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Morgana’s Revenge

Morgana’s frigid soul burned for revenge every Halloween, and tonight she would finally have it. It had been ten long, lonely years since those dirt-grubbing mortals stole the life of her sister, Morla. Only pure luck had enabled them to lure her into the flames of their bonfire and make it blaze green with her destruction. Morgana would not present such an easy victory.

 

Over the years, many plans had been made; potions rendered and spells devised. A wicked grin cracked Morgana’s age-worn features as she imagined those shrieking farmers scurrying for cover as she soared above them. The soft glow on the horizon marked where the battle would take place.

 

By tomorrow’s morn, it will be they whose hearts are heavy, thought Morgana. Her death-black cape flapped and fluttered behind her as she rode the twilight winds. Further behind her, cloaked in darkness and shadow, moved another evil. It flapped with the heavy beat of leathery wings and that sound was of an army.

 

The glowing was brighter now and she could make out the barns and buildings of the village. Morgana cackled with delight as she spied the assortment of blazing bonfires that dotted the rolling countryside. “The fools do my bidding and don’t even know it,” she laughed and tossed her raven-haired head back with glee.

 

Within seconds, she was upon them. A hail of flaming arrows welcomed her arrival and she dove to meet them. “Achleios Retardo,” she called into the darkness and the arrows graceful arcs abruptly ended and they dropped harmlessly to the earth. However, Morgana had a second, more devilish, purpose to attend to. She reached into a heavy pouch on her right hip and pulled out a small gray-white orb. “You fancy fire do you mortals?” she said with a lilt. As she neared one of the bonfires, she suddenly pulled up from her dive and hurled the sack toward the flames. The instant it hit the burning wood it exploded into a sickening yellow cloud, spreading a vile fog of poison across the fields. The farmers’ livestock dropped dead the moment the fog made contact with them.

 

Shouts and curses erupted from the angered villagers. Gunshots followed and Morgana felt a bullet whiz by mere inches from the tip of her nose.

 

Rage filled her black heart at their arrogance. “Decendo Vermer!” she shrieked at the top of her lungs, and with a rush, the black-winged army that had remained out of sight lunged towards the village like a swarm of angry bees. The turbulence caused from their sudden descent nearly ripped Morgana from her broom.

 

Screams of panic and horror could be heard as the legion of bats poured across the village. Barred doors proved little defense against these creatures that fearlessly smashed through windows and swooped down chimneys. Morgana flung several more poison sacks into the bonfires and swept skyward to await the results of her latest barrage.

 

The air was heavy with acrid smoke and fuming poison. The exploding bonfires had caught many of the nearby barns on fire and the resulting blaze lit the entire countryside in flickering tongues of yellow and orange. The sight brought a rare feeling of warmth to Morgana. In that moment, self-assured that she was in total control of all she surveyed, she let her guard down to the possibility of something even more powerful than herself.

 

A sensation of something massive and heavy made Morgana jerk her head away from the carnage below and towards the darkness above. A brilliant blue-green beam of light blinded her and she felt herself

 

losing consciousness, then the world went black.

 

As she awoke, Morgana found herself restrained to a long, metal table. Her cape, hat, pouch and broom were in a neat row on a second table to her left. More importantly, her rings and amulets were missing.

 

Morgana struggled to free herself from the table, but there were no straps to break, no shackles to slip out of, only a dull, heavy weight anchoring her like some trapped animal. However, she did discover that with some effort, she could move the fingers on her left hand.

 

A low humming sound caught her attention and she turned her head towards what appeared to be a doorway. What eventually appeared, was enough to make even Morgana gasp.

 

Three hunched figures slowly floated into the room on glowing blue platforms. Their heads were enormous with an assortment of antennae clustered near the front. Two tentacle-like arms sprouted on either side of the antennae. They were nearly four feet in length and were tipped with four delicate fingers. The creatures’ bodies were the color of well-tanned leather, which undulated in disgusting rolls and had a wet appearance, making them seem slimy. No legs were visible. Morgana assumed that was the reason for the glowing platforms.

 

The smallest of the three approached the table where Morgana lay. One of its antennae began to vibrate and in response, a small bronze-colored table rose from the floor and presented an array of instruments.

