Realms of War a-12

by Paul S. Kemp

  Days later-when the wounded, including Weasel, had been tended at the healing house and the dead buried-Warchief Chand himself came to the village to congratulate Sergeant Headsuplads on the initiative his soldiers had shown. Both Chucklebelly and Weasel were presented with a red cock feather. As the warchief tucked this into the buttonhole of Weasel's vest, Chand leaned close and spoke in a low murmur. "One day you'll have to tell me, soldier, how you knew the command word of a weapon crafted by human wizards-a weapon that was supposed to be stored securely in a locked strongbox." Warchief Chand straightened and spoke a little louder. "That's quite the initiative you showed. I'll have to tell Sergeant Hewn to keep an eye on you."

  Weasel-who a moment ago had been contemplating easing a hand into the warchief's vest pocket, just to see if he could get away with filching whatever was inside it-tugged his beardlocks nervously. "Yes, Sir, Warchief!"

  When the brief ceremony was over, Headsuplads, exuding a near-visible glow of pride at having the foresight to take on a spriggan as a scout, clapped a hand on Weasel's and Chucklebelly's shoulders, dragged them off to the mess, and bought them the first of many ales. There, Weasel toasted the sergeant and capered a jest at his expense. He turned to Chucklebelly-who liked to joke he drank his belly so big on purpose, so he could keep extra sling stones tucked inside its folds. This, he boasted, gave him the "last laugh" when an enemy thought him unarmed. Weasel used a fast-hand trick to "pull" the last blast marble from Chucklebelly's folds. The others all dived for cover when Weasel fumble-dropped it at the sergeant's feet. Afterward, even Headsuplads had laughed when Weasel explained that it wouldn't explode unless he shattered it.

  Later that night, Weasel staggered back to the hill-house where his patrol was billeted, drunk as a halfling with a full cheese in his belly. On the way, he spotted Puffpipe sitting on a door stoop. The halfling's head was down; his pipe lay on the stoop beside him, unlit. He was either staring at some shy;thing in his lap or he was asleep. Weasel staggered over, gave his shoulder a punch, and held out the mug of ale he'd just realized he was carrying. "Hey Puffpipe, want a quaff?"

  Puffpipe shook his head. "She died," he whispered. "Earlier today. They couldn't heal her."

  Weasel took a sloppy pull of his ale and wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. "Who are you-" Then he saw the cornucopia Puffpipe held in his lap. The wicker was torn, stained with dried blood.

  "Oh." The pride drained out of Weasel in a rush. He set the ale mug on a window ledge and fell into a squat beside Puffpipe. He drummed his fingers against his thighs, for once, not quite knowing what to say. Flames flickered; he balled his fists, extinguishing them.

  Puffpipe looked up. Tears glinted in the moonlight. "Willametta was too weak to heal herself. And the other clerics couldn't… " He sighed. A tear dripped from his jowly chin. "She was the reason I was fighting." He waved a hand. "This village. But now…"

  Weasel squeezed his fists tighter. "Now you're gonna quit?" he guessed.

  Puffpipe's jaw clenched. "No. Now I've even more reason to fight." One hand groped for his pipe; the stem trembled as he tamped tobacco into it. Weasel leaned forward and offered him a light.

  Puffpipe sucked on the stem and exhaled a long, sad stream of smoke. Tear-puffy eyes met Weasels. "Why are you in uniform?" he asked. "Did you… lose someone?"

  Weasel bit back the retort that he wasn't in uniform-the trousers, armor vest, and helmet he'd been issued were too loose when in spriggan form, too tight when he enlarged. He wore his own clothes, instead. He glanced down at the feather in his vest. "I was doing it for the reward. But after today… " His gaze drifted to the blood-splattered wall beside Puffpipe.

  The halfling nodded and took a deep draw on his pipe. Its ruddy glow illuminated his face. "You're one of us."

  Weasel blinked in surprise. That hadn't been what he'd meant. His ale-bleary thinking had been more along the lines of his having blown his one chance at getting rich-that perhaps it was time to finally leave "this hin's army." To gather up all the swag he'd been able to filch and move along. But his feet weren't following orders. Instead of marching him smartly along the trail that led to the spriggans' highsummer Gather, they'd meandered him back to his billet.

  Weasel stood, fumbled the feather out of his buttonhole, and handed it to Puffpipe.

