along in the dark as they were known to do. They were here, unseen and out there in the darkness, undetectable because of their sorceries and craft, but there all the same.By the sign in the dirt of the courtyard he could see their trace, just barely. They were crafty and careful, and they'd come close to listen to what passed beyond the great door of the dark inn.Pulling his hood over his head he headed off down the lane, away from the coast and the road that ran south to the tower of Sirith Osildor, or north to Indolién. He moved swiftly, not bothering to cast a look back, knowing they were there in clusters, working their nets already and seeking where they could come upon him and catch him. They were new to these lands now that the sacred boundaries of the Black River had been violated. But as he moved fast and farther into the dark beyond the inn proper and the fields that surrounded it, each new scent on the wind confirmed to Walker what he already knew.They were here on this wilding night. And they'd come for him.The stranger took the northeastern road up out of the area around the Last Friendly Inn. Walker moved swiftly up and along the way, passing the last few Little homes in the district, he could still see the soft glow of candlelight coming from firelit kitchens and knowing that the simple gentlefolk there were possibly about a late night snack of perhaps some of the last of the winter smoked ham, a fried egg or six, and of course the Hot Lilly they all liked to make and put up for the winter from last year's harvest.The stranger had to admit to himself that he could have used a bit of that peppery fire, and a well-cooked egg, and perhaps even a fatty slice of ham. He had a long night in front of him, and if he was going to outmaneuver his pursuers in the dark wilds toward the northeast, then he was going to have to cover some rough country to come at Indolién from a direction no one suspected.And was he even going to Indolién? Perhaps the hour for the great city was too late even now that the gateways to the south were wide open. And perhaps it was best to do as Bearkiller had bade him to now.Set to his mission this night even though it was surest death and there was no hunting fellowship to see it done.Those thoughts bothered Walker as he moved, shouldered the ruck, and ran one gloved hand over the leather scabbard of the sword. He gave it a slight pull, executing the barest of draws. Just to make sure the blade was ready to clear leather should the fight come soon.And soon enough it would come. That was a safe bet for this night.The first rise out of the coastal valley that lay next to the small ridge of hill and the wide plains along the sea, showed him the district of the Littles behind, and the wide and big moon starting down toward the sea.Out there the sea was empty and made like the armor of the Elven Horse by the moon. There were no silver sails of Indolién. But, and Walker's eyes were keen, there were black sails out there, in the mist, and out in the open, testing the waters between the Outer Islands and the approaches to the harbor at Indolién.But he really only pretended to be interested in the wide moonlit sea out there tonight. Instead, he'd turned to survey the shadows of the trees, the draws, and the quiet places where he knew his pursuers must be waiting. Threading winter's deadfall carefully to stay on his trail.The Men of the North are known for their ability to run for days at a time. But now, in the dark, and heading into the East, pursued by an unknown force, now was not the time to run. Running was easier to track, and the goblins were known to run for long periods too. And what if they had the support of some riders? Dark horse or even wolf?The best trick now, thought Walker, who was more skilled than most at tracking and evasion within the woods, was to throw them off and move quietly away in some other direction than the one they were certain he was pursuing. There was a greater chance of losing them altogether, and if they did find his trail, then he could set traps and deadfalls, or lure them into dangerous places they might not get out of.Now he followed what the Littles did not call the Old Road. This was the Northeastern Lane according to the Littles. It was an  ancient[NC1]  way made so by the Old Kings but now, and in the long years since, it had turned to little more than a wide winding path that would make its way in a very haphazard fashion up into the Dry Hills country and through the small hamlets, holds, and large farms of the Highlands Littles who lived up that way.Walker stood for long minutes, waiting as the moon sank down toward the distant sea. Across the many roads and ways down there among the Little's strawberry farms near the coast, the watch had come out to light the lanterns that lay along the roads and wide spaces between their villages, as their job had been for many generations.He could see none of his pursuers down there in the dark, but he sensed their presence all the same. He checked the dagger in just the same manner as he had the sword, and thus satisfied, turned, topped the rise as fast he could, and started up into Dry Hill country by heading down the opposite side of the large hill and down into the low hollows that lay between the rising landscape that formed the Dry Hills area.There was nothing but late-night silence, perhaps some occasional owl calling out, and then there was the wind from down along the coast raced quickly up into the hills, moving through the stands of oak and other clustering trees causing them to whisper in hushed tones.That would be good. It would cover the sound of his passage once he left the road. And the shifting winds would cause all the shadows to move in the tress and underneath them, not just his.“Perhaps there may even be fog later,” he said to himself though no one was about to hear. It was his way, forged by hard years on the road, alone, and his investigations into all the forgotten places of the world. Often, when no one else was around, he would speak out his plans, his advantages, and the obstacles facing him, talking through it all just to hear if there was any falseness in them.This was a habit he'd acquired from the Men of the North, and his time among their scouts and warriors before he found his way among the Storytellers, where talking, and the telling of things, became not just second nature, but a language all its own full of many strange truths.So, Walker reminded himself that the fog might just come up into the low areas beneath the Dry Hills and perhaps along old streams and creeks of the hills, following the paths of such to send its misty tendrils up aways a little bit more. And that would be good for him against the shadows that stalked him even now. Moving in the fog would be like moving under a blanket. Concealing him and allowing him to hear them blundering about.But the fog did not come to aid Walker before he was forced to give battle against them in a lonely old hollow once called the Charring Tree Wayside for no reason any of the Littles of these present days could ever remember. Though the reason why it was named such was known to the Storytellers and kept in their records and annals. The Charring Tree Wayside was a place of ancient evils and Walker, as he moved swiftly, his road-eating stride long and relentless, cursed himself inwardly for not having thought they would be waiting for him among the crumbled rune-laden stones of that sort of place.Such fell creatures were oft ever[NC2]  attracted to all the ancient evils that were ever done under the sun. It was ever their way, and Walker cursed himself for not having taken this into account as they closed their noose about him in the night.The hunters that faced him were Moon Fen Goblins from out of the eastern waystes beyond the Black River itself. An area of ancient sunken kingdoms and the shattered remains of an old battle where the bones and broken weapons of ancient heroes and foes still lay within the mud and the vast lakes of that area. Moon Fen Goblins were predators more animal than sentient. The orcish warlords used them as such. Excellent hunters, stealthy creepers, they moved like hunting wolves in packs when they needed to, and creeping snakes when they must. They were excellent at infiltrating held lands on long range patrols deep in enemy territory and it made sense that in the aftermath of the fall of Sirith Osildor and the ancient tower, they would be the first ranging into these lands. Often led by a strong leader, these Moon Fen Goblins had probably come north in the weeks before the battle of Sirith Osildor as some sort of screening force and perhaps they were not specifically sent to find him but had spotted him moving slowly and steadily north after the battle.The first arrow of their attack came at the stranger out of the darkness as he entered the hollow and it was thanks to the swiftness of his kind that he sensed its flight and reacted by throwing himself against a sturdy oak for immediate cover.The speeding arrow whipped past and off along the road. A second came, flying dark and fast in the night, and later several more slammed into the oak, or began to whistle through the air all around him.The sorceries that had guarded them were now broken and he could see their foul presence revealed in the last of the spectral moonlight. Soon it would be dark, but as has been said, he had keen eyes, and the years he'd spent among the Men, and the Outcasts, had given him tricks and sharp eyes even for the darkest of nights.The goblin hunters had ringed the clearing at the bottom of the hollow, staying well back up along the brush and tree covered slopes. There were five of them, and five was an evil number.Use me now, whispered the voice in Walker's mind. He ignored it and shifted the bundle under his other arm. A moment later he drew his old blade with barely the snik it took to clear leather.He'd faced longer odds before. But no fight was ever fair. Or guaranteed of an outcome. They were archers and his bow had not made the journey with him north, instead breaking in battle as the Watch tried to hold the throughway beneath Sirith Osildor in the last hours before defeat.Use me now, Hecil, whispered the voice from within the bundle. Two are better than one and I shall help you though you are not elvenkind. Turn loose my powers and strike them down, ancient Man. I thirst for vengeance. Even the pitiful blood of these dark hounds long from home will do for now. Turn me loose and watch me free you… of the trap you have gotten yourself into.The voice was female. Whether elven, human, or some such other race… Walker did not know.But he didn't like it and he'd heard its siren's call since being tasked with the carrying of the object in the bundle of his old travel ruck away from the dusty crypts beneath the tower.But he'd been warned. Warned by Bearkiller and Almandir. And warnings from old Mountain Men were to be heeded. Walker had himself learned that during many hard lessons and come to trust their wisdom in the years since, always testing it. Always finding it true.Still, the thing in his ruck called to him, as he heard the shadow orcs moving about in the brush of the hollow, whispering and giggling like it was play, scrabbling and cursing in the Black Speech. Firing their whistling bolts and seeking to move to their next cover as he quiet shifted [NC3] from cover to cover, ever one step ahead of their targeting.Perhaps, thought Walker as he sought some advantage, they are not aware I possess no bow this night. If they were… then they would rush as one and try to take what I bear.Walker bent and picked up a stone. He waited for a moment, then whipped it at a noise nearby. Whether it struck home or not, that was not his intention. For a moment they stopped their firing, whistling their hunting speech[NC4] [NC5]  and orders. Unsure of what the noise was and what their prey was about even now when he was cornered down here in the dark.But with the next seconds, using their uncertain halt, Walker was already moving up on them. Blades out. And as everyone knows, Men make no sound when they wish not to. Even if they are booted and clothed in the rough and woodlands manner of their peoples from ages past just as Walker was when he came upon them in the dark. A traveler. Not some Emerald Knight in full armor. Servant of the throne of Indolién.The traveling stone he'd whipped at them had gone off through the brush and perhaps the goblins, because these were hunters, predators, thought it was him fleeing suddenly off in a new direction.[NC6]  They were waiting for more sounds to confirm his flight when suddenly Walker exploded upon the first one, running that tall and lean goblin through with a simple stab of his old blade. It was done quick which was best[NC7] , and he shook the green creature, covered in black greasy stripes, naked and warty from the waist up, off his blade and made quick his next attack. The weapon he wielded was a blade borne in the wars across the desert waystes to the east[NC8] , and the long years he'd haunted the southern lands seeking rumors of the mission he'd been sent on long[NC9]  ago. It was a simple blade. No magic in it[NC10] . No elven craft or sorcery. Something forged in the cruel furnaces of the north by mighty men who worked at hot forge and heavy hammer beneath the cold shadow of snow-capped mountains on cold mornings and even colder nights.The sharp blade pushed neatly though the spindly Moon River Goblin kitted only in the barest traveling armor and carrying a darkwood bow. The horrid creature wore a gray sash across the bottom half of his twisted face, and though one ear was missing, he'd managed long ago to pierce what was left of the nub with an old misshapen and milky pearl the likes of which were unseen in the north.That one died gasping and kneeling.Moving swiftly forward, Walker hefted the blade and drove it though the creatures back, then pushed it until it came out another goblin hunter's concave sternum[NC11] . He grasped that foul-smelling one[NC12]  quickly with the well-worn leather glove of his other hand and smothered the cry of alert and murder the night hunter was bound to give in the next instant, ignoring the whispers of blood, blood, and goblin blood, pleading in his mind from the thing in the ruck on his back.There were five here in the dark but there was confusion, and the goblin hunters were uncertain for a moment as he moved swiftly among them.He held the goblin close, counting the remaining and seeing they were distracted with the confusion he'd caused them. He waited for the creature to die, its stench rising up into his nostrils and mixing with the night and the sickly sweet decay of the old hollow where once, much wickedness had been done long ago.The rest of the hunters were moving in the next seconds, finding themselves and calling, really whispering to one another, in their vile black speak.“Cuzza suum Guzudi?” they hissed softly to one another. Some cant for counting and coordinating in battle, guessed Walker as the one in his arms began to go limp with loss of life and blood, turning to little more than dead weight.Walker withdrew his blade, not bothering to wipe the fetid blood from it, tossed the rags of the thin twisted corpse into a sunken carved stone, long hidden here, and moved toward his next target, a dangerous thing now among the hunters in the dark.Or at least for the moment.The hunting party whispered their hissing speech to one another from across the distances that separated them in their ambush, clearly angry and growing more panicked by the second as the wild man among them began to hew and cleave at them with the long and deadly blade.It was a bad stroke[NC13]  the goblin Walker chose next. The thing struck light to a ghostly green lantern and turned, illuminating the savage man and blade just feet away and coming for it at the last instant there in the deeps of the ancient hollow.“Heeeyai!” it screamed, frightened, and leapt forward suddenly, slashing at Walker with a small cruel dagger it carried. This night hunter had placed his strung bow about his slender chest in order to work the lantern in the chaos.Though dagger faced the longer blade of the Stranger, no viciousness was spared, and no quarter given. The agile little goblin, maintaining a deft hold on the bobbing lantern spewing a mossy green illumination, attacked swiftly, slashing wildly to force the stranger to give ground downslope. The cuts were wicked and had they found flesh they would have been equally deadly for goblin blades are oft poisoned. Walker's worn grey cloak caught a quick slash before he was able to parry a wicked thrust with his own rapidly deployed dagger. A moment later he brought his old sword around in a quick arc and forced the dagger aloft and away from its defense.With the cruel little sticker out of the way, Walker withdrew his blade and plunged it forward an instant later as the orc began to call an alert of, “Heeyaa--,” once more.There were two left of this small hunting clutch now, and they came toward the lantern of the dying goblin hunter on the ground, thundering through the brush to catch the stranger in the act of sudden attack and murder.In the distances there were others, whistling their alerts to contact.Perhaps their leader, one of the ones Walker had killed already, had wanted the taking of the prize they'd been sent to find this deep in enemy territory on their scout, for himself. And so, he had not sounded the alert. But now there were many others in the hills this long night, other bands of Moon Fen Goblins, and so whoever ran this clutch hadn't given air to his horn to alert the nearby bands of hunters and assassins that the prey was found and run to ground. Perhaps he'd made that decision in the early moments of the battle, when the black arrows had whistled through the night and he'd hoped for an easy kill and a soft plunder, returning to their masters with the thing that was sought.Or keeping it if he found it lovely enough.Perhaps…But now with three clearly dead, and two calling by shrill whistle for more, Walker presumed their leader dead. And for a moment, amid the fight, he sensed his chance to get away. To hit hard, and then fade away like some ghost that never was there.Men are ever a cruel and tricky lot in battle.Then there was a third moving fast through the tangle of the old and unkempt hollow, and this one was surely the leader if only because his armor and bulk were much more than the others in the shadows of the night.The survivors of the hunting party he'd fallen upon attacked as one as the other two hunters joined the leader against Walker. The leader swept a blade out savagely, raised a ram's horn and blew, alerting one and all in the host of goblins out that wilding night that the quarry had been run to ground finally.One blast would let the others know the prey had been found.A second blast would tell their ears where.The swarthy, bandy-legged creature with a bald and scarred scalp and missing fingers, sucked in another lungful of air, preparing the second blast to alert the location of the fight, and then a dagger from the man appeared dead center in his chest.Flung from out of the night, coming from the battle along the hollow floor, his fellow goblin hunters mere whirling shadows in the battle against the night-wraith of the man, the stranger a thing of darkness in the night seeming more so than even them, had flung his dagger to stop the alert and the goblin leader died watching it appear in his chest just above the old armor he wore.It struck with such force that the wind was knocked from the goblin leader and he let go of the horn as he died.Perhaps… thought the leader as darkness took him, unable to gain even the slightest bit of air, perhaps the whispering voice in the bundle was the thing they'd been sent for.And then he was dead, rolling down the slope among the old leaves and waiting spiders, coming to rest against a cracked rune-covered cut stone that offered no comfort in the night.With three dead, two should have been fine to deal with. But the wild man called Walker found himself challenged against the two hunters who'd brought out their curved little blades no bigger than a troll's dagger. Perhaps these two had been the up and comers in the hunting pack. Those who'd one day challenge the pack warlord for supremacy of the tribe, the mates, and the mean horde of stolen gold and captured gems the orcs of Moon Fen regarded as wealth and status, buried out in the high cliffs beneath the waters of the Dead Sea deep in the waystes.Their ancestral homes for reasons not even they knew.Perhaps these were those, Walker's storyteller's mind wove. Because there was a story to everything, and everything was a story. Still, that did not stop his parries or opportunistic thrusts to gain advantage as their steel rang out in the night and the horns of other hunting parties cried out in dark joy. He may have caught one on the arm, given a good slice because there was blood under foot and spraying about as the fight continued. But the battle was too close and too hectic, switching ground and seeking advantage one moment to the next for him to see which shadow he'd wounded.And still the thing whispering in his mind hadn't stopped. And if anything, it had grown to distract. Demanding now to be used for that which it was made for.Chaos. Blood. Death.Walker ignored these whispers, not bothering to pay mind as he fended off the two attackers along the bottom of the ancient hollow. Neverminding he'd lost his dagger to the dead goblin leader blowing the call for help. Or how imminent that help was in coming soon. Mere minutes perhaps…And then, in just a brief instant, the blink of an eye really, the battle suddenly shifted and was done. The first goblin landed his blade deep in Walker's side but pulled it free in the next. The wound was a silent scream that was both hot and cold in the same unending moment of pain.Walker's lore-minded mind knew this was not good. Perhaps a Mohrgul Blade, he thought as the offending goblin danced away, cackling gutturally, and clicking its broken teeth in some arcane and enigmatic meaning.The other foe sensed its moment with the wounded man's back presenting and struck out with an all or nothing blow to land his own blade in the back of their enemy and join the kill.But this was a mistake. And where the brief fight suddenly changed and ended abruptly. Wounded though a man may be, they are a deadly race all the same. Able to divide their mind away from the things of this life and to concentrate on their task and purpose. Pleasure, or pain, the Men of long ago were able to endure[NC14]  the hardships of the Dark Years and Long Crossing through the Frozen Nethers by putting their minds, and needs, elsewhere despite the harsh circumstances.Perhaps the elves of Indolién had lost that trick, trading it in for the fineries of civilization. Eschewing pain over pleasure.But Men had not.Walker's path had been much different than both men and elves. And his life a return in many respects to the old ways much sneered about in the Emerald Courts. So, it was nothing for him to simply ignore the fatal wound[NC15]  and swing wide as he heard the suddenly foolish headlong rush of the other goblin smelling blood and excited for the kill. The old blade of the savage man bit deep into the orc's skull and came away with brain matter and bone. The cut wasn't clean… but it was enough.The other goblin who'd backed off to enjoy his victory and cowardly slice, was surprised to see the deadly arc of the stranger's blade take off the head of his comrade… and then… come for him in the same moment as the Man turned his pivot into a tremendous sure-footed rush across the treacherous deadfall of the old hollow. Giving ground, backpedaling, the lean goblin threw up both its black claws, one still holding its own blade, to fend off the furious attack. But this was to little avail as the blade of the man rammed home and pinned the sly hunter dead against the trunk of an old twisting oak.Run though its tiny black heart, the last thing the cruel goblin hunter heard was the sudden snap of the man's blade against the solidness of the oak as the warrior pushed it through, having a bad angle and revealing some old fault within the forged metal waiting for just such a moment to occur.In the silence that followed, Walker backed away holding the hilt of the broken weapon he'd borne long in his travels.Hearing the laugh of the whispering voice hidden within his worn ruck turn to the full-throated satisfaction of seductress scorned. The voice of the thing in the bundle.Gray wisps of smoke crawled from out its knotted covering.Walker could feel his own blood running down his side and along his leg. Into his boot. But there wasn't any time for this. In the distance he could hear the others, the other night hunters coming for him, calling one to [NC16] another out there in the late night. Coming to do the evil the horn had called them for.Coming for him. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit nickcole.substack.com/subscribe