 

Morgana had been intently watching all of this activity when she noticed two of her amulets hanging from the creature’s right tentacle. A blazing fire ignited in Morgana’s heart and she clenched her left hand into a fist. A series of high-pitched popping sounds erupted from a fluttering slit in the creature’s chest – it eerily sounded like laughter.

 

The creature proceeded to select an odd-looking instrument, which it raised above Morgana’s head and then lowered over her right eye. Searing pain made her scream in agony. When the pain finally subsided and her vision cleared, she realized that the creature had already selected a new instrument and was moving it towards her left ear. The creature paused when the other two creatures began emitting popping and chittering sounds. In response, it turned and glided towards them.

 

They were all gathered around some type of table with a thick top that was covered in flashing lights and levers. The largest creature’s tentacles were gracefully manipulating the levers. As it did so, the flashing intensified and a deep thrumming began deeper in floor beneath Morgana. A panel in the wall in front of the creatures silently slid open revealing six rows of glowing green crystals. Even in her state of ignorance, Morgana recognized something powerful when she saw it. That’s when she began planning her escape.

 

The entire room was throbbing now. All the creatures’ attention was focused on the flashing lights. So much so that they didn’t hear Morgana utter the words “Transporte sun deige. Transporte sun deige.”

 

With movements like a butterfly, the two amulets gently lifted off the smallest creature’s tentacle and floated towards Morgana. She focused her thoughts and opened her left hand. The instant they dropped into her palm, she clamped her fingers around them and shouted: “Imperviate cawn de plourum!

 

Morgana pointed her yellow-nailed finger towards the pouch on the table and it began to quiver. The smallest creature rose away from the table and realized that its newly won prizes were missing. It turned and began to move towards Morgana when she shouted “Uptow Sigu en exploi!” The pouch on the table dropped to its side and spilled out its contents of poison orbs.

 

“Saggith trath en corie!” Three of the poison sacks lifted from the floor and hurled themselves into the glowing green crystals.

 

The room shuddered as a thick, poison cloud spewed from the wall. All three creatures began uttering popping noises and flailing their tentacles in the air. The largest creature stayed close to the table and managed to flip several of the levers before dropping to the floor and undulated in a death roll for several long minutes.

 

Morgana began to laugh at the plight of her captors. She was unaffected by the gas, for the second amulet she held was one of protection.

 

As the hours passed, Morgana tried in vain to free herself from the invisible restraint that held her to the table. None of the spells she tried would release the vise-like grip. It was not till the eleventh hour, when Morgana had all but given up hope did the pressure abruptly subside.

 

Morgana sighed with relief and sprang from the table. She hurriedly gathered her belongings and with a sneer, retrieved her third amulet and her rings from the tentacles of the other two creatures and left through the doorway. Again Morgana was shocked by what she saw. Three massive chairs sat in a row with a wide window in front of them. Morgana saw clouds and the faintest glimpse of countryside far below. They were flying! But Morgana wanted nothing more to do with her captors or their magic; she wanted her freedom and knew how to get it.

 

She mounted her broom, clasped the amulet of power in her left hand and shouted: “Expast Vorn tu Blaceer!” The heavy window began to crack and fracture. Morgana readied herself and shot through the opening as it shattered.

 

“Free!” she cried victoriously and soared across the sky. However, her elation was short lived. The moon was too large and sickly red. The air was heavy and smelled of unknown flowers and spices.

 

“What have they done?” she screamed. “Where have they taken me?” The flame of hatred and rage burned brighter than ever. All plans against the whimpering farmers were swept aside as Morgana began plotting her revenge against this new aggressor. She would make them pay dearly for taking her from her home.

 

Far below, a tribe of large-headed, thick-bodied creatures sensed something strange passing overhead. Little did they know that their world of Ulantra would soon feel the wrath of Morgana’s revenge.

 

Treasure

“I’ve been robbed!”

The old man shuffled down the street looking for someone, anyone who would help him retrieve what had been stolen from him. He didn’t care that it was Halloween, or that he’d left his apartment wearing only a dingy, white tank-top, faded brown cords and his slippers. All Wilford Bishop cared about was recovering… his treasure.

* * * *

The temperature had tumbled ten degrees since sundown and was headed for the upper twenties. Short puffs of breath could be seen as Wilford continued down Pace Street, visibly shivering, arms held closely to his body for warmth, but with a look of grim determination in his steel-gray eyes.