  The halfling looked up, startled. "What… But I didn't… "

  "It's for Willametta. She should have something pretty on her grave."

  The Year of Monstrous Appetites (-65 DR)

  Weasel tore his way through the thick undergrowth, cursing each vine and fern and bush that got in his way. The Gloomthicket was tougher than any obstacle course he'd ever run in training. He leaped over logs, crawled through thorn bushes, ran teetering along fallen tree trunks, and scrambled up and down boulder-strewn slopes. He changed size more times than he could count, enlarging when he needed to make a leap, resuming his normal size in tight-squeeze spots.

  All the while, he heard Malar's Hunt braying in pursuit. By the sound of it, they were sticking to animal form, to follow his scent. That meant they had to move along the ground. By climbing a tree and moving through branches, Weasel might have been able to lose them.

  Unfortunately, he couldn't. Not with a broken finger.

  Still, he managed a trick or two to slow them down.

  He spotted sparks inside a hole in the ground: the underground den of a pair of shocker lizards. He laid a false scent-trail into it, first forcing the electric-sparking creatures deeper into their tunnel with a dose of magical fear, then backing out again. He backtracked away from the den to a stream he'd crossed earlier and waded up it, grinning at his trick. The shocker lizards were small, but they'd be defending their eggs; with luck, they'd combine their attacks to deliver a lethal shock to the first wolf that nosed into their hole.

  Later, Weasel passed a large, leafy lump, only to realize, with a jolt of fear, that he'd just run right past a night-slumbering greenvise. He stopped just out of range and threw stones at its bulbous head to wake it up. The plant reared up on its tendril legs and creaked its mouth open, releasing a choking, acidic fog. When the clerics got a whiff of that, it wouldn't be pleasant. Hopefully, the sentient plant would stay awake long enough-and be angry enough-to swallow one of them whole.

  Still later, Weasel nearly blundered into a gully of twigblights before he realized the "thorn bushes" filling the ravine were, in fact, a group of the treelike creatures huddled together. He took off his vest, tied it with a length of vine to one ankle, then used another vine to swing, left-handed, just above the twigblights, dragging the vest along the ground behind him. By the time he reached the other side of the gully, his vest was full of slivers that oozed poisonous sap. He yanked on the slip knot, releasing it.

  Smeared with mud, sweat-wrung, beardlocks frazzled-and still sneezing-he staggered on through the jungle. He'd managed to crudely splint his broken finger-nearly passing out from the pain of pulling it true again-but the whole of his right hand was swollen now, He no longer cared if he lived or died; he just wanted to lie down and weep.

  Just a little while longer, he told himself. The forest was lightening; it was almost dawn. He could do it.

  If he did, would The Beast keep his word?

  Then Weasel heard a sound that made his pulse quicken: the cry of a griffon-the signal a drop was about to be made! He crossed the fingers of his good hand to invoke Tymora's blessing. With luck, it would be the drop for his squad, and not a dump of blightdust or inferno cinders.

  A moment later, he heard heavy wingbeats. He fought his way to a gap in the jungle. He looked up with bleary, watering eyes and caught a glimpse of the winged lion circling above. A tiny speck behind its eagle head was the halfling rider; another speck was the bundlebag in its two front paws. Weasel enlarged, and waved frantically, but the rider didn't see him.

  The griffon released the bundlebag. The bag was as big as Weasel was tall and heavy, but it fell slowly-drifting like a feather with its
marking streamer trailing behind it, thanks to a transmutation. Weasel estimated where it was about to land, and thrashed his way to the spot. Inside the bundlebag would be food, fresh water, sling stones, keenoil-and, most importantly, healing potions.

  He could see the bundlebag just ahead. Its streamer had caught on the branch of a tree; the bundlebag hung, twisting, below it. The branch creaked as the transmutation wore off and the bundlebag resumed its normal weight. Strangely, there was more than one bundlebag caught in the tree-what were the odds of that?

  A whole bunch to nothing at all.

  Those weren't other bundlebags hanging from the tree, but pods. The bundlebag had landed in an orcwort tree.

  Weasel heard a splintering sound: one of the pods cracking open. A spriggan-sized wort tumbled out, arms and legs wildly flapping. It hit the ground with a thud and rose a moment later, wrinkly purple skin steaming in the morning heat. Another pod tore open, and another, releasing more worts. Within a matter of moments, fully a score of the shambling creatures stood swaying at the base of the tree. Hands pawed the tree they'd fallen from, leaving smears of sap. As they stroked it, a gaping mouth creaked open in the trunk.

