The Gorgon's Fury

Chapter One

Games

As Newel stepped up to the service line, twisting his front hoof into the turf, the crowd quieted, onlookers watching expectantly. Standing close to the net, Doren shifted lightly from side to side, furry hindquarters swaying. In the far service court, diagonal from Newel’s position, Barrett awaited the serve. Thick golden fur adorned his goat legs, and shaggy blond hair nearly hid his horns.

Barrett looked more muscular than he had last year, his bare shoulders broader, his biceps more pronounced. That was odd. Newel wondered how Barrett was still growing. He was young, barely two hundred years old, but his physical maturation should have reached completion fifty years ago. Barrett’s partner, Hoff, waited closer to the net, the hair on his head, chest, and legs midnight black, with a slim, neatly edged beard hugging his jawline.

Fablehaven was established as a secret wildlife refuge for magical creatures in 1711. Newel and Doren had won the Satyr Games nearly every year since they had come to the magical preserve shortly after the Treaty of Paris ended the Seven Years’ War. Most years they took first place in at least five of the seven contests. They failed to win in 1789 when Doren had a fever, in 1865 when Newel had a broken leg, and in 1942 when the Games were canceled due to unrest at the preserve.

Barrett and Hoff were making it interesting this year. Newel and Doren had won the dryad tag and target disk events. But Barrett and Hoff had taken pole chucking and the rope climb. No points were awarded for second place. The satyrs who won the most events won the Games. Period.

In the event of a tie? A wrestling match to break it, of course. But the Games never ended in a tie. At least none that Newel had ever seen.

Opa Satyr gestured for Newel to proceed. Gray of fur and beard, Rafi had a proud potbelly and showed faint signs of aging around the eyes. The chief of their clan, he sat in a large wicker chair next to the net to judge the match, fanned by two young satyrs clutching pine branches.

After rubbing a thumb over the tough, leathery surface of the clobber ball, Newel bounced it twice against the grass court. The turf was shorn close, tight and springy. He hefted the brown ball, which weighed a little more than a regulation tennis ball. The swamp hag had made these especially for the tournament, using armadillo carapace, bat leather, rubber-tree sap, fire toad glands, and a few other secret ingredients. The clobber ball would come off his tennis racket like lightning.

“Are you ready to lose in front of all these fine bystanders?” Newel called.

“Just serve the ball before the grass gets too tall for us to see,” Barrett replied, earning a chuckle from the crowd.

“He’s asking for it,” Doren said to Newel. “Let him have it!”

Newel knew this game was vital. Losing at clobber ball to upstarts like Barrett and Hoff would be almost as bad as losing the Games entirely. Newel glanced at the expectant faces. About forty satyrs of various ages had shown up for the event. Several who had lost in preliminary clobber ball rounds were skipping the finals, but forty was a respectable turnout. There were also several dryads, willowy and gorgeous. Newel was thrilled to have their attention.

Unlike normal tennis, clobber ball did not have sets or even multiple games. There was only one game, the server decided by coin toss, winner take all. Winning the serve had improved Newel and Doren’s chance of victory, but now they had to make good use of that advantage.

Newel tossed the clobber ball upward. So much depended on the toss. A proper toss could set up a wicked serve. He should not be thinking so hard. He would perform better if he let his instincts take over. The ball hovered above him, and he whipped the racket, striking it squarely. Rushing through the air, the clobber ball landed inside the far corner of the service box.

Lunging, Barrett ripped the ball back over the net with a brisk forehand, trying to blaze it past Doren down the line, but Doren dove and volleyed the ball back over the net at a vicious angle. Leaping with his racket outstretched, Hoff tapped the ball over with backspin.

Newel raced forward and stretched, but his racket fell short as he went down.

“Point for Barrett and Hoff,” Rafi announced. “Love–Fifteen.”

Barrett spread his arms, threw his head back, and did a prolonged shimmy, absorbing the applause. Hoff ran to him, and they bumped chests.

Doren crossed to Newel and offered his cousin a hand up. Newel was taller, his horns a tad longer, and his fur a shade redder, but they were recognizably related.

“Look at them celebrating,” Newel grumbled.

“We do the same,” Doren reminded him.

“No, we celebrate like winners,” Newel said. “Have you ever shimmied? Or bumped chests? They are such wannabes.”

“Felt like a practice serve,” Barrett called, cupping a hand beside his mouth. “Three more like that and we can move on to the next event.”