Soon, the sky darkened and the streetlamps began flickering to life. Patrick Adler and his fiancé, Marcy, were passing out candy and apples to the neighborhood children. However, the sight of a seventy-nine year old man in slippers was more shocking than any costume they’d seen that evening.

“Get a blanket!” shouted Patrick as he jumped up and went to help the old man. Clearly he was disoriented and needed to get back to wherever he’d wandered from.

“Hey there,” called Patrick as he rushed up and tried to steer Wilford towards his porch. “You look a little lost.”

“I’ve been robbed,” replied Wilford and refused to change course. Patrick was surprised at how forcefully the old man had fended off any attempts to turn him and looked for Marcy for assistance. She quickly burst out the front door, carrying a heavy wool blanket

“Who is he, what’s going on?” she asked.

“Haven’t gotten that far, but he won’t come inside.” Patrick carefully draped the blanket over the old man’s shoulders and was relieved to see it accepted with a quick nod and a grunt of “thanks.” A moment later, Wilford suddenly realized that someone was finally paying attention to him and he stopped dead in his tracks.

“I’ve been robbed,” he croaked out as forcefully as he could. “Someone’s stolen my treasure.” Then, more softly, he said, “Please, help me get it back.”

“We’ll help you, Mr.…?” questioned Patrick searching for an answer to the man’s identity.

“Bishop, Wilford Bishop.” The old man’s gaze never left the road before him. “He went down this street, I can feel it.”

“Why don’t we call the police?” suggested Marcy. She too wanted to get Wilford out of the chill night air and into their house.

“No! No police, I can find him, I can feel it.” Wilford pulled away from Patrick and resumed his trek down Pace street. The couple exchanged nervous glances, then Patrick said, “Get the car, I’ll stay with him.”

The moment Wilford saw the shiny SUV pull alongside, he wasted no time in crawling into the back seat. To Patrick and Marcy, it was one step closer to getting him home. To Wilford, it was a faster way to recover his treasure.

“Turn left up here,” urged Wilford. He waved a wrinkled hand at the upcoming intersection.

To his surprise, Marcy continued straight. The local police station was only three miles away and she was sure they could take care of this poor confused man better than she and Patrick could.

Wilford’s eyes grew wide at the deception and he swung his head around to keep sight of the turnoff. “No,” he moaned and pointed out the rear window, “that way.”

Patrick noticed how pale the old man had suddenly become. His breath started coming in short gasps and he had difficulty holding his head up. Wilford slouched forward and Patrick struggled to hold the old man up off of the floor. His skin felt cold and clammy, like something half-dead.

“Turn back,” cried Wilford. “Turn back or I’ll die!”

Several agonizing seconds passed as Marcy struggled with what to do. Clearly the old man believed that he would die if they didn’t return to the intersection and resume the pursuit of the thief. Another anguished cry was all it took; she whipped the SUV around the next corner and began backtracking.

Wildford’s cries of pain subsided. He straightened and brushed a wisp of gray hair out of his eyes. Patrick was relieved to see some of his color return and his breathing smoothed out. Within seconds, the old man’s eyes were scanning the streets and intersections for the thief and his treasure.

“Do you need a doctor Mr. Bishop?” asked Patrick timidly. The memory of how the old man had appeared just a few moments earlier still burned before his eyes.

Wilford jerked his head towards the younger man, clearly startled at the question. “What are you asking me that for? Keep your eyes out there!” Again the wrinkled hand pointed towards the upcoming intersection.

Wilford’s attention to the passing houses and scenery grew more intent as they turned down the street he’d pointed to earlier. There were many more trick-or-treaters here and Marcy slowed the SUV as a precaution. Surprisingly, Wilford didn’t complain. He leaned closer towards the window glass and keenly looked over each passerby.

“Did the thief wear a costume?”

“No,” answered Wilford curtly. His features wrinkled sourly at the question, then he said, “…but he’s close, I can feel it!”

Block after block the trio slowly cruised down the street. After a few minutes, the children thinned out and the houses began to look shabbier, more run-down.

“I don’t think we want to go any further,” said Marcy. She feared the sight of a shiny new SUV in this neighborhood might attract the wrong kind of attention. She slowed the car and began looking for a place to turn around.

“Keep going!” shouted Wilford shrilly. “We’re close… I can FEEL it!” He began rubbing his chest as if it were itching or tingling; “Just a little further.”

