by Paul S. Kemp
Anger flared in Weasel. So did his magic. In the blink of an eye, his body enlarged to more than twice its normal size-big as an ogre's. His unlaced vest barely covered his muscle-rippled chest; his trousers stretched tight across powerful thighs. The sword grew with him-now it was longer than Chand was tall. Weasel leaned on it, driving the point deeper into the earth, and stared down at Chand.
Chand looked up.
Way up.
Weasel cupped a hand behind an enormous ear. "What was that, Cockelfeather? It's hard to hear you from up here."
The soldiers on either side of Weasel took a nervous step back, breaking ranks. The sergeant, still holding his hand out in the spot where Weasel's mouth had been a moment ago, went white as a bone-painted Ghostwise.
Chand paled. Then he drew himself up. "Sergeant Hewn," he snapped.
"Sir!"
"I've reconsidered. Maybe a spriggan does have its uses."
"Sir?"
"This soldier is going to need a uniform. See to it."
The sergeant snapped to attention. "Sir! Right away, Sir."
Chand spun on his heel and marched smartly away.
Weasel grinned.
The Year of Monstrous Appetites (-65 DR)
Weasel ran along the narrow path through the jungle, back the way his squad had come. He was gambling the spike-traps and snarefoots hadn't been reset, that the binge of blood drinking had kept the Ghostwise too busy to replace their defenses. He needed to put as much distance between himself and their village as possible before the hunt began.
Every few steps he staggered as a fit of sneezing struck. As he ran, he scrubbed at his forehead with a sweaty hand. The symbol they'd painted there in blood crumbled and smudged. He snapped his fingers, testing to see if his magic had returned; a dull yellow flame danced across the tip of his thumb. He waved it out.
He stopped, blew his nose clear, and spread his hands, draw shy;ing in the magic of the jungle. Magic filled him, boosting his size. His head brushed the leaves above, his shoulder forced a branch aside, and a twig snapped under his sudden weight.
He was taller now; more than twice the size he'd been a moment ago. Stronger. Faster.
Stinktree pollen tickled his nose, prompting an explosion.
Even his sneezes were bigger.
He ran.
With luck, he would make it to the spot where the drop was scheduled to be made, and signal the griffon to carry him out of here. Behind him, he heard a horn blare: the Ghostwise, beginning their hunt.
"At least they gave me a head start," he panted.
The forest had grown dark, making it hard to see the trail. Something caught his foot, sending him heels over rump. When he stopped tumbling he scrambled to his feet. He spotted stakes on the trail that had held down a length of assassin vine, which now dangled in the air. Tendrils sprang out of it, blindly questing for the creature that had blundered into it. If Weasel had been smaller, the vine would have grabbed him and held him fast. Crept its way up to his neck and strangled him.
The trap was crude, obviously intended for discovery. Weasel would easily have spotted it if he hadn't been running, even in the dark. He shrank down to spriggan size again, moved a little closer to the vine, and cautiously parted the thick wall of vegetation that grew at the side of the trail. A snap of his fingers provided enough light to reveal sawfoot traps, steel jaws open. A simple ruse: step off the trail onto one of those, and they'd snip off a foot-or as near to it as to make no difference.
He heard wolves' howls: Malar's clerics, hot on his scent. He didn't have much time. He stayed low to avoid the vine, and broke a branch off a tree. He used it to ease three of the sawtooth traps onto the trail, and threw leaves over them. The shifted clerics would have four paws in contact with the ground, and would be coming fast. With luck, one or two of them would spring the traps and be put out of the chase.
The howls drew closer. Weasel wiped his nose. Better get moving. He turned-and startled when he saw a dryad, standing on the trail directly behind him. She was naked, with small breasts and skin the color of mahogany. Tiny leaves dappled her hair. She smelled like berry syrup.
"Love to taste those lips, pretty one, but I don't want slivers. And I've got to run."
He didn't, though.
She touched his arm with fingers rough as bark and moved closer, her footfalls like the crackle of twigs. She spoke words that shimmered into his mind like liquid moonlight.
Come. One hand rustled up to touch her breast. Lay your head here. Rest.