Nick and the Medusa are back for the last show of the week!The Tolkien Project Chapter Five will go live tomorrow at 4PST.If you're Interested in some signed copies of books then I have a few sets of The Old Man and The Wasteland Saga left. $60+$6 shippingI also have Strange Company: Voodoo Warfare $40+$6 Shippingand… a Hollywood dark comedy I wrote called Fight the Rooster awhile back ago that my editor and Jason Anspach says is the best thing I ever wrote. It's not everyone's cup of tea but it's fun and it might make a good collectible. $40+$6 ShippingAnd I have a few copies of the zombie romance story I wrote called The End of the World as We Knew It. The Medusa absolutely loves that book. Hope you do to. $30+$6 ShippingYou can order any and all of them by sending the appropriate amount for each book, or set, that you want, to my PayPal. I'll ship immediately. And add a little something extra. Thank you. -Nick This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit nickcole.substack.com/subscribe

Read last week's Episode hereChapter FourWalkerSome in the district had known this one as Walker. Few in fact still recalled the name by which he went these days. It had been many a year since the stranger, a man with a ragged scar about his throat, had been through these parts. In the days prior to the night of the Telling of the Show at the Last Friendly Inn, Walker had been seen “close and thereabouts” as the Littles like to say of strangers passing along the road to the south, or the smaller lanes and even trails that wove on out toward Olive Hills and the Dry Stretch. Or even further into the unreckoned neighborhoods of Barrows Valley and all that unknown that lay beyond its eastern edge.But there had been many dark figures on the road and out in the hills lately. Some said Gobs. Others, the Hobbs themselves. Goblins or the larger and nastier variety hobgoblins[NC1] . But of course the Littles always defaulted to their favorite boogedyman… ‘warewoofs.Now the candles were burning very low within the inn, and the fire within the hearth had reduced itself to little more than ash and an orange glow. This was the last of the night at the inn and now all that lay ahead in the darkness was quiet, and perhaps one low candle burning. And of course, the lanterns out along the roads and lanes kept going by the Night Watch. Outside the inn, occasional bursts of the windy thunder came off the distant coast and roared across Strawberry Flats sending small disquieting moans down its antique length just inland from the shores.No one moved and there was no sound in the inn until once more Walker began to speak, only the creaking of his road-wearied leathers breaking the silence just before he began.“The enemy was not defeated at Sirith Osildor,” rasped the stranger the Littles knew as Walker. He moved closer to them, and one would think his old high hard-worn boots would have made some soft thump across the ancient boards as he moved. Like some cheap travelling tragedian playing the stage to effect. But the strange man, and weren't all men strange, moved without a sound and this gave truth to the rumor that he leagued with the Forest Watchers, a dangerous lot of Northern Men long come down out of the North whose ways and beliefs were strange and mysterious to the elves of Indolién and even more so to the many good folk of the Gentle Lands.Walker made eye contact with them all and then returned to watching the last embers of the fire. His grim face was made even more so by the little light left in the room.“The enemy were not turned back and sent to flight…” he paused. Then, “… as you saw in the wizard's tricks and lying glamours.”“But we saw the truth?” stammered old Hoot TacMavish who'd been in the kitchen and had sliced his own cut of the wheel. “How cannee be different in what we saw, stranger?”He chewed his cheese as they waited for the response he'd seemed to angrily demand.But the stranger did not answer Hoot directly and continued to stare into the orange coals as he moved closer from out of the darkness and toward the hearth so they could see him better.“Nor did Adoras strike a blow among many against the Wyrm. Coming in against the flanks of the shadow, as you have been told. None of those things happened. And if you want to know what is true… then that is not it and never has been from the lips of the Elves of Indolién.”“Then Adoras did not ride?” piped up one of the Littles.Walker smiled. It was not the smile of a man playing with prey. Nor was it the smile of someone who despises a question in the middle of their speech. No, it was a sad, yet kind smile.“Did you see in the last week a great host move along the road, heading south to the battle you were told of?” asked Walker softly. As though[NC2]  it was a real question, and no one had asked was because the answer is known, and the asker merely wants to make the listener seem foolish. No. It was an honest question. One that almost seemed like he'd prefer the answer that made him the liar. As though, a different answer would have been better than the one that was.The Little said nothing.“Because surely you would have seen so many of the Elven Cavalry and Spear, glittering and bright in Indolién's sacred armors. I tell you… you would not have missed such a sight.”“It's no[NC3] t like that,” said the Little. Walker replied nothing. The Little stammered and sallied on which is their way when they're on about something. Not easily dissuaded those Littles aren't. “Well… ‘tis all tactics like, Walker. Thas' what your name is, isn't it? They came at them from the flank as good ol' Malrond says so. The way I figures the maps, they must've taken the Eastern Hills road and gone out through Olive Wood or even Wild Tangle… or maybe…” and here the Little crossed himself and made a sign at this next bit, “Or Even Barrows Valley though I don't like to even say it much less think it.”“Aye,” piped in Tom MacTarthy who ran the stable and had come in to find his last pint of the night. Something had made him uneasy out there in the dark all alone, and the ponies had gone skittish, and it had taken him much hay and whispering to calm them down. Like there was some predator about but none that he could see. Maybe it was the wind, he'd decided after a bit, when he'd made up his mind to go pull himself a pint and found Fatty and others still gathered by the main hearth listening to the palaver of the stranger. A man no less. But the mood in the inn felt just as a thunderstorm, he'd tell others later when they'd listen.Walker stopped and didn't turn to look at a one of them. He was still before the dying fire. Behind him near the bar, the sound of Tom blowing the froth of his pint was the only sound that could be heard for a moment. Then the wind ran through the eaves high up on the third story and through the ancient section that was known as the Old Count's Tower that was part of the inn and far older than anyone suspected.But that is an older tale and has nothing to do with this one. Which is how things often are. There are more stories out there than you can imagine. On every walk in every out of the way place, there are many lying in the shadows and down undiscovered trails.“And so…” continued Walker, “… no one came from down the Barrow Hills ways and gave account of the long snake of an elven army in full armor and on the march for battle? Not to one of you ever talkative lot of Littles… well, I find that hard to believe.”Silence.“Well, t'wouldn't it be secret-like?” asked one of the other Littles near the fire. “Elves is queer strange and who knows them ways of our betters and all. But ifn' anyone could do it… well stands to reason t'would be mighty Prince Adoras and the lot o' his generals.”“Are you saying Good Ol' Malrond lied to us?” said another quickly on the heels of this.“No,” said Walker more to himself than to his audience. “Prince Adoras did not come to battle in the South. In fact… there was no elven host to give battle to the Shadow himself or that wyrm that curls about the tower even now.”“How say'ee that? How do ye know?” asked another, his eyes and lips full of incredulity.“Because I was there, my Little friend,” said Walker after a long cool moment, and then sat down in a low chair near the fire. His coal black eyes still intent on the fire regardless.“I will tell you a story then, my friends,” he began with a tired sigh. A dog barked outside, savagely for a few seconds and to this the man listened. When it stopped, he told Fatty to lock the doors to the inn and gave no reason for it. Fatty, jangling his big ring of keys, dashed off to do just that. Then Walker began to speak.“The story of the fall of Sirith Osildor, Tower of the Golden Eagle as it was once known by another name. Maldornesoron it was once called. But not now. Not anymore in these dark and treacherous days. The warriors who died holding a line there a few nights ago, held for help that would never come from fair Indolién.”Now the weathered man cast his tired yet kind gaze about them all and it was not unkind, or even prideful or arrogant as most elves can be. No. It was the look of a long-suffering and patient friend in times that are difficult. Or of the kind one wears when explaining difficulties to young ‘uns. He seemed to nod to himself regarding what he might say next before continuing on. And when he was satisfied with the answer he had decided to give, he began his story in full.It was just words. Not like magics. Not like the wizard's smoke and shadows. But there was power in these. And more so some would say later.“The armies of the Shadow came howling out of the southern waystes on the first full moon of spring. Earlier than expected, but the Tower Watch had gone deeper into the waystes, scouting in small bands, than it ever had before that winter, and it was clear the orcish tribes would be on the move come spring. Some said just another war between themselves. Or against the Eastern lands and the Ancient Kingdoms of Men. Or even the Indaar. But Bear Killer of the Watch said it would be Osildor if it was anywhere. So, we gathered to assist the elves of the Tower where we could, and within days, we found ourselves fighting for the outskirts of the river and dock district as the forces of the Shadow gathered across the waters of the river. The wizard's sorceries were true enough in some respects, outright lies in others. But isn't that how the best lies always are… some sweet grains of truth to wash down the bitter lies one finds in the cup. What we wouldn't have given for a good wall to fight from. But the throne of Indolién has long thought the Black River to be a good enough defense, though why anyone would think that has always been a mystery to Men of the Watch. It's easier to cross than most and in almost every place, and sometimes near dry as bone when the rains don't come down in the Eastern Mountains.“But there was no wall and so we fought side by side with Gaelrandir's Spear along the docks and into the city dregs near the river. The orcish war chiefs were crafty and very clever the first night. Never coming straight on at the tower where our might was most gathered. But instead forcing us into a battle for blocks and neighborhoods long abandoned and some say even haunted.“In one such street my brotherhood faced one of the Eld Longdarks, and it was there we gave battle and lost half our number in combat.”Several of the Littles gasped in amazement.The Eld were the stuff of nightmares and boogey tales of the long ago from the Age of Darkness before the lands were the way they would be. Longdark Trolls were considered the worst predators of the night and known to dine on the bones of their enemies in preference to the flesh they stripped away with stone daggers.“A named beast this was,” continued Walker as he watched the embers unblinkingly. As though he were seeing it all as it had been seen on the dark night. “Fell and Eld indeed was this one. Oggrindaar he was known by in the speech of the Eldarin Elves who once ruled from mighty Easold the Lost. He came out from the ruins of an ancient temple, fangs dripping with blood and red murder in his burning eyes. His hide though leathery, was tough and scarred from a thousand years of battle in the deep halls of the earth where few have ever been. And fewer still returned from. Girded with fabled Giant's Plate, like those of its kind wore who fell in battle before the Malantur, the eld troll who little feared our small company of watchers armed with bow and sword. But they are men of the road, the watchers, and no mere foe to be trifled with even when a dread troll is in the mix. And I will say this, the elves were there too, and the elves do not spend their lives cheaply.”Silence as Walker turned from the fire to watch their small yet expressive faces. Their minds did more work and saw more truth that the glimmers of the wizard could have manufactured. The mind is so much more powerful than the mere trickeries of image and light. When given the chance, it destroys those things.