 

Marcy’s fears grew as she saw a small yellow sign with bold black letters. “DEAD END.” A sickening knot of fear began to tighten in her stomach. “I can’t go any further,” she said in a nervous whisper. The SUV came to a stop; Patrick and Marcy both turned and looked to the old man for their next move.

 

Wilford was ghostly pale, his eyes were clenched tight and his mouth gaped open as if he were experiencing pure horror.

“He’s …opened it! He’s opened my treasure!”

A high-pitch scream ripped through the cool night air. A teen-aged boy in ripped jeans and a faded orange sweatshirt suddenly exploded from a nearby alley and raced past the SUV. Patrick couldn’t see much in the pale yellow glow from the streetlamps, but boy’s expression was near hysterics. In a matter of seconds he was out of sight.

“I can… feel it…,” moaned Wilford as he clutched at his chest and fell forward. Patrick slid across the seat and lifted the old man back into the seat. The wane light played across his features and revealed a corpse. A thin trickle of blood snaked down his cheek.

Marcy took one look and began sobbing uncontrollably. Her nerves were at the breaking point and she could bear no more.

Patrick gently lifted the blanket and covered the old man’s face. His problems were over, but the mystery remained. He saw the alley where the teen had emerged and knew he had to find Wilford’s treasure. There would be no peace in his mind till he knew.

He slipped out of the SUV and scrambled towards the alleyway. There were few lights on in any of the houses and he doubted the residents would care anyway – especially after the horrible screams the teen had made with no response. He picked his way closer, then paused as he heard a strange sound coming from the alley. It sounded slightly familiar. As he rounded the corner, several furry creatures fled into the shadows. One larger animal remained. It was busily working with whatever it had on the ground before it. Patrick inched his way closer and noticed a small metal case – bent and dented – lying open near the animal. Clearly, the teen had forced it open and had gone screaming into the night at the sight of its contents.

The long-tailed animal finally sensed Patrick’s approach. It raised its blood-smeared head, hissed evilly – revealing curved yellow teeth – then followed its brethren into the darkness. Patrick forced himself closer and bent over to see what lay on the ground near the case. A sickening odor of something rotten filled the air. As he bent closer still, he thought he saw something move.

A second blood-curdling scream filled the night as Patrick discovered the old man’s treasure. There, in the dim half-light of the alley, lay the remains of Wilford Bishop’s heart. Almost unrecognizable, it pulsed weakly, then quivered and finally lay still.

He staggered out of the alley, mind reeling at the impossibility of what he’d seen. Marcy, her head now resting against the steering wheel, was still sobbing as Patrick slid in to the back seat. The blanket had slipped off of the old man. As Patrick reached up to replace it, he saw something strange near the collar of the old man’s tank top. With trembling fingers he pulled open the shirt and revealed a long, half-healed, surgical scar. He replaced the blanket with a flip of his hand and fell back against the seat. Through closed eyes he remembered the blood-smeared rats, the ravaged heart and Wilford Bishop clenching at his chest and swearing he could… feel it!

Passing Time

Here’s a short bit of flash fiction
I wrote a few years back. Comments are welcome.


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Down the Goblin Hole

“Tell me again Aiden, what happened to your brother.”

