The Mycellians had the ability to be completely motionless in a way that unnerved Gareth. A man would shift from foot to foot, wave a hand through his hair, scratch his neck. The Mycellian sat utterly still on the opposite end of the table, eyes of black stone unblinking in the hollows of its jagged head. He, Gareth supposed it was male from its wispy beard of lichen, had left his sword leaning against the frame of the door of the library. The obsidian blade seemed to absorb the candlelight and blended into the shadows.

  Gareth supposed he should be used to strangeness, given his years in the deepwood patrols. He had seen shadows that moved on their own accord, ruins of towns that defied reason or organization, creatures that lurked in the dark places of the wood that would drive men to madness with a glance. Even Hela, with her strange magics, seemed more explainable than what sat before him, staring at him with night-dark eyes.

  He realized that he had never seen a Mycellian up close in all his years as a Ranger. He had fought more than his share of their brethren when they weren’t as large as a house. The Mycellians, however, never interacted with Rangers or the townsfolk in any way more meaningful than a silent stare before wandering back to the northern safewood.

  There was an unspoken understanding. The rot walkers weren’t the same as the other Mycellians, and the Mycellians would not bother the people provided they weren’t bothered themselves. Even times when people got too close to their thicket, they were redirected away from the territory with pointed fingers and clicks. The only times he ever heard of them attacking the people was when drunken fools or idiotic teenagers provoked them. He had never heard one speak, never gotten close enough to try and speak with one. And now they swarmed the village.

  Gareth supposed he should be thankful for their coming. After all, they were distributing food to the people, clearing away rubble. They had even cut down the rot walker from where it had been suspended in those massive roots and carried it off into the trees. Instead, a sense of unease filled him. His back prickled, looking at the man-shaped walking mass of fungus that sat motionless from across him.

  “You do not understand our purpose here,” the Mycellian’s voice broke the silence. Its voice sounded familiar- it sounded like every rot walker Gareth had fought, except devoid of the rage that filled the monsters. It was devoid of any emotion at all. The low guttural sound seemed to vibrate from the center of its chest, where jagged, uneven rows of brown armor protruded. It didn’t have a mouth, only plates of ridged gray that covered its face.

  “I do not.” Helrir and Sylen stood on either side of Gareth, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords.

  “You were attacked.”

  Gareth nodded slowly. “Yes. As we have been many times before. You were nowhere to be seen. I appreciate your people helping us, but why now?”

  The Mycellian was silent, candlelight covering its body in many dark crevices and ravines of shadow. For a moment, there was only the sound of clicking and rustling from the Mycellian’s work outside, intersected by the worried murmuring of onlookers. “I know your name. You do not know mine,” it stated simply, pausing as if expecting a response.

  “What is your name?”

  The Mycellian shifted, its beard rustling softly as it rested its arms on the table with a grinding of fungus plates. “I do not have a name. None of us do.”

  Sylen spat to the side, glaring at the creature. “You come to play games with us? Our people are dead, their homes destroyed!” Before Gareth could silence him, the Mycellian spoke.

  Its voice was different. Its words were slow, and Gareth sensed something breaking through the emotionless drone. It was mournful. “We wish to have names. We long for it, more than you can know.”

  “Do you think that by coming here, we would give you names?” Gareth asked. “Do you want a reward?”

  The Mycellian stared at Gareth. “You cannot give us names.” A flash of blue lit the room from outside the window, leaving a burning afterimage in Gareth’s eyes. He blinked, his eyes watering from the sudden burst of light. “We can only have names when we are free from being One. Now, I fear I will not live to see that day.”

  Perfect. Cryptic words from a talking mushroom when people are dead. Gareth pushed down the annoyance and decided to keep prodding. There must be a reason for this visit. “And why won't you live to see it?”

  The Mycellian rumbled softly, a low sound that Gareth felt in his skull. “There is a way of things. When one of us falls to the Madness, they are slain by your people.”

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Gareth leaned forward, “The Madness. The rot walkers. This afflicts them?” A rumble answered in what he could only assume was affirmation. He pushed on. “This Madness. Is there a way to stop it?”

  The Mycellian rumbled again, a faint, soft flash pulsing from within its chest. “We are born of the Madness. When one of us falls, there is no turning back. Now, a child of mist is among you. The old kingdom awakens, and more of us fall every day. Soon, there will be none of us left. Soon, we will all be mad.” Another flash pulsed. Gareth could hear a thump from within as the light ballooned out gently. And soon, more will attack. The words, though unspoken, hung in the air like fog.

  “Will you fight with us then?” Helrir asked, his voice hoarse and cracking. “Will you help us snuff out this Madness?”

  The Mycellian was silent, as if contemplating, then rumbled slowly—a grinding harrumph. “No. We are One and could not harm One, even within Madness.”

