Weasel's Luck

by Michael Williams

  I stepped out from the undergrowth behind which I had been hiding, and moved down into the small bowl of the swamp toward the cabin, the fires, the goats, the whole show of lights, leading the mare behind me.

  When I approached, the goats were as goatlike as I expected, watching me with those drowsy, stupid eyes and slowly chewing whatever nameless greenery they had grazed in the clearing. The smell was pretty much as I had figured, too, so I approached more rapidly, eager to get the strong woodsmoke between me and the only apparent residents. The pack mare snorted once and pulled back strongly against the reins, but I made a soothing sound with my tongue and led her on.

  Once we stepped within the circle of fires I realized my mistake.

  Suddenly the flames began to move and waver like phosfire. I turned, intent on beating a quick exit, but it was too late.

  Now the kindling stood on end, began to grow and expand at a speed that was grotesque even for this swamp. Within seconds I was surrounded by a high palisade fence—a fence containing no opening, no exit I could see.

  Now the goats were changing, too, their long hair growing back into their bodies as quickly as the palisades had grown from the ground. They rose to their hind legs, adopting human form—or at least a form approaching human. The changed creatures—no longer goats, but satyrs—eyed me sleepily, stupidly, as if they were waking up. They walked to the fires, drew burning branches from the midst, and held them aloft like torches. Slowly and menacingly, they encircled me.

  My first idea was to drop the reins, leave the mare to her own devices, and scramble into that small, smoky cabin in the center of the clearing. There, above the pack of satyrs and the confusion, I would have time to think, to invent, to patch together an escape.

  But I was losing the chance to act. For while the fences and goats had risen, the cabin had changed, too, rising and reassembling in that sickly green light until it was no longer a cabin at all, but an enormous and hideous throne, standing on stilts in the midst of a fortified stronghold.

  Seated upon that throne was the Scorpion.

  I must admit that the whole arrangement was pretty impressive. The throne was skeletal: thin and intricate and a nasty off-white color from base to crown. Over its surface, black on a background of bone and ivory, hundreds of scorpions danced, rose, or lifted their poisonous tails.

  He sat on the throne, lean and menacing. Beneath that heavy black hood, he might have been anyone.

  But there was, I am certain, only one with that voice.

  The same voice I remembered from the moat house—musical and honeyed and laced with ice and metal and poison. The voice of the raven.

  For as soon as I recovered my balance and brought my frantically rearing pack animal under control, as soon as I had taken in the entire scene—the throne, the vermin, the man cloaked and hooded in black—then came the voice from the man, confirming my fears.

  “Little Galen, your worst nightmare has returned upon you. Oh, yes, you have dreamed this and wakened with a start, or in sweat and with your small heart racing, for in your sleep you behold me and are afraid past all assurance and comfort.”

  Actually, he had never been a part of my worst nightmare, which involved a huge faceless ogre wielding a huge and impossibly sharp axe. But he was nightmarish enough, and I was certainly not inclined to argue with him. I gaped and nodded my agreement. My knees began to give.

  “I believe, little friend, that a part of your debt has come due?”

  “It surely has, Your Grace, and I had every intention of paying it to you. Paying it to you with interest, for you were exceedingly kind to let me out of that prison of a library on such short acquaintance and in such highly unusual circumstances …”

  He leaned from the throne, stared down on me like a predatory bird stares down upon the rodent of the day.

  “But it’s more complicated than that. Of course, as Your Grace is probably well aware, I haven’t been allowed the chance to collect my thoughts, much less any good information regarding Bayard, over the last fortnight, being imprisoned and pressed into service and all.”

  The Scorpion sat back and steepled his long white fingers. The circle of satyrs around me narrowed, and with it my options. I began to bargain.

  “I have, of course, access to the kind of thing you were bargaining for in the first place,” I began, motioning to the back of the pack mare, where Bayard’s armor lay bundled. “A fine suit of Solamnic armor, scarcely used of late, which if your followers don’t mind a little clean-up detail—scraping off the mud and all …”

  “Enough.” My host rested his hands quickly, lightly on the arms of the throne, scattering the scorpions.

