The Forgotten Five.

Oh, look! Some funny footprints! Let us examine them. I sense that this is the beginning of my story, right here.

Four sets of footprints on the damp ground seem to belong to four different creatures, although only three walkers are wearing shoes. Most are deep enough to suggest they carry a significantly heavy load. One limps slightly and wears ordinary human riding boots with heels and stirrups. Another has boots with broad soles that leave large, deep prints. The distance between these prints indicates short legs and a small but heavy posterior. The third also appears to carry a burden, but the prints suggest their owner hardly touches the ground. Their shoe soles are narrow and elegantly shaped. The last one is barefoot, with broad feet and spread toes, but the distance between prints is small, as if a child has walked there.

All four hike for hours. They stop and rest a few times, creating areas of well-stomped ground, but not for long. If we follow them, we might find where they stop to spend the night.

The sky grows darker, but we can still see the edge of the old forest and the campfire. It must be them. Let’s move closer. Two couples are wrapped in blankets and animal hides on opposite sides of the pile of gleaming embers. On the left, two tall people sleep in a loving embrace. All we can see is the night breeze occasionally lifting their hair strands—one blond, the other brunette. Both have long hair, partially braided and modestly decorated with gems, pearls, silver beads, and feathers.

At first, the other couple looks like two children holding each other in their sleep. Still, on closer inspection, their weathered faces and broad shoulders tell a different story, especially the stern one. The bare feet of the smaller person stick out of the blanket. But it is not the cold air that wakes this little guy. He sits up and listens intently, his brown curly locks falling over his eyes.

There is no way they can hear or see us, but something alarms the traveller. He gently leans over his partner and calls out, “Beryl?”

But the heavy snore is his only answer.

A glance at his friends on the other side of the camp calms him a little. Then the noise comes again. It is unclear where it comes from, and at first, it sounds like a simple creak of a branch against another in the wind, only much lower and almost explicit—like a single word. The meaning of that word is unknown.

The traveller gets up and adds some wood to the fire.

A few dark birds wake and rise above the distant trees. The moon emerges from the clouds, and the traveller spots a young tree a few paces away. Since it was his duty to collect firewood that evening, he is sure he found every dry twig and piled up every deadwood branch in this area. He remembers his friend’s advice not to approach the forest at this hour and not to dare to break the branches of living trees. Despite that advice, if he had spotted this tree so close to the camp, he would have at least thought about cutting it down. Perhaps he got distracted and missed it somehow.

The traveller turns away from the forest and looks back at the meadow, scanning the tall grass for movement. Everything looks in order. He turns back to the woods and almost jumps. The young tree is practically in front of him, just a few steps away.

“What the…” He starts but becomes completely speechless when he sees a pair of eyes looking at him. They are close to each other because the top part of the tree trunk is no wider than his leg. They look like a couple of identical emeralds embroidered into the thin bark. A small hollow opens beneath the eyes; from it, a black swallow flutters out and flies away. The traveller hears the same soft sound of a creaking branch—this time, it is unmistakable.

“Name?”

It is said so quietly that the small traveller lowers his voice in response, careful not to wake his friends.

“What? My name? Heh… My name is Digram. Digram Oldbook.”

He waits for a whole minute before he hears the response.

“Kol… son of… Dryn.”

Digram eyes the walking tree suspiciously but decides to keep the conversation friendly.

“Nice to meet you, Kol. What can I do for you?”

“Listen. Must… listen. I have… much… to tell you… Digram… Old… Book.”

“Deep inside, I was afraid you’d say that.”

The leaves, too green for the late summer, rustle frantically though there’s no strong wind.

“Listen!”

“Okay… Okay. Keep your bark on. Go ahead. I love a good story.”

“My father… told me… to warn you…”

Digram listens intently. At first, he stands in front of the young tree. Then, he sits down on a flat rock nearby. After a moment, he begins to circle Kol slowly, twirling a long grass stem in his hands and occasionally striking off the heads of plantains growing nearby. The night slips away unnoticed, and the dawn paints the sky in brilliant pinks and blues.

Digram interrupts the tree’s tale and asks, “Do you mind carrying on while I start making breakfast for my friends?”

He tosses a few more twigs onto the fire and retrieves ham and eggs from his backpack. The smell of coffee and omelette rouses the dwarf first.

Kol pauses politely—he’s nearly finished anyway.

“Morning, love,” Digram says as Beryl sits up, her gaze fixed on the tree.

“Diggie, what’s going on?”

“Let me introduce you two. This lady, who hasn’t had time yet for her morning shave, is my wife, Beryl, from the Palecliffs clan. Beryl, this is Kol, son of Dryn. He’s here to help us with our quest. Apparently, he doesn’t quite fit in with his family. They say he talks too fast.”

“I bet he does,” Beryl replies dryly. Then, louder, she barks, “Hey, lovebirds! Wake up! We missed something here.”