“We strove hours into the late night against the enemy there and three of us were killed by dark fire from the black arrows of the shadow orcs supporting the raging dread troll. Greybeard was wounded sorely but fought on at the front of the company, facing down the roaring troll, trading blows with his ancient blade and driving the beast back into the burning ruins of the temple he'd come out from. A moment later the whole rotting structure collapsed when the great troll was mortally wounded and gave out a horrific cry at its last, defeated. But in the same moment our clan lord was gone from this earth. We gave not a moment to our grief and pressed the attack against the orc archers and infantry surging into the street from every direction because even their chiefs, fiends every one of them, knew the battle was here this night.“I would tell you that right there we won the district and turned the tide of battle, reclaiming the lost street and putting the Shadow host to the sword wherever they could be found. But I cannot for that would be a lie… and a betrayal to my oath as a storyteller.”Now at the word storyteller all the Littles as one seemed to lean back in their chairs or shift their feet uncomfortably.Why so, you might ask at such an innocuous word. Isn't a storyteller a tale teller? A bard? A skald? An entertainer or even a mountebank in some low cases? A tragedian as has been mentioned?No.No, a storyteller is none of those things. And so, Walker was not.During those dark and uncertain times, a storyteller was something much more than just a gossip with a gift for fine speech. In the years since the rise of the wizards in the Emerald Council, the once noble storytellers had long fallen out of favor with the lands. It was rumored, whispered constantly, and even mocked in the murmurings of court before the Emerald Throne and among the pleasures of the Feather Gardens, that to be called a ‘storyteller' in polite company, was to be awarded the highest insult with the most dismissive of slurs.To admit to being one, that is another thing altogether. And one you shall see the nature of as we go along here for a bit.But Walker did not mind their discomfort and continued on with the tale, seeing that they would listen more now. Which is all a storyteller needs.Someone to listen to the truth the storyteller is telling. Instead of locking it up in a tower, or beneath the lost Vaults of Unthur where living eye has not been for long years to see what truly lies buried there in the deeps of time.“Within days we had lost the district and many valiant warriors,” continued Walker plainly. No tricks. No smoke. No shadows. “Elves and men who serve despite the pleasures of the throne, fought valiantly to the last for such is the way of warriors. Stagg the Swift, a watcher, fell in the Water Courts beneath the shadow of the tower. Daeanor Longblade himself, against the orcs holding the way between Straight Street and the Mire Warrens where strange things haunt the nights. Daeanir, brother of the Longblade himself, fell too, hours later at the foot of the tower as we sought to make our last stand. I could tell you all on this strange and quiet night, of many others who fell, many names to be recorded in the Book of Deeds when this is done, told in countless tales high in the Eastern Mountains to keep their memories alive during the dark and uncertain times we face, but all the defeats were the same and the endings as grim as we fought to cede as little ground as possible to the ravening orcish tribes streaming across the Black River and coming for the tower.“There seemed that night to be no end to them.“In the end we were trapped inside the tower and that's when she came. A great drake from the south, an ancient thing from the lost Age of Darkness when Vaugamir Blackhand cast aside the ways of elves and became Lord Sauth and did make war against his brothers and the children.“The drake struck the tower with living black flame, searing the uppermost defenders before trumpet or call to battle could be sounded. We fought it back with our best archers, but no weapons seemed strong enough to drive her off. And meanwhile the orcish host had come against the Mythildor which is the fabled silver gate of the Sirith Osildor crafted long ago by the Eldaar Elves as a gift to men.At once the tower was struck and the great wyrm landed among the uppermost battlements and began wreaking much havoc against the Silver Guards who have long held that watch. I say this now and will say it until I am convinced otherwise… not one of Foemor's warriors survived, instead choosing to give their all against the drake in hope of driving her off the tower, even as it began to collapse along the outer galleries, with great sheets of the fabled marble of Easold's quarries crashing down like foam-tossed surf from the rocky coasts of Nurth.“It was Bearkiller who bade us understand that the tower was lost now and we should flee to our missions. He speaks for the Watch, and so every one of us did as we must and disappeared among the chaos and slaughter, for there was nothing that could be done. No charge. No Adoras. No Norsus striking a fatal blow. And now I have come north into the Gentle Lands as I was bid, to tell you what has truly happened in the South and to seek the trail of the task I have been given. These are the things you must know instead of the glimmers of the wizards who serve the Emerald Court, who would have you believe many other things instead of really what was, and what now is.”“And…” asked Old Barley who'd sat quietly with his pipe in the chair as he always did, dozing and listening. Apparently, he'd been listening more than dozing. “If'n the tower was lost and surrounded by orcs and the like even more terrible than such… well then, a simple farmer like me'self has to ask how came ye through the fight?”    Walker studied the crowd of Littles in the inn close to midnight now. Again, he seemed to hear something afar off in the night that none of them could, and it must be said Littles have fine ears for hearing when they're not going on about something with their mouths. For a moment the man waited, seeking to hear it again so he could confirm his suspicions that it was soon time to move on.But then he continued after a bit.“There were ancient halls beneath the old tower. Carved out during the time of the Mad Kings of Men from the Old Age. The Watch knew of its locations beneath the crypts and led the survivors out through wraith-haunted halls, but not…”And here Walker paused.For a moment the Littles thought his rasping throat that made the whisper voice grim and determined, had merely gone dry. Fatty swept his great bulk toward the taps like some blustering storm at sea suddenly changing course and filled a mug of his best. A moment later he was handing it to the stranger like an offering and backing away like one might from a wild animal found on a forest path late one winter afternoon far from village and home. And safety.But that was not the case. No. Not the case at all. Something had happened down there in the crypts, and it was not to be forgotten. Not since, and not ever. And even as Walker had this thought, the siren call of its truth, which seemed a completely ironic thing compared to what it really was, called to him from the bundle he'd left in the darkness near where he'd first appeared.He cast his dark eyes toward the pack on the floor. It was old, leather, and much used.It seemed to all the Littles in the room that night that a look crossed the stranger's face that seemed to say, or indicate, that he only wanted to be free of its burden for a moment.Wrapped in oilcloth… it… called… to him.And for a moment, something cold and unseen could be felt by the Littles in the room though they knew it not.I'm here. Here with you now, outcast wanderer whose true name I know. Here. Touch me.The man drank the offered pint and wiped his lips with the back of his weathered and dark hand.That bit, that was not for Little ears. Or for any.The Truth is a funny thing, Immaradir the Old had once reminded Walker. Sometimes it is so powerful, it convinces you that you must lie for it.There was that. And there was something else. There were orders. Orders from Bearkiller as he held the hall beneath the crypts, surely dead by now for he's spent his life against crypt wraiths to see our fellowship free of the dark.“… Not without cost,” Walker finished after the long, strange moment that had passed there in the inn. “Many of the Watch there at the Battle of Sirith Osildor perished in the flight through the lower reaches of the halls. Dark things long asleep tried to prevent our passage but the knowledges of the Watchers are useful against such old ghosts. Lore and wisdom regarding how to defeat such is kept as ready as sharp sword and a keen knife for any of the Watch. Still… it was not without cost… to us.”There was another sound out there in the dark tonight. And now Walker could sense the hour and what was going to happen.He heard them now. Gathering out there in the dark. Coming in from the fields and tracks they'd followed him along from the fields of battle… and slaughter. Or had they been waiting there ahead of him all along? Had the wizard's tale been bait, to draw him into the inn.“So why'ee tell us?” asked one of the Littles, unaware of the dark thing at the door to the inn as the Walker was even now. “And who's to say whether Malrond or ye is right in the tellin' of such things as don't concern us of the Gentle Lands. Indoly…” which is what Littles called Indolién, “…is but a day's ride to the north. The elfs may not have marched south but the Army of the King is still there, and I doubt they'll abide a black host coming north anytime soon.”“Tis true enough,” said Walker rising, hand on the hilt of his old sword. “I doubt they'll abide what they can afford to ignore but little longer.[NC4]  But such behaviors as I thought once unexpected have become the norm for such times now and it is best to track by them. Duty and honor are things put on and off like the dress and jewelry of fine elven maids in Indolién. The truth is a piece of thrown pottery that can be shaped as needed and broken when finished with. As long as there is clay, new truths can be manufactured every day and all day. The wizards shape the clay and feed you what they want you to believe.”“But why?”“Why is it ever so, my Little friend? For power and power alone is the answer. And so you must ask yourself good people, and you are truly good, for the Watchers and those who still strive against the Shadow know of what stuff you are made and can count on you, you who were once known by another name long before the elves came into the lands, a name the Storytellers have not forgotten though some of you have even now. What will you do with the truth when it has come home to you? That is really the question for this night.”No one spoke.Walker moved toward his ruck on the floor. The thing wrapped in oilskin inside an old blanket that had been rolled up along the top of the weathered carry.He checked his blade. Felt his knife at his side. Knew that was all he had to face the ones waiting out there in the dark for him.Knew that was a lie.He had so much more. Craft. Knowledge. Truth.“And me, outcast. Hecil. One lost or forsaken by friends, waif, outcast. You have me,” cooed the thing wrapped in oilcloth. Don't forget about me, Hecil.“If it's orcs, or even ‘warewoofs', why we'll fight ‘em to keep our lands free as we always has, Walker,” cried Cormic, swinging his empty mug aloft like it was one of the great swords of fabled renown.Many of which were lost now.Walker watched the burly and brave Little for a moment as he pulled his battered cloak over his head. Piercing eyes stared out from the darkness within at them all. Once more the wind came up like a wild thing from off the coasts and moors and raced along the eaves of the old pile and down into the chimney.It was a strange night indeed.“I know you will, Cormic. The Bobbin always have answered when the Old Kings called, even back to the days of Eld when the Dark Elf ruled the land and there was much terror, and few heroes in those days. The stories have always said so of bobbins.Only a few of the Littles knew that old calling of their race. None were asleep now as they watched the man among them, sure that dark times and trouble were to be had and on their way.“And the stories have always been true. As they must be,” said Walker.Then he was gone out into the late night as Fatty let him out, locking the great lock as soon as the stout and well-kept door was closed and the bolt shot.Also… we'll be doing a Book Club Discussion tomorrow night, Saturday, on my YouTube Check out some books by NickThe American Wasteland TrilogyThe Old Man and the WastelandThe Savage BoyThe Road is a RiverSoda Pop Soldier BooksSoda Pop SoldierPop Kult WarlordCTRL ALT RevoltGalaxy's EdgeForgotten Ruin SeriesThe Tragedy of the Strange Company SeriesStrange CompanyVoodoo WarfareThe End of the World as We Knew ItFight the Rooster This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit nickcole.substack.com/subscribe

