Tower Left Alone II

    The first evening without Thistledown settled over Whorltop Tower with an uneasy stillness. The lamps glowed warmly behind the old windows, purple smoke drifted lazily from the chimney, and the garden rested beneath the fading light of sunset. Everything looked exactly as it always had.

    Everything except the wizard.

    For the first time in many years, the Tower stood without its master. No cheerful humming drifted through the halls. No kettle whistled in the kitchen. No absent-minded spell escaped from the study because Thistledown had forgotten he was already stirring two pots of tea at once.

    The silence felt wrong.

    Parsnip thought so too.

    The squirrel stood atop the stone garden wall wearing a walnut shell polished until it almost resembled a knight's helmet. A length of red yarn served as his cape, while a sharpened twig rested proudly across his shoulder like a lance.

    He narrowed his eyes toward the forest.

    "I don't trust it."

    Whitethorn glided silently onto the wall beside him.

    "You don't trust anything."

    "Incorrect."

    "Go on."

    "I trust breakfast."

    Whitethorn nodded.

    "Fair."

    They both looked toward the dark trees beyond the garden.

    Nothing moved.

    No birds crossed the evening sky. No rabbits darted through the grass. Even the wind seemed reluctant to disturb the woods.

    Parsnip's ears twitched.

    "There."

    "Where?"

    "Between those two pines."

    Whitethorn followed the direction of his paw.

    At first she saw nothing.

    Then a shadow shifted.

    Not the movement of leaves.

    Not an animal.

    Someone was watching the Tower.

    "Stay here," Whitethorn said quietly.

    Parsnip puffed out his chest.

    "I should accompany you."

    "No."

    "I am Commander of Garden Security."

    "You appointed yourself."

    "Leadership requires initiative."

    "Leadership also requires listening."

    Before Parsnip could answer, Whitethorn spread her broad wings and lifted silently into the evening sky.

    She climbed above the Tower and circled once.

    From above, Whorltop looked peaceful.

    The old stone walls glowed warmly in the fading sunlight. The vegetable garden stretched neatly beside the oak. The chimney continued puffing gentle rings of purple smoke.

    Beyond the garden wall, however, the forest looked very different.

    Dark.

    Waiting.

    Whitethorn banked toward the trees.

    She flew low enough that her wingtips nearly brushed the upper branches.

    Voices drifted upward.

    "He's definitely gone."

    "You sure?"

    "Saw the goat cart myself."

    "About time."

    Whitethorn settled onto a thick branch overlooking a small clearing.

    Three goblins crouched below.

    One was thin as a stick with a cracked spyglass hanging around his neck.

    Another carried an iron crowbar almost as tall as himself.

    The largest wore scraps of leather armor stitched together from at least four different owners.

    The thin goblin pointed toward the Tower.

    "Old wizard's gone to his fancy convention."

    "Good."

    "Means the tower's ours."

    "What about the magic?"

    The goblin shrugged.

    "Magic gets sleepy when its wizard leaves."

    "You sure?"

    "No."

    "Good enough."

    The three goblins laughed together.

    Whitethorn did not wait to hear more.

    She launched from the branch and flew straight back toward Whorltop Tower.

    Parsnip met her at the garden wall before she even landed.

    "Well?"

    "Three goblins."

    "Only three?"

    "Three that we can see."

    Parsnip's cheerful expression disappeared.

    "That's worse."

    "Yes."

    "We should tell Rumple."

    Whitethorn sighed.

    "Let's hope he's awake."

    Together they hurried inside, unaware that dozens of small green eyes were now watching the Tower from deep within the forest.

    Three goblins had come to scout.

    Many more were already on their way.