It was a key.
I waited and waited and waited. Dusk fell, and then night. In spite of the stink of the camp, my stomach reminded me I hadn’t eaten all day, and so I waited some more, impatient and hungry. The air up here in the mountains was thin and dry, but nothing is as dry as my native Elkylar Desert, and my thirst was ignorable. Finally, the orks fell asleep.
Blue Tusks had dragged some of the dry underbrush and scattered it around as a kind of pallet over the mud while Plain Tusks went to fetch more firewood. This was accomplished by simply walking up to the nearest tree, a tall and dying spruce, and pulling off the lower branches as easily as if they were wings on a fly. They snapped with a crack that rang along the rocks. Plain Tusks then piled the ungainly mess of branches directly onto the smoldering heap of the fire, grumbled with Blue Tusks about who got to sleep upwind of the smoke (Plain Tusks lost), and went to bed.
I waited until their heavy breathing turned into snoring, then carefully unfolded myself from my cramped little huddle by the post. Blue Tusks was less than ten feet from me. I couldn’t stand up, but I stretched out my arm, and then lay flat, and then stretched out my legs towards the key on Blue Tusks belt. No luck. I was still several feet short.
I regathered myself and stretched out again, this time towards the sprawling fire; at the end of my reach, my toes could just touch the end of one of the spruce branches. I got the toes of my sandal over the branch and tried to roll it towards me, but that small amount of leverage wasn’t enough. The branch merely shifted and sent a whirl of sparks into the night.
Blue Tusks grunted and rolled over onto his left side, burying the key in the flattened brush and bloody mud.
Damn. This was not going well.
I curled back up by my post and cursed my trapped hand, orks generally, and all chains everywhere. I stared at the black forest, the shadowed trees. The wind shifted, away from Plain Tusks. I stared at the fire. It popped and hissed, the half-dried wood oozing sap. I watched the sparks fly upwards, like tiny little fire eggs, brave pioneers, on their way to ignite something unwittingly flammable, if only they could make it far enough without going out. I stared resentfully at Blue Tusks, lying on the key. I stared back at the fire, then at Blue Tusk, then at the fire.
I had an idea.
Stretching out again, I got my feet to the spruce branch, but instead of rolling it towards me; I kicked at it as hard as I could (not very), but precisely: it shifted up and onto the fire, dislodging a different branch, its weight collapsing the disintegrating structure of embers. A pile of sparks erupted, along with a spat of embers, and the shifting breeze rained them right down on Blue Tusks’ legs.
Blue Tusks twitched, grunted, and half woke up, slapping at his shins. Now in the path of the smoke, he shifted away and resettled himself in the only dry and smokeless spot available: right between me and the fire. I stayed very, very still.
When the snoring finally resumed, I judged it to be nearly midnight, and the gibbous moon was starting to rise over the mountain peaks. By its light I could just see the key. I slowly, ever so carefully, stretched out again. My toes brushed the key, and I nudged it with the tip of my sandal. It shifted, but stayed fixed to Blue Tusks’ belt by some kind of beaded string.
There was no way I was going to be able to paw the key over to me with my sandals. If I could somehow untie the string, I might have a chance. I curled back up again and, one handed, untied the weathered leather laces of my right sandal. Between my left hand and my teeth, I managed a crude sort of slip knot, and then used the laces from the other sandal to extend my line by another couple of feet. Re-extending my legs once again, I gripped the leather loop between my big and second toe, and then eased my way back to the fastened key. If I messed this up at all, the Tusk brothers would make a midnight snack of me in minutes. I nudged the loop of the slip knot around one of the beaded end of the string, and held it in place while I gently, gently tugged on my end of the slip knotted sandal string... it was as delicate as trying to collar a gecko. I tried not to think of the fate of the boarox. Nudge, tug. Nudge, tug, nudge, tug... got it. I pulled on my line as delicately as if it were made of spider webs, and perfectly as a flower blooming, the beaded string slipped loose, tumbling its precious key into the trampled brush.
[Skill acquired: Sleight of Hand]
The Voice sounded as elated as I felt. I dropped my makeshift lasso and reached my toes into the rushes, feeling for the key, and drew it up into my now-slightly-less-numb left hand. My heart beat in my chest as fast as a trapped hummingbird; I could nearly taste the clean freedom of the forest, only steps away. All that stood in my way was one locked chain, a few yards of bloody mud, one sprawling fire, and two sleeping orks. I fumbled the key into the lock and turned it; it snapped open with a rusty, spring loaded screech, waking everything in the camp.
[Stealth check: Failed]
For half of a second I froze, as if my stillness might mend the broken silence of the night.
“Hrrunh?” said Blue Tusks, coming alert faster than I would have believed possible from the dredging snores of a moment before.
As if I needed telling. I yanked my hand away from the loosened chains, leaving some skin behind, and bolted for the edge of the clearing. Plain Tusks, awake now, rolled over and made a grab for me. In wild desperation, I didn’t alter my momentum but, instead, leapt over him, pinwheeling my arms for altitude.