Weasel sighed. The howls drew closer. He wondered dreamily why he was still standing here. He leaned toward her and laid his cheek against her breast; it felt like the burl of a tree. The sounds of the approaching hunters faded to insignificance. He felt pressure around his hand: her fingers, twining tight as assassin vine around his. Then her hand twisted.
One of his fingers snapped; he screamed. The branch fell from his hand. The dryad scooped it up, cradled it to her breast, and glared at Weasel. Then she vanished.
Weasel held up his right hand; his middle finger was splayed out at an angle, like a broken twig. He heard excited yips on the trail: Malar's hunt, closing in! Too close to run. He looked wildly around for a place to hide, then remembered the sawtooth traps. Even if he could leave the trail, the Hunt would scent him out. A tendril of assassin vine brushed his scalp; he ducked, escaping it.
Suddenly changing his mind, he grabbed the vine with his left hand. He yanked. The vine yanked back, pulling him into the air. He crashed through branches and came to a halt just as the first pursuer flashed into view below. The wolf started to glance at a falling twig-then yelped. Weasel heard the dull crunch of a sawtooth trap snapping shut and the crack of splintering bone.
His broken finger throbbed in misplaced sympathy.
A second wolf pummeled into the first, knocking it down but unfortunately not springing either of the other two traps. The rest of the pack halted in time. The largest of the Hunt-The Beast, in dire wolf form-sniffed the spot where the traps were concealed and growled.
Weasel, hanging above, felt the assassin vine twine down his arm, toward his neck. He didn't dare peel it off; a rustling noise would betray where he'd gone. With luck, The Beast would figure he'd either doubled back or used magic to escape.
The assassin coiled around his throat. Before it could tighten, Weasel wedged his free hand under it-nearly crying aloud at the pain of his broken finger twisting-and called a dull red flame to his palm. The vine recoiled from the heat, loosening. Another tendril wound around his chest. He let that one be.
The dire wolf growled at the wolf caught in the trap. The lesser wolf cringed, then rolled over, exposing its belly. The Beast cocked a leg over it in disdain, then turned and ripped open its stomach with his teeth.
The others sat and watched in silence as the shamed wolf bled.
The Beast yipped at the others, then sprang over the spot where the traps were hidden. Half of the Hunt did the same. The rest raced back the way they'd just come.
Weasel sighed in relief. A few moments more, and the wolf below would be dead. Then Weasel could move off. But as he listened to the whines of the dying wolf, stinktree pollen tickled his nose. He fought the urge to sneeze, felt his eyes grow watery and hot, nose-wriggled the urge away, only to have it build up again. He choked it back, sweat beading on his temples from the effort.
The assassin vine squeezed it out of him.
Ah-choo!
The tiny flicker of flame he'd been maintaining in the hand nearest his neck exploded in a bright flare of light. Flames also shot from his other palm. The assassin vine unraveled, dropping him. He crashed down through the branches, frantically trying to grab them with his good hand. He thudded onto the trail, narrowly missing one of the concealed traps.
The dying wolf looked up, saw Weasel, and let out a blood-choked howl.
Howls answered from up and down the trail. Malar's Hunt, acknowledging the news their prey had been spotted.
Weasel swore.
The Year of Festivals (-67 DR)
Weasel stood outside the hill-house that served as the armory, sword in hand. He watched as the procession wound its way through the village, singing lustily. Most of the halflings stumbling after the priestess were addle-witted, minds and bodies reeling from the aftereffects of spring cheese. Weasel had nibbled a little of the hard white cheese a while back, out of curiosity, but it didn't seem to have the same effect on spriggans. Nor did he much care for the taste. He'd quaff a double hand of ales instead, when he cared to get fumble-mouthed.
Today, however, he needed to keep his wits about him. Reeling the halflings might be, but if Weasel wasn't quick in his doings, someone was sure to notice the armory door had been left unguarded.
He stared at the priestess leading the procession, wondering how much a person would have to eat to get that fat. The halfling's blonde hair was unbound-a sure sign of a wanton wench-and she was nearly as wide as she was tall, so broad she waddled as she led the procession. She held a wooden shield in one hand, a woven wicker cornucopia in the other. Every few steps she jerked the cornucopia into the air, releasing a spray of loose grapes. The halflings behind her cheered and laughed, trying to catch them in their mouths.