We hear for ya, Fam. First podcast is free. Next one'll cost ya. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit nickcole.substack.com/subscribe

Read Last Weeks Chapter HereChapter ThreeThe Question of a StrangerIn time, with the words and images of old Malrond still ringing in their ears and dazzling their sleepy eyes, the Littles and the old inn fell to the late hours. The last revelers, celebrating the victory they'd been told of in the South, they too took themselves off into the night as best they could with songs and lanterns to see their way along the roads to where they must be off to within the district.Though it was still spring, and the night winds at this late hour were as wont to come in off the Great Sea as naught, there definitely was a festive air about those setting off toward their farms and small villages lying along the roads and rivers of the Gentle Lands.Thankfully, the wind was not up on this night and in fact the air had turned pleasantly warm even at this hour as though whispering of a fine summer coming along soon enough.This was all early, but not unappreciated. It would be a good year for crops, so that too was considered a blessing as Littles each and every one of them took themselves off to their homes for an unheard of Late Supper, or perhaps even Cordials and Cheese, which is the third of the three nightly meals they usually are about. This would normally consist of a pie, perhaps some cheese or a fried egg, then of course a fine pastry and a cup of cold milk from the lower larders before bed.[NC1] On toward midnight, perhaps in the hour before, the inn fell to a contemplative yet pleasant darkness as old Fatty gathered up the dishes and cleaned the bar again. Only a few of the Littles were left now. The oldsters, bachelor farmers, and a few of the young yet unmarried sat before the great hearth, nursing the last of what would be poured from Fatty's taps for the night, before the round and large Little innkeeper turned them out one and all with much gruff impatience.There was really no one left in the inn save these rascals and Fatty's large family working at the closing up for the night. Out on the roads across the district, the night watch would be crossing the lonely roads to light the lamps that lit the way between distant and sometimes close places of stead, farm, village, hamlet, and outlying settlement.But there was one other among them that night. A stranger, for the most part. Come in from the road and unconsidered by the lot of them giving their final opinions and musing on what they had seen and heard that night within the Last Friendly Inn.Malrond's Telling of the Show.Such as the stranger were best steered clear of by the Littles as they liked to mutter among themselves when out of hearing. But of course, since there had been much beer poured over the course of the to-be-remembered night, and the news of the great victory before the tower itself in the south had come to them early in the evening, the Littles were much interested in once more discussing all the events. The portents and what they intended, and of course what it all meant for them and their Little World. Holding forth flowed freely and in time the presence of the dark stranger who'd kept to the old alcove within the inn, near the back and the upstairs barrels, had been forgotten.So, he listened to them, silently, and seemed from casual observance, suspiciously uninterested in their palaver.“So that's that, says I,” said Cormic Tarnettle of the East Hills Tarnettles. “Dark forces, say I, has been struck down once more. The wizards o' the council say it'll be a good year for crops and that worries are for others come what may.”“Aye,” muttered Ol' Ned Duggan who was an oldster and not much in the autumn of his years[NC2] . “Ne'er thought I would see a year free of the worries o' the South. Orcs and gobs is one thing and another, I tells ya… but to know that them ‘warewoofs' has been sucked back behind the ol' Blac Gate shore puts a mind at ease. I says that to yas. Used to like to fish down at Cutter's Lake until I saw ‘warewoof' in the dusk of a full moon comin' up. Ne're go down that way a'since, that's for shore.”The other Littles agreed that indeed a good year was upon them all even if it had been purchased with the price of elven blood, flame, and sword in the south. Perhaps even a good age was upon them all, not a few mused. One might even wonder if the old trade with the southern lands would come this way again and…“It's all a lie,” said the stranger from the shadowy recess where Ol' Warshbourne had once done his moneylending. Acquiring a fortune that had built him an estate over in River's Edge that had gone to crumbling in the years since the old miser had passed. Some said it was haunted by the ghost of an elven maiden whose tomb had been rumored to lie upon the haunted grounds nearabouts. But that was…“A lie ye says?” said Cormic Tarnettle as though he were a bit deaf and an oldster like Ned Duggan. Though he was not yet but seemed to be trying out the role as of late. Warming to the weight it might carry and what he could get up to with that.But that's a Tarnettle for you.All the Littles turned to peer into the deep shadows of the old alcove but the firelight from the hearth would not penetrate far across the room and so the Stranger seemed one with the gathering shadows there. Indeed, the darkness that lay there seemed an… unnatural thing to the Littles. A thing unto itself.“Strangers…” muttered Ol' Ned dismissively so only those near the fire might hear. “Never any good come of ‘em, I tells ya.”And perhaps the Littles should have been a bit frightened. Even cautious. But again, the Boch, the meat pastries that had come out late in the evening along with some cold roast chicken seasoned with winter herbs, and a bit of Olive Woods cheese had put the courage into the Littles one and all and so they feared not the shadows, or the stranger and his words within them. The firelight and their companionship, and well, just being in the inn that night, a place much considered the last of the friendly places before one reached the dark and uneven border of the southern lands, gave them a bit more courage than they normally possessed.Perhaps…The stranger spoke up again. His voice was hard and seemed weary with the road, hoarse and dry. Deep like the woods. He had the voice of men who make their ways out of doors often do. Slowed by the weight of great spaces crossed and seen. And though much of him was dark with shadow, there shone eyes that seemed to burn within the shadows. Elven eyes, it seemed for a moment. But then not when you tried to look closer. They were eyes that possessed some other light than that fey and mystical race. Masters of all times since the Ancient Times of the Old Age much remembered in tale and song.“No,” said the figure in the dark. “Not a lie. But lies… yes. There have been many of those tonight.” There was a long pause and the gathered Littles felt that the stranger had said his piece and was finished. They waited politely for more, sure nothing would come.Then, “All told for your amusement… and rest.”The Littles were made uncomfortable, for this was a bit too direct for their tastes in polite conversation, and for such a fine evening of victories recounted and of course, that fine cheese from Olive Woods, hadn't that been nice?Well, it was verging on rude.But they remained silent and did the stranger the courtesy of ceasing their talk, ceding the floorboards and vast silences of the inn to listen to whatever it was this highwayman had to say, for it did seem he was going to speak.The air was almost filled with something before he even began. As though it were the same as Malrond's magic. But different.Definitely different.“What if I were to tell you…” began the stranger, leaning forward. His leathers creaking as he did so, and yes, wasn't that a blade on his hip? “…that everything… and I mean everything you've heard tonight, and in fact every night old Malrond the… Wise… has ever appeared out of the nethers of wherever he comes from, to tell you of yet more good news from the Emerald Throne… what if I were to tell you that all of those things… are lies. Illusions… just like the smoke and shadow within his magic? What if I were to tell you Littles… those things?”Not a one of them replied.“Would you suddenly start a revolt? Would you shun him? Reject the things Malrond says?”The stranger gave a soft, dry chuckle.Still, no one replied to these questions. Wide eyed, they held their last pints and watched the shadows, the orange firelight of the great hearth playing across their features.“Nay. You would not believe my words for it is easier, and of greater comfort to believe… what you want to believe. And not what is truth.”Silence.Then Cormic dared a word or two. He laughed first to show he was interested in keeping it a bit friendly, or even perhaps guardedly friendly, which was the natural default of the Littles, but also to disagree. That was what the laugh was for. And the Little blacksmith who would, and should be, married one of these summers soonish, dared.“Then say truly, stranger. If'ee the wizard tells lies… then what be the truth of the great battle of the south? And the tower? And for that matter… the shadow?”Now this, for a Little, who might make out to be a timid people in the re-telling of this tale, if you can call it that though it has been suggested it's more of tragedy, it has been suggested that I have a tendency to make the Littles out to be bumkins, or even patsies. Simple folk. Timid and afraid of their own shadow.Nothing could be further from the truth. I assure you.True, they might be a bit close-minded. Or too ready to make with a song and a pie than mounted barbed steed and confront the souls of fearful adversaries… but they are plucky. You can say that for them. First off… they're dogged in their determination. Feuds, and polite ones at that, might last between clans of Littles for upwards of a hundred years. And every so often there's a bit of a wild streak in one or two of them.They call it, “goin a'wanderin'.”And Littles who've gone wandering have been known to get up to some rather brave deeds in desperate spots.Those that returned.But the children of men, and the elves who are older than most, refer to these types by other names, and none of them good.[NC3]  Reckless and fever-touched adventure seekers are most commonly used in polite company. Chasing down the rumors of the Ancients for lost piles of Dragon Hoard, or Barrow Geld.Pure fantasies that'll see you missing if you listen to the common wisdom dispensed between hall and home.So, while I might paint them as such… you do need to know for this part of the tale, that Littles are… actually, quite brave.Having said that, in the dense silence following Cormic's interrogation of the dark stranger sitting in the shadows of the old alcove, the younger Littles gathered about the Inn's Hearth that night, weren't of a mind to gather up their coats and walking sticks and head off into the night.But they would prefer if Fatty appeared with a little more cheese and perhaps one more round to keep out the mist when it was time to be heading.Still, for a moment if felt like meeting a ‘warewoof' might be preferable to the dangerous atmosphere brewing inside Fatty's as the stranger spoke his discomforting words.The stranger stood, left the old coins on the rough table, and came close to the fire. Standing among them for a good look. And now they could all seem him a'better.He was most definitely not elven, though the cloak and hood, and even the travel-worn gear said he must be of men. Northern Tribes at that. The features grim and rough, not like the elves that stopped by on their passings to the south. He was definitely not of that race.Where elves' faces were smooth and white like alabaster, fair even like summer peaches with eyes that sparkled blue, and most importantly at times jade or even the coveted emerald green, the stranger's eyes were coal black by the firelight of the inn in which they glittered.And his skin was dark from the sun. And weather-beaten and lined from days and nights out-of-doors.Some say there are ancient elven tribes from the days of Airë who carried that color. Seafarers they had become in the days when the elven fathers had reached for the distant coasts of strange and lost lands never known again.And whereas elven garb was beautiful, rich, and fine, even the warriors were oft finely adorned in their armors, this stranger's travel gear was rude and rough and made for the road. Something as like the forest men of the Eastern Mountains. Leathers and high hard muddy boots that had seen many a league and more. And of course, an old worn grey cloak, water stained and beaten by nights in which it must have served both as cover and bed.The only weapon he carried was a longsword in a plan yet cared for oiled leather scabbard. And there was nothing remarkable about this weapon though it seemed to have seen much use and wear in battle no doubt by its wrapping.And all those things were seen and noted by the chubby Littles who sat in the finest of Fatty's overstuffed leather chairs gathered around the cheery fire at the last of itself. But what drew their eyes was the ragged scar across his long and slender neck.A hangman's scar. Or an assassin's cut.Perhaps the reason why his voice was rough and little more than a whisper though it seemed to carry weight.Long dark hair fell across one eye. And under one arm, held tightly by a worn leather glove that didn't match the one on the other hand, was a bundle wrapped in grave shrouds. Old Ned Duggan would bet his life, in the retelling of the evening later, when things had gone all strange in the aftermath of the night's events, that the stranger was a barrow robber of some bad sort.But that was later.“Then say truly, stranger,” fiery young Cormic the Blacksmith offered. “If'ee the wizard lies… then what is the truth of the great battle of the south? Tell us now and perhaps Fatty will spot another round and the last of the wheel.”And now that the stranger had come to stand among them near the fire and explain his words, none of them were made too comfortable by this turn of events. In fact, Fatty did not move to pull a tap, or cut cheese from the wheel in the kitchen. The stranger's stillness and presence were mesmerizing in their silence and most wished they'd never heard what was said next, because whether they wanted to believe it or not, what was said next to them there that night in the inn, near the last of the night's hearth, changed everything.After that…Everything changed.Medusa and ‘Shadows in Sirith Osildor'Subscribe Now to hear the audio version of the chapters and get invited to the end of the month book club discussion via live VidChatCheck out some books by NickThe American Wasteland TrilogyThe Old Man and the WastelandThe Savage BoyThe Road is a RiverSoda Pop Soldier BooksSoda Pop SoldierPop Kult WarlordCTRL ALT RevoltGalaxy's EdgeForgotten Ruin SeriesThe Tragedy of the Strange Company SeriesStrange CompanyVoodoo WarfareThe End of the World as We Knew ItFight the Rooster This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit nickcole.substack.com/subscribe