[Dodge check: Success]
I landed barefoot on the other side of Plain Tusks, stubbing my toes on some rocks. Plain Tusks rolled to his feet, and now Blue Tusks, roaring, was in the fray as well; the shadows jumped and veered as he lobbed the burning spruce branch at me. Forewarned by the dancing shadows, I ducked, and dodged to the right, and grabbed one of the stolen packs hidden amongst the piled up underbrush.
[Perception check: Success]
The dying piles of underbrush ignited, painting the camp in orange and black. To my left, Plain Tusks was regrouping for another tackle; behind me, Blue Tusks lifted another burning torch; in front of me, the opaque forest loomed, a silhouette of oblivion against an already black sky. Nothing that went into the forest at night was coming out the other side of it alive. I felt the heat of the soon to be inflamed camp on the side of my face and had the very clear insight that when the Tusk brothers caught me, they weren’t going to have a debate about whether to sell or eat me; my dead and roasted body would make the decision easy. One crispy halfling, coming up.
I saw the shadow of Blue Tusks as he came for me around the fire. I looked up and into the doomed night of the forest. Do not scurry. I reminded myself.
I jumped.
I threw myself into the air and over the piles of smoking underbrush, pulling my legs up behind me lest they get caught in the briars, and executed a blind summersault into the trees.
[Skill acquired: Jump]
I landed amongst more rocks and pinecones. They crunched under my bare feet, and I spared a moments gratitude for my sand-calloused soles. Behind me, Plain Tusks bellowed in frustration, and, thus motivated, I leapt lightly to my feet and forward, running with mad desperation away from the smoldering orange torchlight.
Two steps, three, then half a dozen; my legs hit their full stride, my momentum hit full speed, and my face hit a tree. More fireworks of pain as I rebounded off the sap covered bark and onto my back.
[-1 Hit Point: Bludgeoning damage]
[Hit Points: 4/8]
The bright spots swimming in my vision resolved themselves into bright spots of torchlight, glittering on the sticky sap oozing from the evergreen trunk in front of me. The Tusk Brothers were no longer bellowing curses, but now I could hear the bellows of their breath as they sucked in great snoutfulls of air and sought out my tracks. I scrambled upright, spent a precious second to shift the raggedy backpack from my ba
ck to my chest, and darted forward again through the pines. I made it fifteen steps before I hit another tree, but this time the pack absorbed the worst of the impact, and I kept my feet. Ha. Stupid trees.
Terror powered my flight through the woods, every step a reckless tradeoff between the certain death hunting me and the blunt force trauma of the tree trunks. After a few minutes, my eyes adjusted, and I began to perceive the trees one heart attack inducing instant before impact. They stood like dark pillars amongst the slightly silver wisps of moonlight that pierced the upper branches. I learned to aim for the glittering shafts of moonbeams; dodge the looming pillars, accelerate towards the silver glow. I dared to run faster. Loom! Dodge! Glitter, go! Loom! Dodge! Glitter, go! Loom, dodge, glitter--
…falling again…
Stupid gravity.
--splash!
[Perception check: Failed. – 4 circumstance penalty due to unfavorable lighting conditions]
The icy mountain stream was shockingly cold, colder than anything I had ever experienced. The frigid water bit me, invaded my clothes, and promised to invade my veins. If the stream was cold though, it was luckily not deep, and I kept my balance on the slickery rocks as I jumped to my feet.
I needed a direction. Forward up the far banks would slow me down, and my best efforts had not managed to lose the glow of doom that followed me. Must go faster. So, upstream or down?
So… staying in the water might theoretically loose them. I say theoretically because I’d never had enough water in the desert to try and lose a trail in, except during the monsoons, and anyone dumb enough to try and track you through a flash flood in a narrow canyon is quickly no longer your problem. Upstream might bring me back to Morrison Pass and the happily treeless road running through it. I had a new appreciation of how brilliant it was that roads didn’t have trees in them. Genius things, roads.
On the other hand, downstream would eventually led me to Triport, and maybe eventually to some people who hated orks almost as much as I did. Behind me, the strong, ground eating strides of the orks brought my enemies closer.
Upstream would be uphill, and against gravity.
Gravity is stupid. Downstream it was.
[Skill acquired: Hunting]
Running through the water proved almost impossible. It came up to my knees and sometimes my waist, and it had its own ideas about which direction it wanted to go. Several slogging steps succeeded only in sucking the feeling out of my feet (which was only sort of a bad thing) and bruising my shins on the half submerged river rocks.
Did I mention it was cold?
Soon, the menacing glow of torches lit the river behind me. Must go faster! I stopped trying to wade through the liquid ice and jumped up on the midstream rocks instead. They were smooth beneath my numb toes. I began jumping from one rock to the next, using the swirling silver of the river to guide me from one black blob to the next.
[Jump check: Success]
Sometimes the stream polished rocks were bunched closely together, other times they were spread thin and shallow. On these I dared not slow down, instead using my momentum to touch down briefly on one before it rolled underneath me, and hopping quickly to the next, and the next.