"Beautiful, isn't she?" a voice behind Weasel said.
Weasel turned and saw one of the members of his squad-he never could tell one from the next, let alone remember their names-walking toward him. Only when the halfling pulled a pipe out of his vest pocket did Weasel realize which of them it was. Puffpipe-the only one in the squad who didn't crinkle his nose and complain about the smell when Weasel was nearby. Weasel hoped he wouldn't linger too long.
Puffpipe gestured with the gnawed pipe stem at the priestess leading the procession. "I'm courting her," he confided.
Weasel glanced again at the priestess, trying to see the attraction.
Puffpipe stared longingly at her. "When the spring festival's over, I aim to ask Willametta to twine the branch with me."
Weasel grunted. "Make sure it ain't attached to a snare."
Puffpipe laughed.
Weasel remembered their first patrol-how Swaggerstep'd had a little of the bluster knocked out of him when he'd ignored the sergeant's warning and kicked aside a branch, only to be yanked feetfirst into the air. The others in the squad had a good laugh at his expense, catching the coins from his pockets-until Headsuplads had pointed out the sharpened stake lying nearby. By Tymora's luck, a woodrat had gnawed the lashings that had held it to a branch above; otherwise, Swaggerstep would have been impaled.
"You'd better ask her sooner, stead of later," Weasel continued, trying to nudge Puffpipe along. "You never know when they'll send us out on patrol again."
"Patrol? During spring festival? Not likely!" Puffpipe peered blearily into the stem of his pipe, and plucked a piece of burr grass to clean it. He tried to thread it through the stem, failed, and gave up. He pulled out a pouch and tamped tobacco into the bowl, which was carved in the shape of a cornucopia. Pipe stem between his teeth, he looked hopefully at Weasel.
Weasel snapped his fingers and lit the pipe. The halfling started to thank him, but Weasel interrupted. "Look there! They're bringing out the bouqtha."
Puffpipe whirled so fast he nearly fell over. His licked his lips at the sight of the trays heaped with fruit-filled pastry. Forgetting even to bid Weasel farewell, he hurried off, trailing puffs of sweet-smelling smoke.
Weasel shook his head. The way Puffpipe was eating, the soldier would be as fat as his intended by the end of the three-day festival.
Weasel wiped sweat from his forehead and resumed his guard stance. Now that the rainy season was done, the weather was heating up. Soon swollen rivers and mud-slippery slopes would give way to brain-baking heat and the annual month-long explosion of star-shaped stinktree flowers. And then Weasel's agony would begin. Healing potions would ease his snuffling, but only for so long; it would have taken the whole army's supply to get Weasel through pollen season.
At last, the procession disappeared from view. Weasel opened the door behind him and slipped quickly inside, then closed the door on the singing. The hill-house was refreshingly cool, but dark; he sheathed his sword and waited while his eyes adjusted.
He looked around. Weapons were everywhere: Slings and stone pouches hung from pegs on the walls, scabbarded swords stood upright in racks, daggers of all sizes were laid out in neat rows on tabletops. Shields had been lined up like dinner plates against the walls. Color-changing sniper's cloaks, visible only as shadows, were draped from the rafters.
Weasel headed for the three strongboxes at the back of the armory. A few quick twists of his pick opened the laughably simple lock on the first one. Weasel lifted the lid and saw dozens of finger-sized glass vials-the vile-tasting sneakabout potions issued to patrols-as well as tiny pouches of the magical dust used to conceal weapon's caches. Valuable, but easy enough to filch while on patrol-and not a healing potion among 'em. No sense wasting his time on this lot. He closed and relocked the lid and tried the second strongbox.
This was more like it! The second strongbox contained a number of pouches that, judging by the clacking sound when he prodded them, contained gems.
The quartermaster must have been anticipating thievery: a black diamond lay on the uppermost bag. Weasel wasn't going to fall for that; he knew where the gem had come from. It had been Stomper who'd found it, on one of the squad's very first patrols-that's how he'd gotten his nickname. Stomper had spotted the diamond lying out in the open in the middle of an abandoned enemy village and praised Tymora high and low for his "luck."