  Weasel cursed his ill luck. He was well and truly cogscraggled, now. Wortlings were too stupid to feel fear; he couldn't drive them off by frightening them. Nor could he sneak past them; the wortlings could sense him through whatever plants he touched. One scratch of their splinter-sharp fingers, and Weasel would be asleep. Then they'd feed him to the tree.

  "Figures," Weasel muttered as the wortlings turned and shambled toward him through the steadily lightening jungle. "Breakfast time, and nothing but me on the menu."

  He pulled back a branch and waited. As soon as the wortlings came within range, he let it go. The branch sprang from his hand and smacked into the nearest wortling, knocking it down.

  Weasel sprinted through the gap in their line. Wortlings flailed blindly at him as he leaped over the one he'd knocked down. He headed for the orcwort tree, enlarging himself as he ran. He slammed a shoulder into the bundlebag, knocking it spinning. It slammed into the tree's splinter-fanged mouth as Weasel dodged behind the tree. This time, Tymora favored him: the tree chewed greedily at the bag, gulping it in-then spat it out again when it wasn't blood that flowed, but a mix of ale from ruptured waterskins and bitter-tasting potions from the vials it was crunching.

  At least the bag was open now.

  Weasel led the wortlings on a ring-a-rosy around the tree. Still on the run, he scooped up one of the white-corked vials the orcwort had spat out, yanked the cork from it with his teeth, and gulped it down. He gasped in relief as his broken finger mended-and grinned as his eyes stopped itching and his nose cleared. Still running, he tore off the splint.

  On his second pass around the tree he searched desperately among the scattered equipment for a vial with a blue cork-a sneak potion that would have allowed him to run on without leaving either tracks or scent. If he downed it and bolted away, The Beast would think he'd been eaten by the orcwort.

  Weasel spotted a flash of blue among the scattered skip-stones, scattered biscuits, and spare clothing. He scooped it up-only to curse as the broken vial sliced his hand. Empty!

  A root thrust out of the ground, tripping him. Then another: the orcwort, trying to slow him up. Weasel danced out of the way, careful not to get too close to the wortlings. He looped around the tree a third time, hoping for another look at the scattered equipment. He heard the braying howl of a wolf: the Hunt, hot on his scent.

  Close-too close.

  "Hang on, twiggies," Weasel panted over his shoulder at the pursuing wortlings. "The main course will be here in just a moment."

  There had to be another blue-corked vial; a bundlebag should have been packed with enough for a full patrol. Surely all six couldn't have been broken. Surely not!

  Third time lucky: He spotted one. He dived for it, nearly weeping as his fingers closed around the intact vial. Three wortlings threw themselves at him; Weasel shrank and rolled at the same time, narrowly escaping their scratching fingers. He lunged back to his feet, but before he could uncork the vial and drink it, a root coiled around his ankle, jerking him to a halt. The vial flew from his hands and landed on the ground a couple of quick-paces away. He enlarged, then shrank, loosening the root, and wrenched his foot free. He scrambled to the vial on hands and knees.

  Just before he reached it, a wortling stepped on it.

  Crunch.

  A slavering wolf streaked out of the jungle-the first of Malar's clerics! It snarled as it spotted the wortlings. It tried to twist away from them in mid-leap, but a wortling raked its flank. The wolf tumbled in a loose-limbed heap, reverting to halfling form as it lost consciousness. The wortlings swarmed the fallen halfling and lifted him into the air, then heaved him into the orcwort's mouth.

  This time, there was blood.

  Another howl sounded-close! The wortlings turned in that direction-not hearing the howl, but sensing the stirring of underbrush as the wolves pounded closer. Weasel glanced wildly around. The roots were dormant; the tree was busy feeding. The wortlings were, for the moment, intent on the approaching Hunt. He could run-but the wolves were fast. Faster than wortlings. Enough of them would streak past the shambling wortlings to run him down.

  That decided it. The only way out was in. As the tree opened its maw, Weasel raced toward it. He sprang forward, jammed a foot against the orcwort's lower lip, and pushed off into the air. He caught hold of a pod, and, as it rocked wildly, crammed himself inside. Feet braced against one side of the pod, back against the other, he grabbed the pods broken edges and drew them together. He peered out through the crack, hoping the Hunt wouldn't notice his fingers. There was a chance they wouldn't; his hands were filthy, pretty near the same color as the pod.