  “And what do you think I want with armor, boy? Do I look like a dealer in breastplates, satisfied by merchandise alone?”

  “No, sir. Your Grace looks like my worst nightmare.”

  “In that am I satisfied. And I take it that Bayard Brightblade remains somewhere in this swamp?”

  “Yes, sir.” Questioning was clearing my head. “That is, as far as I can tell.

  “In fact, I’m sure he is somewhere in this swamp, but I am so misplaced, so spun around and squandered by circumstance, that I won’t be able to tell you where east is until morning, much less point out for you where the Knight in question has mired himself.”

  I didn’t feel so bad about betraying Bayard. After all, it wasn’t my choice to be here. I couldn’t call Bayard a friend—not really—and was I really his squire, when he had forced me into service? More like his prisoner, and the duty of a prisoner is to escape, isn’t it?

  I stopped stroking myself with logic when the man on the throne continued firing questions at me.

  “Do you know what a will-o-the-wisp is, boy?” he asked.

  “No, sir, but I expect that I soon shall.”

  “The floating light in the swamp—marsh gas, fox fire, call it what you will—that is always a step or two ahead of the traveler who follows it. Like the fire that brought you here.”

  I nodded in stupid agreement, doing my best to contain the wildly trembling mare I had in tow.

  “It is a light that the traveler follows at his peril, for it leads him farther and farther toward the heart of the swamp—wherein perdition lies.”

  He chuckled, and the scorpions stirred beneath his hands.

  “You, little weasel, are my will-o-the-wisp. For it is your job now to bring your companions here to me, to mire them in the center of this fen and keep them here through long and costly delays. A simple task, but one so worthy of my gratitude.”

  “I’d love to help, sir,” I began tentatively, “but for the life of me, I’ve no idea where Sir Bayard is.”

  “Don’t play the innocent with me, boy!” he spat, the scorpions rushing away from him, startled by the noise, the anger charging the air. It felt like that time in a storm before lightning begins. I stepped back and watched one of the satyrs—a small one, virtually beardless—turn and leap into the palisade wall, vanishing into the wood. A larger one followed him, and then another.

  “Well, I do know that Bayard is somewhere here in the swamp …”

  “Much better,” he interrupted, “Much more … positive and optimistic.” His voice had returned to a calm and honeyed instrument. Slowly the scorpions were gathering once again on the throne.

  “You have such little trust in me, Galen. Did you think I would leave you so … ill-provided? Have you already forgotten the good turn I did you in the moat house library? No, Galen. What I need is someone to lead Sir Bayard to this very spot.”

  One of the satyrs stepped back through the palisade, as easily as if he were walking out of a fog. Paying him no mind, the Scorpion continued.

  “For you see, I know where Bayard is.” A globe of light began to glow green in his hand. “And the light that led you to me will lead you to him, will lead the both of you back to this cabin, this encampment.”

  “And no harm will come to Bayard?” I asked, puzzled.

&n
bsp; “My hand shall not shed blood in this undertaking. My word is always kept, through centuries of fire and flood and wrack. Unlike the word of others.”

  “That sounds pretty binding, sir. Given that assurance, I would be glad, by force or by farce, to bring Sir Bayard of Vingaard into your august presence, so that you might draw from him the information you need in whatever way you choose to draw. However, I should like to earn my freedom in the bargain, and a safe escort back to my father’s house. After all, Sir Bayard may not want to trouble himself with my company if my treachery is suspected.”

  There was a long pause. The Scorpion deliberated, I awaited his decision, the pack mare tugged less urgently at the reins, and the satyrs did nothing much at all except walk in and out of the fortifications through the palisades.

  “I shall allow you that chance,” the Scorpion said finally. “I shall guide you back to your companions, and you, in turn, shall guide them to me. I shall allow you that chance, but I shall be oh so watchful. I shall be a hawk, a nest of owls to your passing, little Weasel, for I am not sure whether your eagerness to betray your comrades is a lie or is the truth.”