The diamond turned out to be cursed. Heavy as a pony, it weighed Stomper down so he could barely lift his feet. He'd tried throwing it away, but it just kept appearing again in his pockets. It had taken a priestess' blessing to finally rid him of the thing.
Carefully avoiding the diamond, Weasel picked up a pouch. He was just about to peek inside it when he heard a commotion outside: shouts of alarm, which swiftly became screams. An alarm clanged: The village was under attack!
Weasel cursed his ill luck. He'd been waiting months for the spring festival-it was the one time when no one else wanted guard duty-and now the opportunity to fill his pockets was gone. In another moment, soldiers would rush in here to arm themselves. He gave the other pouches a longing look, then decided one bag of gems would have to be enough. He slammed the strongbox shut and ran for the door.
He opened it onto a scene of chaos. The enemy was everywhere. Ghostwise halflings, faces whited out for war, tore into the unarmed celebrants. Malar's clerics, roaring their bloodsong, were a terrifying blend of halfling and beast, their arms transformed into the limbs of jungle predators. They slashed a savage furrow through the villagers. A handful of soldiers tried to stand against them bare-handed, but were no match for the magically augmented Ghostwise. The surprise attack was rapidly turning into a slaughter.
Weasel hesitated, hand on his sheathed sword. These weren't his people. He'd hired on with the halflings as a scout, not a swordsman. The army provided a steady trickle of coins and the occasional opportunity to grab a fistful more. The Stronghearts didn't pay him enough for him to throw away his life in a futile-
Something struck him from behind. He slammed face-first into the ground. Tasted dirt. Claws raked his shoulder, drawing blood. Teeth snapped for his neck. He twisted and saw he'd been knocked down by a were-jaguar. It snarled, its breath hot with fresh blood.
He screamed.
Magic burst from him, equal in volume to the shriek that wailed from his lungs. The jaguar sprang back, ears flat, belly to the ground as Weasel's fear-magic struck it. Weasel scrambled to his feet and started to back away-then realized he'd dropped the pouch. It lay on the ground between him and the were-jaguar, which lashed its tail, trying to work up the courage to attack.
"Niiice kitty," Weasel scooped up the pouch. The claws had torn a hole; a gem tumbled out of the pouch as he lifted it.
Weasel caught it as it fell, then realized his folly as he saw what it really was. He'd stolen a bag of oversized glass marbles. Glowing glass marbles-but marbles just the same. The halfling's trickster god had played him for a fool!
He hurled the marble at the jaguar, yelling a shatter-shout at it for good measure.
Suddenly, he was flying backward through the air, propelled by a tremendous blast. He slammed into the wall of a hill-house and slid to the ground, ears ringing. A villager ran past, screaming, but Weasel couldn't hear her. The spot where the were-jaguar had crouched was a smoking crater in the ground. A tuft of its tail-all that remained of the beast-landed on the ground nearby.
"Some marbles," Weasel croaked, barely able to hear his own voice. "A kid could lose a finger, playing with those."
He realized he still held the pouch in his hand-and that Malar's beasts and clerics were still attacking. A Ghostwise, wearing bloodied spike gauntlets on each hand, chased after a soldier. Weasel sprang to his feet and hurled a marble at him. A shatter-shout triggered the marble, and the Ghostwise disappeared in a terrific blast. Weasel whirled and threw again, and another enemy vanished in an explosion that left Weasel reeling.
A hand tapped his shoulder, startling him-a soldier from his squad. Chucklebelly held out a hand and shouted something Weasel couldn't hear, but Weasel guessed what was being asked by the sling in Chucklebelly's hand. Weasel held out the pouch; Chucklebelly plunged his hand into it. Armed with the marbles, the halfling scrambled atop the hill-house.
Weasel, realizing the marbles would remain inert without his shatter-shout, clambered up there too. Chucklebelly's first two shots went beyond the range of Weasel's shatter-shout, but after Weasel's frantic explanation, they became an efficient team. Chucklebelly's sling whirred, released, whirred, released-while Weasel turned this way and that, shouting as each marble struck. Too soon, they were down to their last marble. But it didn't matter. Malar's clerics were beaten; those that hadn't been blown to pieces were fading back into the jungle.