Author: Hob Goodfellowe

“Really? What did the moot ever do for you?” “That’s not the point. A lot of people are going to die if we don’t do something.” “Hur. We’re going to die if we don’t do something.” Caewen walked tentatively to the tent opening. The dull-eyed, blank-faced mob was still gathered about the tent. She thought…

A few moments passed before Caewen’s was able to settle her thoughts sufficiently to make any sense out of what she had seen in the flames. Of course, she tried to explain it all at once, but the words came out jumbled and wrong. She got the times and places mixed up. Her sense of…

Caewen was a small child, no more than five years. Her heart was beating with fear–almost fluttering, mothlike. Her father was calling to her. The wicked man from the hilltop was walking down his path, coming to the village. Was he was looking for fresh servants, or on some other errand? She darted away, and…

Sorry for the delayed post this week. It is the first week of the second semester at uni, so things have been quite hectic… -oOo- Caewen shook her head. “Calm down. Nothing. Clearly, the tent can’t harm things that are enduringly magical. Probably, it can only snuff out fleeting spells.” “How do you know that?”…

As one, the crowd moved forward, blank of expression, their movements marked by the jerkiness of puppetry. Their eyes had a slight grey sheen, and an odd flickering of light and shadow too, as if they were all staring into the sun through a cloud of passing starlings. “Dapple…” said Caewen. “Dapplegrim.” She moved the…

“Do you know the purpose of the killings then? Why kill so many folks who have connections to serpent, worm and dragonet? That’s the only pattern we’ve been able to discern. And really,” said Caewen, “it seems such a strange thing. What was he hoping to achieve? I can’t unravel the motive at all.” “Who…

Standing outside, in the weak late-morning light, Dapplegrim and Caewen considered the object in hand. Caewen had half-wrapped it inside a rag, so that the face of the old man showed as if he were a beggar bundled against a cold night. Although nothing like the merchant’s charmed protection, the greasy old cloth would at…

They did not need to go far. Their secretive beckoner had his tent pitched nearby. It was large and made of a dark oilcloth that gave off a pungent smell. Out front, trestle tables and crates stood empty and packed up for the evening. Two fat ponies grazed beside a pleasant wooden caravan. Presumably his…

“Hurm,” said Dapplegrim. “If this is some extraordinarily stupid mugging, I should point out that I haven’t eaten breakfast.” He finished this with a jagged, smiling, “yet.” The man started, taken aback for a moment, but recovered quickly. “Here, now,” he said, “his voice round and gravelly. None of that now. Aren’t you two the…