  Another of Malar's clerics burst out of the jungle. The wortlings surged forward. The pod, still rocking slightly, turned in place, preventing Weasel from seeing what happened next. But the sounds told the story. He heard snarls, furious motion, a sharp yipe of pain-and the snap-crunch-spurt of the orcwort feeding on another victim. As the pod slowed to a gentle spin, he saw the wortlings shambling into the jungle in pursuit of the rest of the Hunt.

  Just as Weasel was commending himself for his cunning, a dire wolf padded out of the underbrush. The Beast. Roots burst out of the ground and tangled a paw; The Beast growled, low in his throat. His fur sprang erect, and magical energy crackled across his body in waves. He tore the paw free, yanking the root out of the ground all the way to the base of the trunk. The trunk cracked, and sap flowed-quicker than it should have. The orcwort's mouth snapped shut.

  Nose to the ground, The Beast sniffed a zigzag course up to the base of the tree, then sniffed the orcwort's closed mouth. The pod slowly turned, cutting off Weasel's view.

  When it came round again, The Beast was in halfling form. He stood, clawed hands dangling at his sides, staring at the orcwort tree. Then he growled and turned away. As he walked back in the direction he'd come from, Weasel exulted. He'd done it! Tricked The Beast! Now all he had to do was stay inside the pod until The Beast was far enough away.

  Weasel suddenly realized the footsteps had stopped-directly beneath him. He glanced down, and saw that a drop of blood from his cut hand had landed on The Beast's hair. The Beast glanced up at the pod-just as another drop of blood fell. This time, it landed on The Beast's lips. His whited-out face broke into an evil grin.

  "Come out of your shell, spriggan," he said in a taunting voice. "You gave us a good chase, but now the hunt is over. You're mine." He clawed the air; the pod ripped open. Weasel fell at his feet.

  "Wait!" Weasel cried. He pointed frantically at the blades of sunlight slanting through the forest. "The sun's rising-it's morning! I met your challenge. I survived the night-you have to let me live!"

  The Beast bared his teeth in a mocking smile. "You weren't listening closely enough. 'Before the sun has risen,' I said. And it's not fully risen yet."

/>   Weasel swallowed hard. The Beast was going to eat him, after all. He looked desperately around, trying to remember what else The Beast had said. "Well… you didn't run me to ground, did you? I went up a tree. You can't kill me without breaking your oath to Malar."

  The Beast snorted-but his eyes were wary.

  "Tell you what," Weasel said. "Let's decide it by way of a contest. A contest of strength. Which I challenge you to in Malar's name-a challenge I know you'll have to accept, because if you don't, it means you're afraid, and that's some shy;thing your god just won't stand for. If I win, you have to let me go. If you win… well, I'll break out the seasoning."

  The Beast chuckled. "Does it involve pulling up saplings?" He sniffed. "I can smell the dryad on you; I won't be tricked into damaging one of their sacred trees."

  Weasel feigned a frustrated sigh. He glanced around and pretended to notice the spilled sling stones for the first time. "I know-we'll have a throwing contest! Whoever can throw a stone the farthest wins." He pointed. "Go ahead, choose a stone."

  The Beast strode over to the stones.

  Weasel held his breath. Would his ruse work? For several patrols now, Chand's soldiers had been using stones that were ensorcelled to return to the slingers' hands upon com shy;mand. When Weasel spoke the word, the stone The Beast had thrown would return, assuring it didn't travel as far as Weasel's stone. It took skill to catch an ensorcelled stone; only an experienced warslinger could do it. The stone would likely smack Weasel in the head when it returned. It would hurt, but Weasel would win the contest.

  "You think you can best me, as Kaldair did Vaprak," The Beast said, his hand not quite touching the stones. "But I know circlestone when I see it."

  His fingers closed around an ordinary pebble.

  Weasel groaned, wishing the pouch had included one of the blast marbles. All it would take then was one quick shatter-shout and…

  Just a moment.

  He thought back to the spring festival and the Ghostwise attack. To his jest in the mess hall. After he'd pulled the fast-hand and fumble-drop, they hadn't been able to find the blast marble; they'd evacuated the mess to search for it. Had Chucklebelly been keeping the marble all this time "for luck"? Was that what the halfling had been frantically searching for as The Beast and his Hunt sprang their trap?