Sir Lyman and the Morning Gate

Hoarguard

The third Brother, thought Hoolie. You never see him... until it's too late.

Now Gut reached for the hapless gnome.

"By the Gods!" gasped Sir Lyman.

Hoolie heard the creak of straining wood and felt the stinging slap of leafy stems. Spinning, he saw the last Brother ensnared in a willow grip and hauled struggling from the ground. A large clawed hand slashed once at the constricting branches and then it was gone—the whole right arm summarily ripped from its socket. Amid a thrashing of branches, Hoolie heard a strangled gurgling... but it ended abruptly with a sickening pop. A final wrenching effort heralded a series of violent snaps as the integrity of branch won out over that of bone and sinew. The remnants of the third brother dropped in a grisly heap, blood and gore dripping down from the branches trailing overhead.

"Wicked," spoke a low, slow rasping voice. "De-struc-tive."

"Thank you," said Hoolie, shaking off his fright. He wrinkled his nose in distaste as he edged away from the litter of Gut's remains. "There are two Brothers left, but their mischief will not prove so lethal without this one's finishing touch."

Sir Lyman paid no mind to the fallen Brother—nor to Hoolie. The knight's face wore a look of awful respect as he gazed up at the giant willow. The explosion of violence had been like a boulder crashing into a lake. Now only a fading ripple of tremors disturbed the drooping branches.

"What wonder is this?" asked Sir Lyman, at last mastering his tongue sufficiently for speech.

"This," Hoolie gestured up at the imposing willow, "is Hoarguard."

"The hermit?" Sir Lyman had expected the answer, but the reality astounded him nonetheless.

"He is... as he is," shrugged Hoolie. Turning to Hoarguard he added, "My friend, for your help I am grateful, but I must ask a further boon."

"Speak... it."

"We seek the Morning Gate. Will you tell us the way?"

Sir Lyman felt his breath catch. Recent events had driven thoughts of his quest far to the back of his mind.

"Hrum, hrum..., I shall," replied the old tree in a voice so deep it spoke directly to Hoolie's bones.

"I had hoped to have the key by now, however—"

"Ah, ah, the key. As for that... hrum, hrum..." The great willow shook as if from a sudden violent gust and dumped a small, dark shape to the ground.

"A gremlin!" Hoolie frowned down at the fuzzy little imp with the shifty eyes and smirking grin.

"Gremlins had the key," rumbled Hoarguard. "I... hrum, hrum... bid them bring it to me."

The gremlin scowled up at the giant tree. Hoolie thought maybe the 'bidding' had perhaps possessed an undercurrent of threat.

"So you have the key now?" inquired Hoolie.

"Ah, ah, hrum... I do. In a manner of speaking."

The gremlin resumed his smug smirking and Hoolie felt his heart sink.