“The serve was fine,” Doren said to Newel. “Hoff just hit a beautiful dink. We’ll get them.”

Newel returned to the baseline, preparing to serve to Hoff. The clobber ball felt lukewarm. The balls heated up every time they were struck, and once hot enough, they would explode, which was the most dramatic way to lose a point. This aspect of “hot potato” significantly increased ­attendance—and explained why every team brought at least two spare rackets.

“They’re in trouble now,” Barrett crowed. “We’re already up by fifteen points!”

“We’re just trying to show some love before we get serious,” Newel shot back.

Barrett laughed. “Yeah, well, we have fifteen and you have love, and in clobber ball, love means nothing!”

“Less chatter, more action,” Rafi ordered from his wicker throne.

Newel steadied himself. He preferred to win without using his spin serve. Trick serves made matches too easy. But with all the bold talk, he decided it was time to put some English on the ball. Newel tossed up the clobber ball, then clipped it cleanly, his racket face at an angle, and sent the ball hurtling toward Hoff with a vicious spin.

It skipped sideways off the bounce, and Hoff fumbled his return. The ball smacked against the top of the net with just enough momentum to flip over the top, falling straight to the grass with almost no bounce.

There was nothing Newel or Doren could do.

The crowd roared their approval as Hoff took a theatrical bow. He and Barrett pretended to fence with their rackets for a moment before bumping chests.

“Love–Thirty,” Rafi announced.

Newel gritted his teeth. The ball had been poorly struck and Hoff knew it. Luck had allowed it to limp over the net at the worst possible moment. Why was Lady Luck such a fickle mistress? Why would she smile upon such shameless impostors?

Doren brought the ball to Newel. “Steady,” he said. “They got a magical bounce.”

“This is war,” Newel growled.

“Zzyzx was war,” Doren said with a grin. “This is clobber ball. We start by winning this next point. Remember, there are dryads watching.”

Newel gulped. His eyes strayed to the dryads—tall, elegant, and charming. Normally he had to chase them to earn a glance, but right now, their eyes were glued to him.

“And one of them is Caperly,” Doren said solemnly.

Caperly looked radiant today. She spent much of her time among the elms, and she was exceptionally graceful. She was so lithe, so cunning, that nobody had ever touched her in dryad tag. Barrett and Hoff had largely lost by going after her. Today she wore a shawl of spring leaves, the ringlets of her blueish hair entwined with blossoms.

“War,” Newel whispered dangerously.

Doren took his place, and Newel prepared to serve again to Barrett. The clobber ball was warm now. Newel squeezed it. Barrett would be expecting spin serves for the rest of the game. Newel tossed the ball into the air and whacked a rocket right at him.

Jammed, Barrett popped up his return weakly, and Doren slammed the ball between his opponents, sending it bouncing into the trees. Rafi dispatched a ball kid to fetch it.

“Fifteen–Thirty,” Rafi declared.

Newel and Doren launched into a stomping, frolicsome war dance. Doren finished by playing air guitar on his racket.

“I’ve never seen a losing team party so hard,” Barrett said.

“Some guys have to enjoy the little things,” Hoff quipped.

“We’re just glad to see a point won in this game by hitting the ball hard,” Doren replied.

The crowd laughed.

Newel returned to the baseline. The ball was hot enough that he had to hold it gingerly, but it hadn’t turned red yet. A rally of more than ten hits would almost surely cause detonation. Part of the strategy was anticipating when the explosion would come and striking the ball appropriately. First, it would get red-hot. Once it started to vibrate, the blast was imminent.

Hoff hopped from hoof to hoof, ready to receive the serve. This was definitely war. But Newel knew he always did better in a war when he played it like a game. What if he relaxed and tried a weird lob serve with an absurd spin like he sometimes used against Doren when they were goofing around?

Newel struck the ball, and instead of zipping over the net, it traveled in a high arc. Hoff set up to send it back hard, but the ball quirked sharply to the left off the bounce, and his swing hit nothing but air.

“Ace!” Doren cried.

“Thirty–All,” Rafi declared.

“Should we show them how to celebrate?” Doren asked.

“Lawn mower,” Newel replied.

Doren dropped to the turf, and Newel grabbed his hooves. Doren walked on his hands while Newel steered him like a wheelbarrow. They went off the edge of the court into taller grass, which Doren proceeded to munch down in copious quantities.