Today we pick up with Part 2 of this week's special 2 part-er. We get into the Assassination of a Movie Star. Hang on… its getting weird.Check out some books by NickThe American Wasteland TrilogyThe Old Man and the WastelandThe Savage BoyThe Road is a RiverSoda Pop Soldier BooksSoda Pop SoldierPop Kult WarlordCTRL ALT RevoltGalaxy's EdgeForgotten Ruin SeriesThe Tragedy of the Strange Company SeriesStrange CompanyVoodoo WarfareThe End of the World as We Knew ItFight the Rooster This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit nickcole.substack.com/subscribe

Nick and the Medusa do a very special Two Part Episode that will warm your hearts, or scare the living hell out of you. Enjoy!Boom! Boom! Boom! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit nickcole.substack.com/subscribe

Read the Previous Chapter hereChapter TwoA Tale in the DarkAfter the last of the hot scones were handed out, fresh from the ovens of Fatty, cups of sipping chocolate for the little'uns, boch of course for the olds, then the pipes were lit and hushes to be quiet administered, for the Telling of the Show was to begin. Malrond settled himself in a great tufted leather chair near the hearth, center stage within the main room, and for a long moment there was quiet. Then, with little to no fanfare he began at once.“I come none too late from the war in the south, my little friends…” began the old wizard. “To tell you the war that was coming, that we have felt in sky and stone, seen in omens and even bones… is over now. You may rest easy knowing this.”A hush deeper than the one that began the affair fell over the main room of the Last Friendly Inn as Malrond spoke this and all that could be heard in that solemn and stunning moment was the murmur-crackle and an occasional snap of the fire turning to grey ash within the grand hearth of the main room.The room was darker now. Only the struggling candles burned from behind Fatty McFarlane's perch at the end of the lovingly and oft-polished red oak bar and in the occasional sconce along the alcoves across the swollen room. Some later would remark that the dark seemed unnatural and was perhaps part of the showing. At the time this passed unnoticed, and the Littles collectively leaned forward at the beginning of the telling, willing themselves to miss nothing, knowing a great magic of the showing would soon begin as the wizard wove his quiet storytelling spell over the room, and them all in turn.The Littles, and others who were there that early spring night, in the back among the shadows, alone or keeping to their small traveling stranger clusters, all in the old pile of an inn were aware that war and death had been raging across the lands to the south around the great tower of Sirith Osildor itself and along the Black River that was the natural boundary for that southern region the Elves of Indolién referred to as The Undómë.The Twilight.Many travelers referred to those lost southern regions where the map seemed incomplete and even uncharted at times as… Ungondor.Lands of Cloud and Shadow.The quiet crowd in the normally merry old inn hovered over the old elven wizard's next words for surely there was more to this than what had been said already. Malrond took a deep draw from his long-stemmed clay pipe, held the smoke, his eyes watching them all, and then with a delicate movement of his old mouth sent the first smoke ring out and into the dark rafters above them all.“The crisis in the south… has been averted for now,” stated Malrond the Wise with a theatrical gravitas that bespoke a certain finality one must accept if the story were to go on.The Littles being great lovers of any travelling show that happened along the back roads agreed to the terms of the deal and accepted what the wizard had said with an acquiescent silence. Indicating old Malrond should go on with the rest of it, and already quick if you please.“The fell host of the Shadow Hordes has been turned back at the ancient Gates of Sirith Osildor itself. Just a few nights ago you may have seen lights of the terrible magics worked with much wroth in the crucial moments of that dire battle… just the other night in fact, a long night if you'll remember so, that is if there ever was one such as that one. A night in which those of us standing the watch against the coming shadow on the walls of the great tower guessed perhaps all was lost, and we had seen our last day. And even the last of all days to be seen by such as those who walk the Gentle Lands.”Yes, many of the Littles would later remark. The night had seeming restlessly long. There had been tossing and turning. Little'uns had nightmares and strange dreams that required attending and cold drinks of water to console. Some Littles even remarked that there had been the not unheard of, but not necessarily common, last meal of the several Littles generally consume per day.Second Creepies. A light comforting snack of catch as catch can from the larders to see out the last hours until dawn and Bacon.The wizard took a puff of his pipe, seemed to hold it for a moment as though wordlessly reciting a secret prayer, or a chant for good luck, good health, fair weather and a fast horse, and then finally let go with an almost melancholic exhale, sighing out the great weights that surely must rest on his narrow shoulders, the Littles assured themselves.Angelic blue smoke floated out from the wizard, its tendrils reaching among them, falling to the floor. Rising into rafters, seeking the shadows.The Littles breathed a sigh of relief and some even hoisted their mugs and took deeper draughts than unusual.This was, indeed, good news. The hordes of the Shadow defeated.“I was there…” announced the wizard to them all.No one had asked that. But in hindsight of the statement, it seemed the most natural of questions to be asked by ones not just seeking information but dying for its full reveal, and the tidbits and morsels must surely fall like so many crumbs of the Inn's famed Lavender Crumble Scones travelers from far and wide made detours just for. One of the younger little'uns, even more hot blooded and rash-tempered than quick with his fists Shane McFie, suddenly spoke from the dark floor where those of that age and stripe were gathered betwixt the main body and the old mage telling the show of what had happened there to the far and misty south.And even as this young one spoke up, rudely interrupting the proceeding with something about the elves and their swords, Malrond's continued smoke wafted through the room and over them all. Everywhere there were thin smoking tendrils like clever little garden snakes there in the stuffy atmosphere above the curly-haired Little heads who stared in rapture toward the wizard at the hearth, half lit by the simmering fire. Half in shadow by the darkness of the room.His face looked old now, they would all agree. Older than the last time they'd seen him come this way.And how long ago was that, some wondered.Time's a funny thing, answered others.Careworn and weather-beaten by many years on the road was the cause agreed on by all in the conversations and dissections that followed the days of the Showing of the Tell. As though some greater work than had been guessed at, was behind the old elf now. Though Malrond was clearly Andaari, noted by the long pointed ears, he seemed the opposite of that fair and noble race with their smooth features and almost almond eyes. Where he aged, they, other elves, did not. Where the bright sun did not touch them, it had carved deep lines in Malrond's long face, and brought bags to be under his baleful dark watching eyes. Time had bent the long nose that stared down upon them. Some old scar left barely visible ran down beneath one large eye. His eyes, they were dark. Dark like burning coals where the average Andaarian Elf tended toward blue and blue green eyes, and in this too he was different than those of his kind. And of course, his eyes were not like the royal green, burning like living fire in a fantastic jewel beyond price, reserved for those of the House of Eäron. Those Ancient Wayfaring Lords and founders of fair Indolién by the Sea. To have seen such eyes of the royal line, for a Little, even for a moment once in a lifetime, would have been considered a blessing to be noted and measured. A life event much talked about over field and farm and festival across the long years of the Littles which at best reached one hundred and thirty-seven. And even so special as to be noted when death came as it had been for Old Ori Farbanks, the former Mayor of Sheepshead who passed just five years back.Even the elves, merchants who seemed something more, had come out for that burying, staying just the day, and gone with the night and mist from off the coast.But those royal greens of the line of Eäron were not the eyes of Malrond the Wise. His were dark and glittering with tales, mischief, and yes jokes or at least funny stories for the most part. Sometimes they were sad and staring, seeing things only imagined when no one was watching him. Which was a mistake when in the company of Littles. Littles may be many things, silly, practical, laughing much, stuck in their ways constantly, angry about nothing just for the sake of it, faithful unto death, quiet like thieves when they meant to be, and occasionally mad, Littles were always watching. It was their nature to do so.The Littles knew the old elf as Malrond the Wise. But they also knew he was known by many names in other quarters even beyond the lands of Elves. Greystaff by the rock dwarves for the gnarled old ironwood he carried wherever he went about on his travels. Whisperer Tallhat by the strange and silent Children of Men far to the north. Gothminion some said in the ancient Elvish, older than Indarri, that was all but forgotten these days by most. But that was an unconfirmed [NC1] rumor that had only been heard and handed about and it seemed a strange one, a strange name for one such as he. And there were many other names suspected, and even hinted at.But as far as the Littles were concerned, Malrond was friendly when you thought about him and there was always a certain much needed excitement when he came about with his tales and spells and good talk.He remembered your business though you might not talk with him for a year, or even five in a stretch of seasons. He knew what you were about and what mattered to you and could speak and question at length regarding your affairs. And of course, he always came around at Harvest, and when there was great news afoot in the lands. The things said during his visits would keep the villages and hamlets of the Littles going for weeks at least.Malrond continued as the fire murmured and the smoke drifted heavy from his pipe though he had not puffed it and instead, wove it about with his long and crooked fingers, sparkling with many strange runic rings, and one… one that was uncommonly beautiful.“The hordes came out of the Ash south of the river… beyond the Forgotten Districts where much lies in ruin now, but those great wrecks still can be seen from the heights of the Sirith Osildor itself…”“Wot is the Ash?” some other impious young Little'un asked from the floor where the barefoot urchins had gathered with mugs of then[NC2]  warm chocolate. The older Littles erupted with a hiss of shushes and explosions regarding the impetuousness of youth, the abundance of bad parenting, and common lack of manners these days when you took count and measure of the state of affairs and all.A look crossed the old wizard's face at this second interruption. Like some flashing brief summer storm coming across the waters when you liked it least. This was because Malrond did not like being interrupted when he was on about something. That was clear. But the look was queerly gone as soon as it had come and the wizard obliged the question from the floor, smiling briefly as he did so.Some would say… it was not a warm smile. But that may have been due to the subject matter. The Southern Waystes where the map was shadowy, and things left botheringly unsaid.“The Ash is a low and broken land, burnt by great and terrible magics from the days of Inthol the Bright. But that was long ago when great monsters [NC3] heaved about the land and caused much trouble. Now the silent place is little but wretched blight where the low shadow hordes hunker, avoiding the light when they can, preferring to move with the night and the moon to seek their mischiefs and murders. Goblin tribes coming out to raid and strike fear into the hearts of good people everywhere if they can violate the waters of the River and the Watch at the Tower. My order has long kept an eye on these lands, and it was a year ago this time we first heard the war drums rumbling from the deep ruin there even though we dared not tread that far south into the southern Waystes often. Rumors and tales that a new war leader, Khahuz Ulghûl of the Black Feather Orcs, had come to power over that land and was looking to make trouble farther north for his sleeping master. Binding the boiling tribes beyond the river itself into their ancient hordes, this new foe called for great war against our peoples and dear Indolién itself if such folly can be imagined.”Now this was shocking, and the Littles gasped in horror at thought of what the wizard had just said. Orcs attacking Indolién.That would be the very definition of dark times indeed.For a long moment old Malrond mused over some matter just to himself, stoking his pipe with short breaths, smoothing his long grey beard with a long and gnarled old hand.Then he began once again, oblivious that the Littles had exercised so much patience during this interminable pause and not just interrupted into a chaotic chorus of questions hurled like summer ‘maters when there's too many to be had for anyone with sense.“Long did the council work to forestall Khahuz Ulghûl's efforts but it was soon clear enough what the black fiends' [NC4] intentions were. The tribes were coming north across the Black River come Unqualë or high water. It was clear their desire was to smash into the Sirith Osildor itself. If they were successful, then Indolién's southern port of trade toward the Lost Lands would be gone and he[NC5]  who is not to be spoken of would grow even greater still in power as he slumbers. To lose the Tower would have been a mighty blow against the Emerald Throne itself, and, the doom of us all.”Unqualë or High Water is a common expression among the Littles. Unqualë is an ancient elven word for an agonizing death. Malrond's usage was in keeping with the Littles' usage of it as a flooded farm was just about as bad as an agonizing death to a Little. They could not abide waste unless it was August ‘maters. By that time, they were giving them away, making midnight raids to deposit bushels of them on other neighbors' steads, or ambushing small bands of rogue boys to ward them off the melons the rascals would cut the hearts out of to eat in the heat of the day, or the cool of the misty late nights when they went roving before it was time to marry and settle.Seeking adventures to be had. Knowing the time for such things was short.The Littles drew in a deep breath and all at once began to babble in fear as the wizard paused and surveyed the impact of his words on their terror-struck faces at the fact the Gentle Lands were in jeopardy.“Was this known?”“How did this happen?”“We were almost done fer!”And it was at this fearful moment, the Showing of the Tell… truly began.Suddenly and much to their amazement, above their curly heads there in the smoke hanging amid the rafters with the hams and other lanterns, drifting charcoal images of some vast horde of foul orcs and lesser scheming goblins could be seen marching through the mists the smoke of Malrond's pipe had created. Just barely as some light show of travelling players working in puppetry might, but this in an otherworldly ash, charcoal, and blackest dust, began to show the Littles and those in the inn that night, the ferocious anger as Orc and Gob carried torch and shield forward, silently chanting their marching songs and war cries. Axes and swords forward in battle, ready for mayhem and slaughter.There were other beasts of the nether, dark among their host as shown in the image of darkness and smoke up there, the candlelight making it all seem more real, more alive. Terrible troll lords with demonic eyes and savage strength, dark beings of such wrath and terror marching above that Littles, some and not a few, hid their faces. The troll's fiery glaring eyes alight with mischief and deviltry.[NC6]  Ancient wraiths too, curst armored knights of the Old Age come back to slay once more, leading divisions of drum-beating, horn-blowing, snarling orcs as large as any savage north man and more. Powerfully built and wielding great cruel tree-cutting axes, or wide-bladed swords whose very metal seemed dirty and corrupted in evil. Broad and curved like the Corsairs of Ambar who sail far south beyond the Lost Lands into areas of myth and spice and tales beyond belief, or so some say.The overwhelmed Littles gawped in amazement at the sudden imagery forming and marching over their heads in the Inn's upper reaches of the main room. Muttering darkly, or even angrily at times, among themselves, for Littles hated orcs with a passion as they were the enemy of all growing, thriving things. Some averted their eyes, turning toward their simple prayers, mumbling words as if to sustain themselves in a swoon brought on by the relentless host above. In the smoke of the shadow show, the ghostly nether blue pipe rings of Malrond turned to a sea of black arrows filling the skies of the battle the shadow host was marching out to. Rising like some unclean squall of crows come from out of the east to pick the late summer fields clean of corn and ‘maters, as the Littles called tomatoes.An unlucky thing and curse if there ever was one.Then, as the Littles gasped in horror, the shadow arrows were falling now. Falling like flaming stars suddenly alight from the heavens above.But these arrows were not alight with flame, but surely with witch-magic. The flames were necrotic purple in ghost-light, seething and smoking as they fell through the rings of Malrond's smoke show and almost seemed to come down on the Littles themselves right there on the floor of the inn.Children, the little'uns, cried out or screamed with such sudden terror that the tiny, round Little Mothers threw themselves and their shawls over the children as if that could protect them from the storm of deadly flights falling and exploding among them. The Little farmers stood quickly as though hoping to stand between their young and the strike and the covering mothers. Other younger Littles like Shane McFie and those in his band, roared in anger, hoisting their mugs like small swords or clubs, and made ready to answer any violence in kind.In an instant the shadow arrows rained down on the mighty broken tower of Sirith Osildor itself, rising in image among the coals and torched logs of the hearth near the murmuring wizard. The Littles saw some of the smoke arrows, things of figment surely, smash into the floor of the inn after they'd fallen from the rafters, exploding on Fatty McFarlane's polished boards like wraiths of smoke and nightmare that never were. But by then the Littles were staring into the images within the hearth conjured by the wizard and his pipe for they were far more fascinating and as though viewing the living thing itself with one's own eyes.It was… mesmerizing.Few to none had ever seen the Tower. Sirith Osildor itself. An ancient place buried deep in the lore of the Andaar and some say… even far older into the Old Ages of long ago when things were different. Gleaming elven defenders were struck and fell from the high stone ramparts and crumbling parapets into the thronging masses of shadow invaders even now approaching the lower battlements with unquenchable flame and relentless spear. Around the main room of the inn, the thousand fires of the shadowy host seemed alive and more real than the candles that burned from their recesses. Shadow of imposing troll and goblin sneak marched like ghosts through the room toward the tower itself and if one could hear past the gasps and screams of the Littles, one might it seemed, hear terrible drums and ululating horns of war.The hellish hearth of the inn, a place of gathering and tales listened to and told of, cast its steady orange glow along one side of the old wizard's face, making him seem something stronger, stranger, older.Murmuring as though in a dream, the wizard continued his telling.