  “So you plan to leave us with nothing? You bring baskets of fruit and clear our village in preparation to go mad and kill us all?” Helrir’s hand tightened around the grip of his sword, his leathery face twisting in anger.

  “You could not understand. We are One. You are many. The old ways beckon, and soon we will follow.”

  Gareth stood; his chair pushed back with a rasp of wood on wood. The candles flickered as a breeze drifted through an open window, one winking out with a wisp of smoke. “What kingdom do you speak of? What is a child of mist?”

  It remained seated as it turned its head to watch him, like a stone shifting in its place. “I will not speak the name of the old kings, lest I fall to Madness and slay you all. The child of mist is one you know. One bearing the mark of the old magics. One bearing a cursed blade.”

  The boy. Tefta. Gareth felt for the blade, feeling the cool handle in his grasp from where it was hidden underneath his cloak. “What can you tell me of this?” He asked, pushing back his cloak to reveal where it hung at his hip.

  The Mycellian bellowed, the sound reverberating in his chest. It flashed a blinding blue and shot to its feet, the stonelike movement now fluid. Blue light flashed through the window, and a hum echoed through the streets from where the others gathered, many people yelling in fright at the sudden cacophony. Helrir and Sylen drew their blades, pushing back their cloaks as they leveled swords at the now pulsing Mycellian.

  Its gaze was fixed on Gareth as it stood near the door. Gareth backed up, keeping the table between him and the creature as he gripped the hilt. “That blade is wicked!” Its voice carried desperation as it rapidly pulsed blue. Gareth raised a hand, gesturing to his lieutenants. The two Rangers lowered the blades reluctantly.

  Gareth covered the blade with his cloak, still holding the hilt. “Tell me,” he said as he approached the Mycellian. “What is coming for us? Why have you come?”

  “We have come,” its voice was slow and monotone. “Because there is no hope for us. The old kings awaken, and soon, we shall all be Mad. What attacked you was only the beginning. We have come to beg favor with you, bearing gifts and service.”

  “And what favor can we give you?”

  “We ask to bring the Little Ones to you so that you might keep them safe. They will not fall to our Madness.”

  “The Little Ones?” Gareth asked. He had slowly crept in between the creature and its black blade, offering him some sense of safety. “You wish for us to take in your young?”

  A low harrumph answered him. The Mycellian was as tall as Gareth, if not taller. The moss on its arms rustled in the breeze as it stared at him with cold eyes. It still pulsed, though softer, barely a flicker in its chest. Darkness had returned outside, and the hum had gone silent.

  “And what if we ended it here?” Sylen asked through gritted teeth. “Took out the lot of you, so we never have to face this Madness of yours?”

  “More would take our place.” The Mycellian answered. It stepped softly around Gareth, grabbing its sword from where it leaned behind him. Helrir and Sylen stirred, lifting blades, but a look from Gareth stopped them.

  The Mycellian hefted the blade, sliding it into a loop on the belt it wore. Did they understand leatherworking? For every question answered, Gareth had a dozen more. It turned to him.

  “Will you protect them?” It asked again. How would he even take care of a walking fungus? The idea of it was absurd, but so was the entire meeting. Gods, the whole of the last few days had been absurd.

  “If you can tell me how to protect my people, then yes. I will protect them.”

  A blue pulse. “You will likely be attacked soon. There will be more than one. Protect the child of mist. Protect the Earthsinger. Seek the Firstborn. She will help you. She hates the old kings perhaps more than we do.”

  An answer that brought even more questions. “Firstborn?” Gareth asked incredulously. “You can’t expect me to know what you’re talking about.”

  “You know her as a woman of the woods.”

  Sylen looked at Gareth, his face a mass of confusion underpinned with the beginnings of fear. “Hela.” Absurdities upon absurdities.

  The Mycellian pushed open the door, revealing the mass of its kin that had gathered outside. They were motionless as stone as they watched the leader exit the library. Gareth followed, the Mycellian turning back toward where he stood in the door. “We leave now. We are grateful for your favor. We will bring the Little Ones to your fort soon. After that, the Madness will take us.”

  Villagers watched from their doorsteps, confused and frightened by the strange crowd that filled the village square. They had cleared the rubble, and a fire burned in a distant field from what Gareth assumed to be the rot walker’s pyre.

  The leader became lost amongst the crowd as the Mycellians began their exodus back into the woods. They pulsed, chittered, and rumbled as they passed through the village streets, a slow wave of lichen and mushrooms shambling into the trees. Blue flashed through the trees like lightning within the forest canopy as they marched north through the forest.

  Gareth watched as they left, the village silent in their passing. Some had begun to pick up the baskets of food and deer carcasses, carrying them toward the wreckage of the town hall. The cool night air pressed against him, the gravity of the meeting weighing him down, reminding him of the exhaustion that hung over him in a thick sheet. He had to protect them. The forest was waking with long-forgotten horrors, and he had to fight it.