  At that time, neither was I.

  CHAPTER 8

  That is how, by following the deathly glow of phosfire away from the clearing, I rode the mare back to Bayard’s camp, where the master, the brother, and the means of transportation sat (or in Agion’s case, stood) around a campfire, drinking roka.

  Well, they welcomed me back with nothing short of joy—better than I expected or deserved. Bayard and Brithelm were on their feet immediately, Brithelm with his arms spread wide preparing a brotherly enfolding, Bayard more reserved, as befitting his station, but scarcely concealing his delight and relief. Agion was literally prancing like a colt, back and forth between Valorous and the pack mare.

  And I would lead these innocents wherever the Scorpion commanded.

  I had never liked this hidden arrangement with the hidden enemy. It had begun to bother me that my surveillances were part of a mysterious plan that might well end in outrage to some folk who didn’t deserve it. But call it what you would, it was their skins or mine. Put bluntly and in those terms, it was easy to restrain those higher feelings.

  Brithelm was all embraces and questions as he led me to the fireside and set a steaming mug of roka in my hands. I sniffed reluctantly at first, smelled the roka nuts and the cinnamon, then tasted it. To my relief, the roka was of someone’s brewing other than my spiritual brother’s.

  I sat back, felt the warm sedative of the drink course through me, and thought of the end of an old fable: And so they took the adder into their midst, and fed and sheltered it, nursing it back to health.

  Gave it roka to drink, no doubt. The world is not a kind place.

  As I drank, I replied to the array of questions arising from my knightly protector.

  “But I don’t know where I have been, except through this swamp and in and out of a quagmire or two.

  “And I don’t know what I saw for sure, aside from the fact that it was pretty confusing.

  “I was passing this way and noticed the light. If I hadn’t seen the light, I probably never would have found you.”

  None of the answers were lies. At least not directly.

  “No matter how you returned to us, Galen, I thank the gods for that return!” Brithelm exclaimed, embracing me yet again. Agion gamboled about and nodded vigorously in agreement.

  Only Bayard stood back from the merrymaking, to the side of the brotherly chat, watching me closely—perhaps even a little distrustfully, though perhaps the distrust I saw in his face arose from my sense of my own misdeeds, from my fear of discovery. I was, after all, the Scorpion’s agent in this matter, and a little bit of a skunk in the bargain, if you stopped to think about it.

  Bayard spoke tersely.

  “I can’t imagine your being lost, Galen, without marking carefully some of the things you noticed, if only in passing. If you hadn’t gathered, I’m fairly tired of your appearances at times of calm and departures at times of need. I suppose you were ‘on surveillance’ again somewhere safe in the marsh country.”

  Bayard then crouched by the fire, warming his hands against the cold that was once more unseasonable.

  “I know, sir, that I deserve that bit of mean-spirited viciousness from you, even if it is uncharacteristic of a Solamnic Knight. I know that I have been hiding when I should have been … participating more enthusiastically. But it so happens that by accident I did recover your armor, for which I would prefer a little acknowledgement.”

  Bayard looked into the fire and nodded reluctantly.

  “And what is more, Sir Bayard, in the midst of this path-finding and retrieval, I managed to put in some genuine scouting, of which you should hasten to hear.”

  I told him about the encampment at the center of the swamp—the circle of campfires, the house on stilts, the occasional goats in the midst of the place. Of course I left out the Scorpion—not to mention Alfric—shaping my story quickly and naturally, drawing on the instincts I had developed in the moat house.

  Whatever suspicions Bayard might have, though, were not shared by the others in our party. Agion continued to gambol, Brithelm to rejoice and to talk.

  “Goats and houses and fires aside, little brother, what a relief it is to know you are safe, before I retreat into hermitage, before I return to my place of meditation. I suppose I could never have gone back with a light heart had I not known your fate.”

  “Brithelm?”

  “Yes, little brother?”

  But what could I say?

  “Do watch yourself as you retreat into hermitage. The swamp has changed from your early days of wildlife communion.”