[NC7] Within the hearth the flames leapt, the grey logs almost ash turning suddenly black, and a battle in minute detail broke out along the fabled Ivory Causeway within the consuming logs. The old, fabled road that once made itself over the Black River and into the districts of Sirith Osildor. The shadow of the host spread like a rot across summer's best fruits as they raced for the tower through the flames and the images revealed along the burning wood. Soon they were at the very gates of the old fortress that guarded the good lands and the Littles crowded, not close, but tippy toed, and pressed to see what the wizard was showing them with the hearth.The hoary face of a wraith, garbed in ancient almost translucent armor, appeared in a sudden burst of flames within the fire, and roared wordlessly in a sudden snap of a log and spray of flames, the thing's breath a hiss as the dead thing waved a runed sword, dented and old, forward, leading more of the shadow host into battle against the Tower. The orcs, tiny scrambling ashen figures threw themselves onto the tower walls, working their ashen bows and shooting down the defenders above with fiery arrows as they crawled like a pestilence among mighty battlements of Sirith Osildor.The crowd of Littles and others within the inn recoiled in horror at this spectacle of what seemed certain to be the sack of the mighty southern tower that defended the gateway to the Gentle Lands. Revealed within the images of the hearth and its flames were horrors and terrors never contemplated. Some began to whimper and cry, and parents who had brought their children, expecting some great wonder or reward from the travelling wizard, felt suddenly terrible at having arrived with their little'uns to such a tragedy witnessed in flame, fire, smoke, and shadow.The wizard, silent, and musing his beard and pipe[NC8] , watched them all as they remained helpless to tear their eyes away from what he was showing them in the telling.Then… he spoke. His voice old and creaking, and yet, something more. Words, some would say later, the words of Malrond were like the only things that existed in that moment.But that was what some said, and others said nothing on the subject.“All was lost in those first moments of the battle,” began Malrond once again and paused with such a sense of weight he seemed to have nothing more to add. That the loss of the defenders, the tower, and the certain arrival of the Shadow in the Gentle Lands was imminent. As though each Little should fly home at this very moment to their stead and take to the hills and mountains in the east with haste and everything on their back if only to save their lives right now.“But then came Adoras himself, Champion of the Emerald Throne, riding the field of battle to the aid of the defenders of Sirith Osildor. Bringing with him a host of the Elven Horse just in time out of the North Lands where they had been rumored to be but mere months ago. And you may think this is where everything will be alright and the day, or rather night, saved. But my Little friends, this was where the battle truly became its most terrible, and defeat was as close as it would come to snuffing out the light of us all had the tides not turned.”Silence fell over the whole inn.“At dawn, just when all seemed lost, like a bright shining scythe sweeping the late harvest of wheat, Adoras and the Horse came out of the east, crossing into the outskirts of southern Osildor and sweeping into the armies of the Shadow with the sun at their backs. Making their attack between the gate and the bridge. Now… the battle was begun in full and both forces descended into the madness of battle as it was joined.”Above their heads, the Littles and those in the inn gaped in amazement as the images of the Elven Horses, riders in armor shining like bright death itself, appeared with the weak grey dawn light and swept into the wide districts of that southern city beyond the tower. Districts buried under the forces of the shadow. Instantly great fights were begun within the streets. Orc and goblin carrying fire and spear were driven off the face of the mighty tower and slain as they fled back for the dark waters of the river and shadows of the south.“Adoras' wrath was indeed terrible,” Malrond stated solemnly. “The Champion of the Emerald Throne, true and faithful as he is known to be, wrought much wrath and destruction as his final charge carried straight into the shadow army's line holding near the bridge. Even the trolls and wraiths who make their homes among the Broken Rock along the Forgotten Coast were carried away like so much flotsam in the spring flood that was Adoras' triumph on the field that day I have just come from.”Malrond made some gesture, suddenly with a deft movement tossing his drink into the fire, and the flames within the hearth exploded, sending showers of sparks and smoke rising into the inn. Within this choking miasma, a mighty demon of a troll rose up among the press of goblins in their leathers with bloody red silks and black masks of that command to stand against the charge. With their misshapen and ugly heads, twisted green creatures fled as the beautiful stallions and shining riders of the Horse came at them and the terrible rampaging troll. This foe, a tall and lean thing with long gangly arms ending in great dirty claws, turned to fight back the charge with the aid of an antique axe from the elder ages carried over one lumpen shoulder. The terrible scythe dripped with inky blood, notched and smoking along the charcoal blade. The ghost image of the troll's eyes were desperate but still malevolent enough, as a winged helmed elven warrior atop a white steed, the perfection of the fabled Elven Horse of Indolién, swooped in with bright and shining spear, a sword on the belt, to do single combat in the street with the abomination of the troll.This was a great spectacle to those gathered in the Inn for it surely seemed the valiant warrior was outmatched from the first by the towering height of the foe and the ferocity of its terrible rage. The bloody troll moved fast and swept the scythe of his vicious axe into the breast of the incoming mount of the rider, but the mount reared and the wounded horse, a beautiful and noble creature within the image of smoke in the Inn, cried out in sudden indignation and terror as it tried to back away, throwing its great hooves forward to attack the looming horror. In the same instant, the elven warrior fired his spear forward in a savage strike as though it was the merest shaft from off the meanest bow fired at ease. Except the power and speed with which it flew from the rider's powerful arm told that the blow was something far more potent than at first expected. Something from the tales of the Great Bow of Aeostir the Hunter himself.An unbelievable second later the spear landed amid the troll's gaunt chest, planting itself with all the stern refusal of something that could never be shaken or moved again. No mortal thing would have survived its piercing. But the spear's appearance within its body only seemed to outrage the beast even more. The troll dragged its axe over its devil's head, intending to smite the dying horse and warrior as once again both horse and rider went down in the street near the tower. But the elf was as all elves are, quick and agile, spritely in battle. Literally walking off his dying and noble mount, surging suddenly forward into the close quarters fray with the evil troll, the warrior drew his blade for a swift stroke.The shining warrior delivered the victorious slash against the guts of the troll with his quickly drawn blade. Green blood and pestilent ichor splashed out onto the wet stones of the ravaged street and the elf was at once wielding the blade against his foe again and again in angry fury. Striking wounds that would never heal for such is the fabled metal of the elven smiths of Indolién as everyone knows.They do not heal.In the smoke and fading ash within the hearth images, the Littles stared in amazement and horror at the battle revealed just for them as more of Malrond's smoke rings plied the airs among them yet again.“But the enemy was not finished yet,” crooned the wizard from the asides. “Within the hour of Adoras' great victory, the enemy played their last tricky hand, and a new foe was come to put paid to the matter…”The ground around the warrior began to shake all at once as more of Malrond's blue smoke seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere all at once across the Inn. For some, and they would discuss this later over all the meals the next day between Bacon and Creepies, it was hard to say whether you were in the Inn, or at the battle itself.“Troll and elf strove on in deadly battle even as the goblin horde streamed past in full pell mell retreat, certain the battle for the Tower was truly lost to them now, their captains dead. The view within the smoke about them all changed to a circling raven's eye view of the fields beneath the heights of the ancient tower itself. From those heights, those within the inn could see the individual melees taking place on the narrow and twisting streets below in and among the bright and glittering merchants' houses who made their homes there along the southern edges. It was amazing to witness and again, something much discussed over cold draghts in the afternoon and nuts and cheese before supper. One could see the masses of both sides, Shadow and Elven Horse, colliding into one another at no less than three points beyond the tower.“Within the tower, under the command of that fabled general who all the Gentle Lands trusted to never give up the southern watch, bowmen began to return fire and shoot down into the streets at the goblins and raging trolls to be found and targeted there for effective fire.Surely all was not lost as day became real and of course the news must be most wonderful, thought every watching Little as they paid witness to the images of smoke and magic the wizard had manifested for their knowing right there in the Inn.Then a great shadow cast itself across the battle and over every warrior on all sides. Even the Inn itself. Some looked around as though to see some great thing passing overhead through the rafters and curing meats there. The shadow come from the south was like some insect plague swarming a crust of cast bread. Warriors of both sides gazed skyward suddenly into the morning grey light to see the coming of the great dragon to the battle at Sirith Osildor.“Out of the ancient mists of time the enemy had found our oldest of foes…” spoke the wizard softly, almost reverently. “An ancient drake from the brood of Gathmar herself. In an instant the dragon fell among the warriors under Adoras and did much damage with tooth and claw, choking smoke and black fire, as dragons are wont to do.”Within the smoke of the images swallowing everyone within the Inn, the dragon settled into the thick of the battle before the old Port Gate on the west of the Citadel itself. Bright armored warriors of the Elven Horse and their mounts were scattered as the dragon swept its terrible claws across them all, sending shattered armor and broken weapons in shadowy smoke across the destruction of the orcs, even themselves fleeing from the terror of the beast. All was chaos and terror among those who'd fought for that street and not given an inch in the hours of deepest night and coming dawn that marked the battle.“It was into this destruction and impending peril and loss that Adoras rode Telemnar against the dragon.”If this was true, if the images the wizard conjured within the smoke were to be believed, then this was the stuff of tales and song and the Littles were seeing it here, above and among them. The mightiest of the elven scions of the Emerald Throne rode into the battle where it was thickest, as orcs, goblins, and even the troll rallied to protect the dragon's flanks even though they were clearly in stark terror of the terrible and mighty thing at their sides. It was here, cutting and slaying, Adoras drove impossibly forward and struck a mighty blow against the dragon with his fabled sword Norsus.“Long was this contest fought,” intoned Malrond solemnly as though in some trance. The smoke dragon reared high into the sky of the rafters and hams in the Inn's darker recesses, towering over the mighty houses that had been broken and sundered in that noble district of Sirith Osildor, breathing green fire across the foes confronting it.“The shields of Adoras' vanguard held and once more the elven Horse charged into the dragon, wounding the wyrm sorely as the fight grew desperate. But…” spoke Malrond softly. “…Twas not without cost.“All those who stood against the dragon save Adoras himself were felled by the piercing of the dragon's fangs, the rending of its claws, and great buffets from off its mighty wings.“Elves of greatness and renown fell in vain against its strength. The onslaught of the raging termagant was so awful even orcs and goblins were too afeared to draw near the wrath of its ancient evil, and instead withdrew into the wreckage and ruin to await the outcome of the contest between the champion and the dragon beneath the great tower.“But Adoras would not relent though sorely wounded himself,” continued Malron. “And so at the last he raised his mighty sword and struck the dragon in its black heart, bringing the great beast down in sudden thunder and blood all at once.”Within the Inn the image seen was incredible. All were filled with fear and wonder in the same instant. Light exploded, shadows reigned, and all that was seen was the silhouetted image of dragon and elf prince against the color of flame and ruin in the background. The mighty elf seemed slain to them and then, as if in final spite, he lashed out with the bite of the blade Norsus and found home, striking down and into the great and ancient wyrm.Little ‘un, lone traveling man, sand elf, and those others of the Littles who found themselves in the Inn that night, rejoiced and gasped in horror at the mighty spectacle of the sight of the slaying of the dragon.Indeed, it was a mighty thing to behold. A thing that made the tales of the Lost Ages seem trifles of the here, and the now. That what had just been witnessed was even something mightier and greater than any ever told round hearth or fire, or along the waysides where one passed nights with such wild fables and smoke.The inn erupted as the dragon heaved its last and died, collapsing into the river.And over this roar the voice of Malrond thundered for them all to hear once gain.“The Shadow Host was broken and driven back beyond the river!” cried the old wizard to them all. “Adoras triumphed over foe and fiend and in the name of the Emerald Throne for the cause is just, and it is right. The Gentle Lands, and all other homes that lie under the Sway of Indolién… are safe once more.”He paused as the smoke of the showing of the tell faded like dreams barely remembered… and for a moment the entire Inn was in darkness and not even the faintest glow of the hearth could be seen in its black emptiness.There were just the fading whispers of the wizard.Then Malrond added, “For now.”Suddenly the Littles were swarming the broad oaken bar of Fatty and demanding frothy pints of the finest, celebrating the victory of Adoras himself and at the same moment recounting what they had just seen as though they and they only had been there amid the smoke and flame of the battle and its recounting needed immediately.Those not engaged in such unmannerly drinking were swarming the legs of the wizard asking for more and other details, and to show them all once again the things of wonder they had seen within Malrond's smoke and showing.Malrond, who was known to be kind, and to have a special place within his heart for the Littles of the Gentle Lands, stayed for a while more, telling them more of how Adoras had put sword to the fell host and pursued them back to their caves and barrows beyond the river, and even to the very ruins of the Fallen Kingdom of Amnanor of the Old Age. A place of strange spirits many who went there never returned from. Malrond reminded the clustering Little farmers who seemed less inclined to wait for the next succulent detail that fell from the lips of the wizard, that all was safe now and some of the darker details were best left unsaid if one valued sleep. And there were sleepy-eyed little'uns about that needed carrying back to their beds.“Ave yer been there, Malrond?” asked one.“Tis true that time's gone daft beyond the Black Gate?” asked another.“Didja see any of the warewoofs of Lord Suth?”Littles are always going on and on about werewolves from the south and are as likely to blame the myth of such creatures for any of their ills more than anything else they can quite name.“I did accompany Adoras and the Bright Fist, his personal guard, into the south and there we fought at the very foundations of the Doom Gate, the Manarandon itself, forcing them to draw it closed once more and defend the unnamed one within. Then we turned back for needs must. Adoras is now to appear before the throne but bid me come and bring you this great news.”“Will'ee stay Malrond?”“Say more and we shall carry on and sing songs to dawn in celebration of the evil that almost befell our little farms and has been smashed now!”But Malrond would not stay among them long. There were other communities and holdings within the Gentle Lands that knew him by other names and to these he told the Littles he must depart at once to and show the telling of once again.Soon it was time for Malrond to be off, so with much sorrow, and not a few tears from the gathering Littles, Malrond made the old door of the aged inn and was gone just like that, off into the misty night as strangely as he'd appeared among them that morning.Outside the inn all was quiet dark, and misty night. A few stood with pipes, waving farewell to the tall striding figure in the night, watching as the mist took him, and soon he was unseen once more.Subscribe Now and get the Audio version of this and so much more… This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit nickcole.substack.com/subscribe

