Minutes later, just as the first snore escaped Hobgoblin’s nose, something slipped into the hut,
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silent but deadly. The something creeped into the bedroom, struck a match, and ignited a torch. The room blazed with flickering light.
The flies gasped, and Hobgoblin choked on his own saliva. As their eyes adjusted, a masked squirrel took shape, occupying their entire frame of vision. In one paw she held the fiery torch, in the other she held a scrub brush. It was aimed directly at Hobgoblin.
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CHAPTER 3
THE OGRE’S ASSASSIN
obgoblin’s scream was backed by six squeaky shrieks from his flies.
The squirrel poked the scrub brush into Hobgoblin’s nose. “Do exactly as I say, Hobgoblin,” she said. “Or I’ll scrub you so hard, your flies won’t recognize your scent.”
Hobgoblin gulped. A shrill stress fart escaped under his burlap covers.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
The flies nodded earnestly, ready for their orders.
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“Get up,” said the squirrel. “We’re going into the Fetid Forest, where there are no witnesses. Dress appropriately.”
Hobgoblin’s tiny eyes darted nervously from the crossbow and arrow-filled quiver slung around the squirrel’s shoulder to the pouch hanging on her back stuffed with who knows what cleaning products.
His eyes bulged a little when he noticed Fiddlefart’s royal badge pinned to her cloak—a stinky, rotten corpse flower. He tried to gulp again, but his throat felt like a sock crammed with sawdust, so he ended up with a crooked frown.
The flies buzzed in nervous loops above Hobgoblin’s sweat-soaked head. Without taking his eyes off the squirrel, Hobgoblin grabbed a cloak from his coat rack and, fingers trembling, fastened it around his neck.
The squirrel blew out her torch to steep the hut in darkness once again. Hobgoblin felt the scrub brush jab into his back.
“OK,” said the squirrel in her raspy, no-nonsense voice. “Now, march.”
Hobgoblin marched stiffly toward the door like a toy soldier.
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“Hey, knock it off! You don’t have to march like that,” said the squirrel.
“Oh, sorry…” said Hobgoblin uncertainly. They left his mud hut and headed for the forest. Not sure how to march correctly, Hobgoblin took deep knee bends with his elbows fixed at right angles.
“Stop it!” said the squirrel, jabbing him in the back.
“I don’t know how to march!” wailed Hobgoblin, afraid she was going to scrub him at any moment.
The squirrel stopped and let out an irritated groan. Gesturing with the scrub brush, she explained: “You don’t have to march march. It’s a figure of speech. Just walk normally into the forest and head northeast. I’ll direct you where to go.”
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“Just walk normal,” said Hobgoblin. “Got it.”
After a few hesitant head bobs and practice steps, he remembered how to walk normally (at least nor-mally for him) and headed for the green, blue, and purple trees of the Fetid Forest.
Under usual circumstances and during the day, Hobgoblin loved the Fetid Forest and its bounty of rotten, moldy, and sticky smells. However, his feel-ings were quite different at nighttime with a scary squirrel poking a scrub brush into his back.
The forest was completely dark and very noisy. Hobgoblin and his flies had no idea what was out there spattering the murky air with chirps, scratches, sniffs, coughs, and giggles—and they didn’t care to find out. They flinched at every sound and winced every time the squirrel barked an order or jabbed Hobgoblin with the brush.
“Head to the right,” said the squirrel.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Hobgoblin.
“Don’t call me ‘ma’am,’” said the squirrel.
“OK, um, squirrel lady,” said Hobgoblin.
“Don’t ever call anyone ‘squirrel lady,’” said the squirrel. “Just call me Huntress if you have to call me anything.”
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“OK, Huntress,” said Hobgoblin. Something sneezed in the trees and Hobgoblin jumped in surprise.
“Keep going!” said the Huntress. “Don’t worry about the things in the forest. I’m the only creature that brings you danger.”
“Yes, Your Huntress,” stammered Hobgoblin. “I mean, My Huntress. No! I mean, just Huntress.” The flies smacked their foreheads in disbelief—if Hobgoblin was going to make it through this without getting scrubbed, he really needed to stop testing the squirrel’s patience.
“Do you know where Fresh Falls is?” asked the Huntress.
Hobgoblin couldn’t speak. The end point of the dreaded Rinsey River, Fresh Falls was a pure, clean, and glittery waterfall that emptied into the Pool of Purity. Everyone learned at a young age where it was—so they knew exactly where to avoid.
According to the folklore, once the glistening waters of the Rinsey River passed through Fresh Falls, they became infused with magical cleansing powers. The story went that if you dipped so much as a single toe into the Pool of Purity, you’d never,
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ever stink again.
“Y-yes,” stammered Hobgoblin.
“Good,” said the Huntress, nudging him with her scrub brush. “Go there.”
The next hour passed with Hobgoblin in a fog of terror. Horrific visions of swirling soap bubbles, purifying water, and scratchy brushes invaded his mind. His legs felt wobbly as he tromped through the chatty, twittery, very stinky forest.
Before he could see it, Hobgoblin could hear the delicate tinkle of Fresh Falls flowing into the Pool of Purity.
He and the flies gasped as they entered a slight clearing and beheld a perfectly clear waterfall. A sheet of water streamed cleanly down a sheer, smooth cliff face of polished bright blue rock. Silver twinkles of moonlight shimmered where the cascading water met the pool. It was all completely flawless—and to Hobgoblin and his flies, completely chilling.
The Huntress directed them around the slippery rocks that surrounded the Pool of Purity, right up to the gleaming waterfall.
“Go in,” she said.
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Trembling, Hobgoblin managed a wincing glance at the masked squirrel. The flies dashed to Hobgoblin’s head and squeezed it tightly. She couldn’t be serious.
“Not into the falls,” said the Huntress. “Behind them.”
Hobgoblin turned to the waterfall and took a cautious step on the smooth and shiny rocks. He closed his eyes tight and felt his flies quivering on his head.
The Huntress reached past him with the scrub brush and pressed an unassuming bulge