  “Watch myself? Why, Galen, nothing in this swamp poses any real danger. Even the satyrs are not satyrs.”

  I glanced quickly at Bayard, who shrugged.

  “Well,” I responded, “it has been my experience that quicksand and crocodiles, not to mention satyrs, can bruise the faithful and the gallant as quick as the rest of us.”

  “That’s just it, Galen,” Bayard offered from his corner of the fire, never removing his gaze from me as he spoke. “Brithelm doesn’t believe in the satyrs. Says they don’t exist.”

  “Wait a minute. Don’t exist?” I was not about to give away what I knew. “Well, you’ve seen them, haven’t you?”

  Bayard nodded.

  “And you, Agion?”

  The centaur stepped back into the firelight, said, “Yes, Galen. Indeed I have. But that is not the point.”

  “Not the point?”

  The big centaur leaned forward to warm his hands by the fire. A puzzled look spread across his vacant face. “Not the point,” he explained, “for Brithelm has told us that the satyrs do not exist, whether we see them or no. He is a holy man who is used to things unseen.”

  “I understand. Perhaps one of you can tell me what has happened in my absence, then. If something that climbs on Bayard with a knife, that kills two of Agion’s friends, that I have seen with my own eyes doesn’t exist, then I’d like to know …”

  Theirs was a tale brief and bitter and mysterious. As the story came to light, it resembled more and more one of the legendary gemstones from far-off Kharolis, which is a different color depending upon the angle from which you look at it, or resembling even more closely those old prophetic poems from the Age of Dreams, in which each reader finds his own catastrophes foretold.

  Bayard began the telling.

  “I looked for you, Galen,” he said calmly, “but found you nowhere.”

  “And when we could not find thee,” Agion took up the story at once, “we broke cover and charged onto the road, where we engaged half a dozen satyrs.”

  “Four,” corrected Bayard.

  “None,” corrected Brithelm.

  “None?” I asked, moving closer to the fire.

  “Our stories part company almost from the outset,” Bayard explained, moving away from the fire. “I
saw four of them, Agion six, and Brithelm saw four goats. The goats come later in my tale.”

  Bayard broke off an aeterna branch and stirred the fire with the blue, fragrant stick. He began to speak again.

  “Whatever our version, the struggle was over quickly. What struggle there was. Agion claims that two of the satyrs escaped unharmed and headed toward the center of the swamp.”

  Toward the stockade, no doubt. It sounded reasonable.

  “I, on the other hand, saw only four of them, as I told you,” Bayard claimed. “And all of them put up a fierce fight, wielding clubs, short spears, those swords with the curved blades …”

  “Scimitars?” I suggested.

  “I suppose that’s one name for them, Galen. You should know; you’ve read more of the old stories than I have. Whatever they’re called, the goat-men knew how to use them and it took Agion and me a brief but hard fight to dispatch them. In which your brother had no part. But fighting seems to be a trait that none of you inherited from your brave father.”

  He glanced at Brithelm with exasperation. Brithelm smiled back serenely, nodding that he continue his story. Bayard smiled too, despite himself.

  “Up until then, I could account for the differences in our stories as arising from the confusion of battle,” Bayard explained. He leaned back on his heels, smiled dimly. “I recall my first engagement, a brief, nasty skirmish with the men of Neraka near the Throtyl Gap a dozen years back. There were seven of us there, all between the ages of seventeen and twenty.”

  He laughed, shook his head.

  “There were seven versions of that skirmish, where the enemy ranged in numbers from ten to two hundred. Only a week later did we find that we had outnumbered them.”

  He paused, still smiling, then stared at each of us in turn, his gray eyes growing serious.

  “But this was not a first battle,” he stated quietly, fixing his stare on the changing light of the fire. “I have lived thirty years and been blooded in clash, in skirmish, in battle, from here to Caergoth. Yet I am puzzled at what came to pass in the aftermath of the fight with the satyrs, when things were calm and when a seasoned man is not apt to illusion.