[Jump Skill: +2 bonus as a halfling]
Me too!
I ran on. Twice I slipped off a rock and stumbled. The pack on my chest was difficult to manage, but its buffering effect on my falls was well worth it, and anyway, I didn’t want it pushing me down from behind if I face-planted in deep water. The moon rose higher over the mountains. As my eyes adjusted to the clear night, I began to find my rhythm again. Look for the black rocks, framed by silver ripples. Jump. Decide in mid-air which direction to push off for my next jump. Land lightly. Repeat. Look, ripple, leap, land. Look, ripple, leap, land. Look, ripple leap, land.
I ran on through the night. Below me, the stream turned into a creek, then a small river. Around me the trees descended from the high altitude evergreens to the mixed deciduous forest of oak, alder, willow, and crabapple. I began to curse the willow especially, as its presence signified standing water, and fewer stones to hop along. Once I ran along a willow-constructed beaver dam, and a few minutes later, heard the crashing, ripping sounds as the torch bearing orks found it as well.
Doesn’t matter. Keep going. Look, ripple, leap, land.
My numb feet felt like peg legs below my knee. The crusted scabs on my wounds came off every time I missed a jump and landed in the water. Fatigue started creeping in, as insidious as the icy stream. Stupid average Constitution.
Look, ripple, leap, land.
This wasn’t working.
I paused on one of the more stable rocks, and caught my breath. I listened.
[Hunting check: Success]
The orks were two minutes behind me, tops. Now I just needed a place to exit this river…
[Perception check: Success]
…there. Up the bank of willows, and by the glow of the moonlight, it should be a field beyond, or a meadow. I scrambled out of the water and then up the bank, through the mud, heedless of the trail I left behind.
Once out of the river, the land did indeed spread out into a small, squishy meadow. Low pairs of reflecting eyes glinted at the edge of the trees, and then vanished deeper into the shadows. I resisted the temptation to flop over onto my back and lay there until the Tusk Brothers came for me. Instead, I took a full minute, dropped the pack at my feet, stood perfectly still and straight, and just breathed. One breath, and my lungs stopped screaming. Two, and the fatigue cleared my head. Three, and my feet came back online. Four, and my hammering heart steadied. Five, and I opened my eyes. Six, for good measure.
I pulled open the raggedy pack in front of me, keeping an ear out for the relentless orks. Inside the pack was a coil of slightly frayed rope. Neat! I could think of some things to do with that, but not right now. Under the rope was an ill-balanced wooden club.
I tossed it over my shoulder. There was also a small leather package of what had once been powders, but after a few dunkings in the river, was now paste.
There were no potions of any kind. There was a somewhat soggy letter on nice paper—
Blue Tusks raised his over-large snout and sucked in a lungful of damp meadow air, spiced with the scent of my half scabbed, dripping wounds.
“Got you, little ookra.” He seemed not to be talking to me so much as pronouncing a curse, a low snarl, heedless of if I heard him or not.
I thought of the lesson of the scorpion, and waited, sting behind my back. The fatigued fear of a few minutes previous receded, replaced with a sort of giddy fatalism. I supposed I was going to die here. Still, if I was going to die, I could at least give my killers a scar or two to remember me by. I hope you choke on my bones, you misbegotten sacks of stink.
Seeing I was no longer ru
nning, the Tusk Brothers grinned and lumbered towards me in a heavy trot, the squishy meadow grass sucking at their feet. Blue Tusks was in the lead and wound back his arm as he came, closer… closer…
Sting first! I stepped inwards, plunging my dagger up and over my shoulder, as high as I could, aiming for his torso. My dagger strike wasn’t straight and skidded off his belt; all the power my small arms could muster barely left a scratch in the thick leather. His own shortsword fell in a sweeping arc where I had been an instant before, a blur of rust and sharp edges. One diced halfling, coming up.
Right on the heels of that strike came Plain Tusks. His own swinging blow was fouled by his brother’s proximity, but then both orks stepped back, giving each other room for their unfolding arms, like jointed trees wrapped in muscle, only stronger. Blue Tusks swung again, low, and I got my feet off the ground just ahead of the blade by throwing myself backwards over it, landing on my hands, then folding down, springing back up as Plain Tusks mimicked his brother.
Blue Tusks tried this maneuver again from the other side, and again I dodged in a handspring. Plain Tusks copied him, but this time I was ready, and when I leapt back into the air I kicked Plain Tusks’ hand. My blow landed at the top edge of his hand and forced the dagger against the weak spot of his not-really-opposable grip. The dagger sprung away, tumbling into the grass. While Plain Tusks was bent over and giving his hand a befuddled stare of incomprehension, I stepped forward, again dodging Blue Tusks’ swing, and stabbed my own dagger into the stupefied ork’s chest.
Plain Tusks roared and stood up, a trickle of blood oozing out of his breastbone. I kept hold of my dagger, which had not penetrated far.
A Fist Full of Sand: A Book of Cerulea (Sam's Song 1) Page 2