Carl Secord was a large man whose presence often intimidated Aiden. His job as a lineman added a weathered, chiseled appearance and gave his deep-set eyes an almost sinister glare. Though at the moment they were holding back a torrent of fear.
The young boy looked up with frightened eyes, the black, pirate makeup he’d been wearing had smeared and tracked down his cheeks. He remained silent for several seconds. Then finally, he licked his pale lips and told what he could remember.
“It was dark. Cody didn’t want to come straight home and said it would be fun to walk around the block and maybe get some more candy. I only had about half of my bag full and agreed, but every house we tried had given all their candy away.”
“Cody saw that I wanted to give up, and started acting funny to keep me going. He was a zombie, so he’d pretend he was going after other kids – some of the younger ones screamed and ran – but after we rounded Hawkcraft Street everyone was gone. We’d only gone a house or two when we heard a noise. That’s when it grabbed him.”
Sandy, the boy’s mother, jerked forward at the word grabbed. Her normally serene face showed the stress she was under and her hands gripped the frail pirate costume to the point of ripping seams.
“Who grabbed Cody?” She nearly lifted the youth off the floor and his arms hurt from being squeezed. “Where’s your brother?” Carl placed his hands on Sandy’s shoulders and she stiffened, then seemed to relax a bit and set the boy down.
“O.K. Aiden,” said Carl. “Who took Cody?”
“Like I said, it was dark, but I saw it grab him around the middle, then take off ‘cross the street and to the far side of the gorge.”
“You say this was on Hawkcraft Street?” Carl’s expression grew grim as a stab of pure terror punched him hard. “Where did they go after entering the gorge?”
Aiden swallowed the knot in his throat. He rubbed his right cheek, smearing the makeup further, then replied in a whisper, “It took him down the Goblin Hole dad.”
“No!” shrieked Sandy in disbelief. She bolted for the door, but was blocked by Carl. “He’s only nine years old Carl, a baby! And what does he keep saying…it took him?”
The following minutes were a blur. Carl knew he had to find his son and he knew where he had to go. He pulled on his jacket as he opened the door to leave when Sandy stopped him dead in his tracks by asking: “Shouldn’t you take the rifle with you?”
“He’s a frightened little boy, Sandy. I can’t take a chance on hitting him. I’ll take my hunting knife though.” With that, Sandy fetched the knife from the kitchen closet, then Carl hurried out the door. She watched helplessly as her husband’s form grew dimmer and dimmer and finally disappeared completely.
The raw Autumn air nipped his cheeks as he covered the blocks the boys had traveled. Soon, the open expanse of Wickersham Gorge lay before him. Carl knew the trail to the Goblin Hole. He was among the many men who’d tried in vain to close up that sinister portal. Three times had men tried to seal and bury it forever only to find it reopened within a few days. Only after Rubin Hollis went missing did the entire town agree it was a place to be feared. Rumors began that Hollis’ ghost guards the Goblin Hole every Halloween. From what, no one knows for certain.
As Carl picked his way over the jagged rocks and scrub, he got the uneasy feeling that he was being watched. His neck tightened and he jerked about at the slightest sounds. The sight of the Goblin Hole did nothing to alleviate his anxiety. In the wane light, it resembled a huge gaping mouth waiting to swallow any unsuspecting passerby. His right hand clenched the handle of the hunting knife – that bit of reality calmed his nerves a fraction.
Carl straightened and found himself facing the black abyss of the opening. It seemed larger than he remembered and his heart began to pound in his chest. His legs felt leaden and his entire being screamed that he should flee. He was about to turn and survey the gorge when a spray of rock splinters pelted his face and head – this was immediately followed by the familiar “crack” of a high-power hunting rifle.
Carl’s instincts kicked in and he dove for the cover and pitch-black darkness of the Goblin Hole. Two more shots slammed into the rocks and sent more chips and splinters flying. It would be insanity to try and race across the gorge, so Carl unsheathed the hunting knife and felt along the walls for some kind of path. He had a flashlight tucked in his belt and pulled it out. He’d been saving the batteries for as long as possible – who knew how deep into the earth the Goblin Hole went and how long he’d be inside its inky interior. After several more steps and no more rifle shots, Carl flicked on the light. The brightness momentarily blinded him and he squeezed his eyes closed. Gradually his vision adjusted and he beheld a long tunnel that steeply descended into the unknown. It was surprisingly warm and he thought he could feel a draft wafting towards the surface. A glance at his watch showed it was eight-thirty. A time when the boys should be in pajamas and brushing their teeth – not at the hands of whatever terror lurked at the pit of this tunnel. The thought made him cringe and spurred him to quicken his pace.
Minutes stretched to tens of minutes , then an hour with no signs or clues of Cody’s wherabouts. Carl was grateful that the tunnel hadn’t forked or split off into multiple paths. He was about to round a bend when he spied something dark partially buried in the dirt. He tugged at it and it grudgingly revealed a man’s shoe. Much to large for his son, but a sign nonetheless. Carl flung it aside and continued downward.