The elven man stirs immediately, kicking off the blanket. He checks his bow first, then surveys the situation. Satisfied there’s no immediate threat, he places a hand on the shoulder of the black-haired woman beside him and shakes her gently. The human woman, with much darker skin and broad eyebrows, opens her beautiful eyes and blinks several times at the young tree.

“Kol, these are my friends and travelling companions, Lord Vaelior and Lady Minelira. They need to hear what you told me even more than I do,” Digram says, pouring coffee into four brown cups. “He’s brought us an important message from Dryn, his father—a warning I’ve been forced to listen to for most of the night.”

“Ah, yes, a walking tree!” says the Elven Lord Vaelior with interest. “Kol? I knew Dryn, your father when he was about your age. He’s not an ancient one, is he?”

“No,” Kol replies, his voice lilting like a spring breeze, unsure of its direction.

Vaelior hands a cup to Lady Minelira. “I’ve heard tales of Dryn’s experiments. Though I suspect he’s a bit biased, being a tree and all. Did you know, my love, he once tried to convince a band of orcs to switch to a vegetarian diet?”

Minelira accepts the cup with a raised eyebrow. “Orcs? Vegetarians? That’s ambitious.”

“Ambitious? Indeed!” Vaelior’s blue eyes shine with amusement. “But it didn’t go well. They found it distasteful—literally!”

“Fascinating,” Beryl mutters, rubbing sleep from her eyes. “But could your new friend get to the warning? We don’t have all day, you know.”

“It is done,” says the rustling voice. Kol’s emerald eyes vanish, sinking into the bark. The hollow closes as the swallow flutters back inside, and without turning, the tree moves toward the forest at least five times faster than a large snail.

The elf, the dwarf, and the human all begin eating their portions of the omelette, their gazes fixed on the halfling.

“Looks like it is down to me now,” says Digram, his tone a mixture of resignation and enthusiasm. “Okay. Kol says we will die if we move through the forest. It is full of traps and enchanted trees that will stump us like bugs as soon as we enter. There are also giant spiders and flesh-eating fungi. Going around it is also not an option, as the forest spreads for weeks of walking in both directions. We don’t have supplies for such a journey. But he does not suggest we should go back either. There is a way. We can go underground into the tunnels of the Stone Moles. We will need our weapons, and we will need light.”

Digram finishes his coffee and pours some more from the pot.

“Go on,” says Beryl, her brow furrowing as she contemplates their options.

“This is it,” Digram says, leaning forward. “If you want details, you can chase Kol and ask him yourself, my priceless gem.”

Beryl turns to look at Kol, who is still running just behind her back as fast as he can.

“I thought you said you were listening all night.”

“And I did,” Digram replies, shrugging.

“Right. I see. So let’s break it down: a haunted forest, murderous fungi, and friendly neighbourhood spiders. I was looking forward to it, but I think the underground is more appealing to my nature,” Beryl says. “Any chance you’re leaving out the part about how we get into these tunnels?”

“Ah, well, that’s the kicker!” Digram grins almost conspiratorially. “Kol mentions the entrance is hidden beneath a mossy rock shaped like a… well, a rather unfortunate-looking mushroom.”

“Charming,” Minelira says. “And how do we find this rock? Surely it won’t just wave and say, ‘Here I am, come enter my dark and dank lair!’”

“No, no, that would be too easy!” Digram says as though it is the most logical thing in the world. “The trick is to find the right glade, the one where the birds seem to chat to each other in a language you can almost understand—about the good old days when the world was much less complicated.”

Vaelior raises an eyebrow. “And how do we know when we find this glade? Will it be marked with a signpost saying ‘Welcome to the Spooky Fungi Forest: Enter at Your Own Risk’?”

“Close enough!” Digram chuckles. “You’ll know it when you see it. The trees will have a peculiar twist to their trunks as if they’ve been engaged in an animated debate about the best way to grow.”

“And if those trees or spiders attack us?” Beryl asks, uncrossing her arms. “I’d rather not be caught off guard. Pass me those cups and plates, Diggie. I will wash them in the stream.”

“Fear not, my friends,” Digram replies, lifting his fist full of spoons and forks, “for I have a plan! We’ll distract them with a bit of music. This morning, I shall write a new song that will charm even the most cantankerous entities. If nothing else, it should at least make them stop and wonder, ‘What on Mid-earth is that noise?’”

Minelira sniffs. “You think a song will save us from the very real danger lurking in those woods?”

“Of course!” Digram exclaims as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. “Music soothes the wood spirits, or at least distracts it long enough for us to escape.”

Vaelior cannot help but laugh. “Well, if we’re doomed, at least we’ll go down singing!”

“Exactly!” Digram says, his face brightening. “Now, let’s gather our supplies and find this glade. Adventure awaits!”

Of course, everyone knows Digram is only joking, and they all play along. The change of plans isn’t a laughing matter. Nevertheless, the group begins to pack their belongings, smirks and banter filling the air as they ready themselves for the strange and uncertain journey ahead. After all, in a world full of magic, mayhem, and just the right amount of mischief, what could possibly go wrong?