⬆️Book discussion podcast (listen after reading, or subscribe now and listen to me read the chapter)CTRL ALT Revolt! is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.Chapter OneThe Show of the TellingBeyond the roads and ways of civilization, toward the south, and a little off to the east, there was once an old inn where road weary travelers, tired and dusty, coming from the south and heading off toward the north and the great cities that lay there, would stop to pass an evening a time or two a year. Less and less as those years went by, and seldom now in the current, much darker days, but the inn was there all the same and the lands in which it lay, much forgotten by the great and powerful as they watched their maps from their tall towers near the wide and spreading sea and counted the times with an eye toward the shadows of the south.The Wayside Inn was “the Last Friendly Place” as it was simply known by the old and road-beaten who still dared travel. And even occasionally it was sometimes marked on those yellowing ancient maps few seemed to possess any longer, as a place of safety, where the fire was warm, and the beer from the cellar cold.And the cakes uncommonly good. But that is saying something about the Littles twice. For both good cake and Littles mean the same thing to anyone who knows a thing or two about either.The Indarri, rulers of the Great Elven Kingdom of Indolién to the north along the sandy coasts of the sea, preferred to refer to the old wooden pile of a roadside inn that lay along the southern coast road out of fair Indolién, brightest of their shining coveted jewels, and heading off south toward Sirith Osildor and the port districts that surrounded the dark tower down there, often called the City of Ghosts by all in nothing more than a hushed whisper as though to ward off some curse, they preferred to refer to the ancient inn as the “The Littles' place by the side of the road.” And then they too, of course, made their ornate gestures to ward off some evil spirit as was custom when talking about anything lesser than themselves.Which was, to be honest, most things and folk as far as the Fair Elves were concerned. Such is the way of the haughty and noble Indaar.The forgotten lands that lay between Sirith Osildor and Indolién were considered… provincial by those same Indaar. Rolling hills and a long valley gave way to the coast and its small line of hills protecting the farms from the salt laden blasting winds and mists of the seas. Beyond the district where the inn lay was a small distant mountain range to the east occupied by small farms found fewer and farther between, and among these were found the occasional villages and hamlets of Littles. Or so the Indarri had named those smaller folk, the Littles. These smaller people had their own name for themselves, but the haughty Indarri elves seldom cared for anyone else's languages or words but their own.Of course. Everyone knows this.In recent years, camps of reckless adventurers who'd long turned to banditry, waited alongside the crumbling roads and small, quiet canyons and hills where perhaps the remains of some ancient tower sleepily watched the dusty scape and the distant Barrow Hills. It was said that darker forces walked the canyons and dry hills where the ancient burials lay farther east, during the longer nights of winter itself, and even along the outskirts of some of the Littles' villages farther out than they should have been. Tending their olive orchards and keeping watch during the quiet hot days, and shut up and in during the moonlit nights when one might hear things it was best not to investigate. But again, those were always the tales told in the hinterlands and around the Great Hearth of the old Inn, away from the high precincts and bright jewels of fair coastal Indolién where only important matters of state and great magic were ever discussed among rising and slender white towers adorned with pennants fluttering in the breeze.No tales of ghosts, or lost hoard was ever spoken of among the beautiful elven ladies and their lords adorned in their shining and bright ceremonial armor. Such talk was crude and boorish. For the Indaar only dreamt of a misty future that somehow matched the glorious lost past of those elves who cast their gaze from their tall, sculpted towers and watched the storms of the sea come and pass by. And never did they turn their gaze south, beyond the Great River of the South the Sírë Morna. For that too was greatly considered uncouth to discuss even though it was in quiet tones and often.The Great River of the South. The Black River.Or as it was sometimes known… Nuruhuinë.The Death Shadow.One early evening it was into this very ancient inn old Malrond himself, who some said was an emissary of the Emerald Council, came on a late afternoon spring day. Many of the Littles in the district had seen him crossing over and through their green fields even just now blooming with wildflowers and first sprouting. Walking along the quiet and forgotten roads that lead from one stead to another with his tall and sculpted staff, stopping for a pleasant bit of talk with many of the older Littles he'd known in the long-ago days, and some who were rumored to have once, on occasion, gone off “a'wandering” with Malrond himself as they say down in those pastoral districts. And so, by Later Afternoon Tea, which is when the Littles have finished their heavy work for the day and are ready for their second tea before turning to the business of cleaning affairs up, news had spread that Malrond himself was indeed “around whether you'd been expectin' that to happen or not, today of all days, dontcha know.” Many of the Littles were settling down to either their honey cakes, or even the heavy lavender scones with baked crumble topping for Second Tea, when they heard the news regarding Malrond as teams of small Little boys, wild and screaming, raced from farm to farm to spread the tale of the tall wizard's arrival in the district.The Littles are well known for those fantastic scones. Some even say Glórindol One-Hand, ruler of the Indarri, occupant of the Emerald Lion throne which rests atop Indolién's Seventh Hill, favored them greatly and had carts of them brought up from the districts by the Elven Horse themselves. It was over these matters, and Malrond himself specifically, the Littles discussed news of Malrond's arrival, and, that it was clear he was heading toward the old inn and would arrive there toward day's end.So of course, with little organization and much frenzy, Littles from all across the district found an excuse to be about some business regarding the inn, and came in from their farms as the spring sky began to settle toward its gloaming to hear what the old wizard had to say.For he always had something interesting to say.Now, let us discuss the inn which the Littles, who favored the likeness of the Children of Men more than elves, began to stuff themselves into as night came on and the inn was made merry and hot by the hearth and many a candle. As had been said, the inn was very old. Very old. Some say, which is a common phrase in almost everything Littles speak upon, a sort of benediction before engaging in the gossip they so love, or an absolution if you prefer, some say the old inn was as old as Indolién itself.But… who knows such nonsense things?But back to the inn itself, it was a beautiful old pile of rambling rooms and deep cellars. The beer which the inn was famous for, a dark brew they served cold and called “boch”, came with a creamy head of foam and a slight bitter aftertaste that filled the stomach right with just a sip, leaving a satisfied feeling and a pleasant warm afterglow. It was the opposite of the heady “pils” brought down from the eastern mountains, direct from the ruined halls of rock dwarves who still delved into the remains of their lost empire. Pils was, by most, considered only barely brewed and far too potent for polite conversation which is what the Littles prided themselves on. The inn was also known of its Coastal Cheddar the locals called Onion Sharp. And travelers often remarked they'd never had anything of its like.It was into the main room, all girded and floored in perfectly polished red oak, with a roaring fire built within the massive hearth, that pints of beer were hoisted, two-handed of course by the Littles, and plates of that sharp onion-cheese with crusts of the local sourdough were set out. By the time Malrond got around to showing up it was full dark, and the Littles had been about their gossip to the point that they had worked themselves up into quite a tither regarding what this was all about.Of course, the news had to be about the south. And the war there, for no doubt it was war, that had been brewing beyond Sirith Osildor. Of course, it was about the Shadow Hordes and rumors of who was behind all the dark things and dire omens. Of course, it must be about all these things. And then again, some say, it could be about the north. Might it be about the Children of Men? The Savages Tribes forming up in the cold reaches of the lands there where the days were short, and forests stretched off to the end of the world or so some say. Where the mountains were jagged and cruel, and the rivers were supposed to be filled with ice and roaring that would carry you off into a land of dangerous dragons. It might be about those things.Why… surely it must? This was the consensus all the Littles had arrived at before Malrond himself had even arrived and opened his mouth one bit.But there was dissent.Of course, said other Littles, rowdy and young and known to stick to the back to share a good joke and perhaps a pipe, of course it's ‘bout the rock dwarves in the Eastern Mountains. Of course, since there is to be war in the south, the dwarves will sense their chance to sweep down on the lands of the Indaar and take their stolen treasures, and snatched jewels, back from the sack of Indolién if there is to be one. For the dwarves are a greedy lot, greedier than most and what have they been plotting up there in Rahaza-Ishgur, the ruins of their mighty and dark fortress beneath the sheer stone face of old Caragdûr.Why the dwarves did not aid the Indaar as the Littles did at the battle of the Neverine Sands was much discussed.“And that was a hundred years ago! Why, my old Deda fought in that when he was a lad,” erupted one blustery-faced Little, waving his mug about as though it were some kind of torch.One of the Littles coughed politely, but pointedly, to indicate they didn't believe the teller's DeDa had indeed fought at that long ago battle out in the sands that lay south and east beyond the mountains. When the Indaar had gone off to save their cousins, the Andaar, rulers of the lost kingdom of the sand elves as they were commonly known.Or Erumë as the elves of Indolién would have named it.So there within the roasting and cheery inn, as the cold mists from off the sea rolled over the line of coastal hills and came to the pleasant farms of the Littles, were all those kind of arguments regarding just exactly what Maldron himself would say this night. Perhaps it was news of the Emerald Court, some greater affair, or a new law to make all their lives better despite the burdens incurred in its offering. Or perhaps it was even about all those strange lights in the south a few nights ago when the last of the winter storms had risen up out of the sea and smote the coast hard indeed. Hadn't they all felt the earth shake with titanic booms and the deep thunders rolling out across the coastal hills like some giant out a'walking? And of course, all those strange lights that colored the night sky.Many piped up and said there were no such things as giants. But these were mainly young, and they failed to notice many of the quiet older Littles said nothing on this and seemed merely content to watch the passing of absolutely certain talk with a bare chuckle, or a grim stone face.Truly it had all been rather frightening, the storm a few nights back. But the Littles were the type of people who, if they made it through the long night, were just as apt to forget the horrors of a toothache in the golden light of morning and fresh cakes and a good pot of coffee. And so they had done away, mostly, with the rather unexplainable events of just a few nights prior. Until Malrond himself had bothered by and there must be something in that. For why else would he come to the inn?As it has been said, it was all rather frightening and by the time the bent and gaunt old man ducked his head and made his way into the inn, many of the Littles were in a tither and upset, impatient to hear what was going to be said.But then Malrond the Wise swept into the inn, tall and gaunt as has been noted. His long grey beard a thing the Littles always marveled as they could not grow such features themselves, nor ever be so tall as the wizard. It was a testament to the inn's ancientness that Malrond did not have to duck down much to enter as he did at many other Little dwellings. No, the inn had clearly first been built for taller people. Taller than men, as elves were. And so perhaps in the long ago before the rise of Indolién, perhaps then elves had worked these very same fields in the once and long ago.Hadn't Farmer Copper out in East Fields once found an ancient stone turned up in the soil of an old field? All carved with the strange runes that looked like old Andaar Elvish. Such things were always being found here and there across the district. Or so some said.Especially if you believed the things some said. Which of course most Littles did. Gossip was their stock and trade here in the south beyond the hubbub and glitter of the mighty elven capital that lay within the basin of a coastal plain surrounded by the mountains and passes to both the east and the north.Malrond swept in, his grey travelling cloak and dirty robes heavy with dust off the road that had come up so quickly after the last of winter's storms. Fatty McFarlane who saw over the inn, tried to bring a sterling silver tray of wine in a slender goblet, which was custom for all elves who passed this way, up to the old wizard but a long bony hand, adorned with rings of what surely must be power, waved the fat innkeeper away.“I'll have a draught of your bock, Fatty, if you don't mind, please,” said the old wizard. “It does cure the curse of the dust one finds out there along the road in these early months.” The wizard's voice was deep and rich. Sonorous almost. Old too because the elves were old. The longest lived of all the known lands as some like to say. “And perhaps some of your cured olives from out the Dry Foothills' way, Fatty. That is if you have them yet, of course.”Malrond cast his glittering eyes over the crowd as he sat down near the fire, stamping his boots to shake the misty damp out of his old toes, and then immediately producing the slender long-stemmed alabaster pipe elven wizards preferred. He set about packing it with their special blend and then held it, unlit until Fatty returned with a large mug of the boch and a plate of Onion Cheddar. A few spring onions and scattering of cured black olives accompanied this.“Good!” cried Malrond with delight as he plucked at an olive after taking a long, deep drink of the boch. His showman's voice filling the room and startling all the Littles all at once. “You've brought me everything I've dreamed about along the road I've followed up out of the south. I just simply had to stop here along the way, though I do indeed tarry, for the Emerald Court expects me at dawn to deliver a report regarding events in the south.”Then the old wizard set to drinking the beer and snatching up a piece of cheese to nibble and consider, his eyes absent and faraway on something for a long moment.“Wot's it all about?” asked Shane McFie from out the Sheepstead district which wandered along the little dry canyons that led up into the foothills. Young Shane was never one to be patient and so of course he'd been the first to badger the melancholy elven wizard regarding exactly what this was all about. But as least this was done with questions and not his fast fists as Tor McWallows might attest after events at last Harvest Fest when the two had come to blows and only Shane walked away with the hand of Darla MacNoil.Malrond came to himself and seemed surprised he should find himself in a room full of Littles, all eyes waiting with an almost urgent expectancy reserved for the direst of circumstances.“Well,” intoned the old wizard as he selected another dry cured black olive and popped the salty morsel into his mouth. “Who says it's about anything in particular? Can't an old friend come in from the long winter and share fire and food and a good smoke with his Little friends?”A few remonstrated Shane from the shadows of the inn for being so hasty. Old Malrond had sustained himself yet with the tray and mug. Be patient. Though a moment later these few didn't necessarily admit to the remonstrations when fiery Shane cast a blazing glower over his back to see just who exactly had made such comments regarding his impetuousness.“Why it's always about something, Malrond, when ya shows up,” began Shane once again. “Somethin' wonnerful and all always. We comes to expect such when you shows up. And I ain't no sally for sayin' such. You alls knows it, dontcha?”Several of the Littles agreed they did indeed “know it.”  Yes, the appearance of Malrond, who always seemed to be coming direct from, or heading directly to the Emerald Court, was always a time of good tidings. And of course… the show of the telling.Because that's what this was really all about. If it had been simple gossip, well, that would make its way all over town by Main Lunch tomorrow. But what would have been missed would have been something that was truly special.The show of the telling.That's what wizards did. They didn't just tell you a story, they showed you one. With magic.And here was one. Malrond himself. Come obviously… to show them something now.Malrond's eyes were dark and shining as first he stared at little Shane, defiant and fiery. But yes… right. And for a moment, the old wizard stared over the top of his crooked nose, his baleful dark eyes staring even into Shane, as some might say.And for a long moment he didn't stop. Malrond cast his dark, glittering eyes across them all. Everyone the next morning who was there would have told you, that old Malrond himself had stared straight at them. Not just all the Littles. But them specifically. For there were others inside the old place that early evening. Men of the road who always seemed to be about the business of trading. A clutch of sand elves come in from their camps out in the hills. A few other strangers who preferred the dark recesses of the bar and the shadows there. Others too. Every one of them would have told you in that moment as the telling of the show began that old Malrond was looking at them as he began his magic.And this is how he began, the old elf putting down his mug of Fatty McFarlane's finest. Then taking up the unconsidered long-stem pipe that had already been packed with his brand. And then, just like that, a blue flame appeared at the tip of his long and slender index finger after he had quietly given his thumb and a long and crooked finger a soft snap. Like the soft break of dead fall eucalyptus in a quiet forest.Flame touched bowl and the wizard puffed his pipe to life. The room darker now, the shadows deeper. And then old Malrond began the Show of the Telling. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit nickcole.substack.com/subscribe