Twenty minutes later, a deep, ruddy-red glow began to fill the tunnel before him. It danced and flickered like firelight and the odor of something burning lay heavy in the air. Carl crept deeper and made his way towards a large cavern. Carl flipped off the flashlight and inched his way to the opening. His mind reeled at the sight before him and he had to fight the overpowering urge to flee. For there in the firelight, in that smoky pit of hell… were Goblins. Dozens of them!
A ceremony of some type was underway, and at its center were three children. Carl immediately recognized Cody from his zombie costume. All had their hands bound in front of them and shared equal expressions of terror. The middle child was a young girl and she seemed near hysterics. Time and again the other children had to help her up from the floor. Carl tried to work out a path down to them but found it impossible without being detected long before he could render any aid. For the moment, all he could do was watch.
The smoke from several cauldron fires made it difficult to determine how many goblins were present. The number didn’t matter though, it was their intent that panicked Carl. Two of the more prominent ones had approached the first child and were trying to force something down his throat. The child fought their attempts and was struck a blow that rendered him unconscious. The girl screamed as the boy was hit and raced off to the right of the ceremony. Several larger goblins loped after her, but didn’t return. Cody’s face was a mask of pure horror. The goblins now approached him and yanked his head back by the hair.
One forced his mouth open as the second forced a blood-red sphere – resembling a large egg – down this throat. Cody started to gag, but kept it down.
At that moment, all activity ceased. Every Goblin eye was focused on Cody. Carl’s hand clenched the knife and he inched forward into the cavern. He had to make a move. He managed to work his way around to the left and nearly half-way to the cavern floor, when a heavy body dropped on him from above. Before he could turn his head to face his attacker, he was dealt a second, stronger blow that plunged him into darkness.
When Carl awoke, he was next to Cody in the center of the ceremony. The mood was different now, more frantic, frenzied. The cavern floor seemed to writhe with goblins of every size. Carl shook his head to clear the fog and noticed that Cody seemed different. His skin was a dirty green and his eyes had an unearthly gaze. He clearly didn’t recognize Carl as his father. A thin trickle of whatever they’d given him snaked down his chin and spasms shook his body periodically. Carl watched as two of the larger goblins moved towards him. He tried to move, but found he’d been securely chained to the floor.
As he watched in horror, one of the beasts took his hunting knife and slit a long gash in its arm. The second collected what must have been it’s blood – it oozed a putrid yellow. The two then moved closer to Carl and repeated the process used on his son, but more forcefully. Carl tried spitting the foul goo out, but was given a sharp kick to the ribs. The second time they pinched his nose close and held his mouth shut.
Racking spasms jerked Carl’s body as the blood worked its way through his system. Carl could feel changes taking place. His mind was a jumble of emotions – anger, fear, hatred. For a moment he regained his senses and looked over at his son. Cody was gone, in his place sat a fully formed goblin. Still wearing the Zombie costume, it rose and took a few steps towards Carl. It smiled with a mouthful of crooked, yellow teeth, then walked away to be accepted into the crowd.
The hatred in Carl’s mind exploded and he strained at the chains that bound him. The goblins paid his efforts little mind, till one of the links snapped. Carl flailed the chain like a whip, taking out several of the closest goblins. With another pull, he snapped the second chain holding his arm. A group of goblins was closing on him, but were leary of the flying metal. The final two chains finally gave way and Carl was up and on the attack. The goblins seemed off guard and fell back. Escape was the only thought in his fevered mind now and he raced back towards the tunnel and freedom.
His heart was pounding like a wild drum and sweat was running down his skin like a shower. With his new found strength, he easily outpaced the goblins and covered the length of the tunnel in a fraction of the time it took to traverse. With heightened vision, he made out the exit to the tunnel and put on an extra burst of speed.
The night air hit him like an icy blast. It dazed him and he paused near the entrance. Lungfulls of cool, October air burned in his lungs and Carl, glanced across the gorge towards home. His thoughts were shattered by the familiar splintering of rock and stone. More shots rang out making Carl duck and jerk back towards the Goblin Hole. Before he could regain his footing, he was seized by three powerful sets of clawed hands. This time they were prepared and hauled the former Carl Secord back to the bowels of the Goblin Hole. There, he and his son would add to their ranks and join in their yearly quest for new bodies, new blood.
Meanwhile, up on the high side of Wickersham Gorge, Rubin Hollis sat perched on a small boulder, rifle at the ready. His dirty green skin made perfect camouflage in the pale moonlight. The transformation had stopped halfway for him, making him unfit for neither human or Goblin life, but the hate remained. The hatred of all who’d changed him and took his life. He might have missed the one going into the Goblin Hole earlier, but he vowed he’d not miss anything that tried to come back out!