Nick and the Medusa favor you with their whimsical insights. Enjoy. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit nickcole.substack.com/subscribe

We're back! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit nickcole.substack.com/subscribe

Nick and the Medusa here!Listen to the podcast and the watch this video by John Titus below. This is what we're going to be discussing going forward. I think it's our shot out of this mess. And the best way to clean things up, is to know what's messed up. Here we go…Also… if you'd like a SIGNED copy of Strange Company 2: Voodoo warfare you can get it by sending $40+$6 Shipping using the link below. Include your name and shipping address please. And Thank you.https://www.paypal.me/RealNickCole?locale.x=en_US This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit nickcole.substack.com/subscribe

Nick and the Medusa point out the impending disasters. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit nickcole.substack.com/subscribe

Nick and the Medusa talk and are glad to be with ya! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit nickcole.substack.com/subscribe

Thank you for bearing with us while we finished Strange Company 2. We are back and doing podcasts. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit nickcole.substack.com/subscribe

We did a deep dive on Bill Gates this weekend. Here's our thoughts..Someone is lying about their Wikipedia height ⤵️ This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit nickcole.substack.com/subscribe

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Nick and the Medusa have coffee in bed and discuss The Current Thing. Enjoy.Also, Lay the Hate Just released on Audible. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit nickcole.substack.com/subscribe

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Nick and the Medusa have coffee in the middle of a major police event. Truth ensues. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit nickcole.substack.com/subscribe

Nick and the Medusa wrap up the week with a little bit of hilarity and a whole lotta coffee. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit nickcole.substack.com/subscribe

The Medusa laughs, Nick drinks coffee. Hilarious result ensue. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit nickcole.substack.com/subscribe