Margaret Weis - The Second Generation

As the boat drew nearer to shore, surging forward with the waves and the incoming tide, the brothers could see the welcoming party. The rising sun glinted off spears and shields carried by a crowd of men who were awaiting their arrival on the beach. Tall and muscular, the men wore little clothing in the balmy clime of the island. Their skin was a rich, glistening brown, their bodies adorned with bright beads and feathers, their faces stern and resolute. The shields they carried were made of wood and painted with garish designs, the spears handmade as well-wooden with stone tips.

“Honed nice and sharp, you can believe me,” said Sturm gloomily. “They’ll go through flesh like a knife through butter.”

“We’re outnumbered at least twenty to one,” Tanin pointed out to Dougan, who was sitting in the prow of the boat, fingering a battle-axe that was nearly the size of the dwarf.

“Bah! Primitives!” said Dougan contemptuously, though Palin noted the dwarf’s face was a bit pale. “First sight of steel, they’ll bow down and worship us as gods.”

The “gods' ” arrival on the beach was something less than majestic.

Tanin and Sturm did look quite magnificent in their bright steel armor of elven make and design—a gift from Porthios and Alhana of the United Elven Kingdoms. The breastplates glittered in the morning sun; their helms gleamed brightly. Climbing out of the boat, they sank to their shins in the sand and, within minutes, were both firmly mired.

Dougan, dressed in his suit of red velvet, demanded that the gnomes take him in to shore, so he would not ruin his clothes. The dwarf had added to his costume a wide-brimmed hat decorated with a white plume that fluttered in the ocean breeze, and he was truly a wonderful sight, standing proudly in the prow of the boat with his axe at his side, glaring sternly at the warriors drawn up in battle formation on the beach. The gnomes obeyed his injunction to the letter, running the boat aground on the beach with such force that Dougan tumbled out headfirst, narrowly missing slicing himself in two with his great battle-axe.

Palin had often imagined his first battle—fighting at the side of his brothers, combining steel and magic. He had spent the journey to shore committing the few spells he knew to memory. As they drew toward land, his pulse raced with what he told himself was excitement, not fear. He was prepared for almost any eventuality ... with the exception of helping a cursing, sputtering, irate dwarf to his feet; trying to dislodge his brothers from the wet sand; and facing an army of silent, grim, half-naked men.

“Why don’t they attack us?” Sturm muttered, floundering about in the water, trying to keep his balance. “They could cut us to ribbons!”

“Maybe they have a law that prohibits them from harming idiots!” snapped Tanin irritably.

Dougan had managed, with Palin’s help, to stagger to his feet.

Shaking his fist, he sent the gnomes on their way back to the ship with a parting curse, then turned and, with as much dignity as he could bluster, stomped across the beach toward the warriors. Tanin and Sturm followed more slowly, hands on the hilts of their swords. Palin came after his brothers more slowly still, his white robes wet and bedraggled, the hem caked with sand.

The warriors waited for them in silence, unmoving, their faces expressionless as they watched the strangers approach. But Palin noticed, as he drew near, that occasionally one of the men would glance uneasily back into the nearby jungle. Observing this happening more than once, Palin turned his attention to the trees. After watching and listening intently for a moment, he drew nearer Tanin.

“There’s something in those trees,” he said in an undertone.

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Tanin growled. “Probably another fifty or so warriors.”

“I don’t know,” Palin said thoughtfully, shaking his head. “The warriors appear to be nervous about it, maybe even—”

“Shush!” Tanin ordered sharply. “This is no time to talk, Palin! Now keep behind Sturm and me, like you’re supposed to!”

“But—” Palin began.

Tanin flashed him a look of anger meant to remind the young man who was in charge. With a sigh, Palin took up his position behind his brothers. But his eyes went to the jungle and he again noticed that more than one of the warriors allowed his gaze to stray in that direction as well.

“Hail!” cried Dougan, stumping through the sand to stand in front of the warrior who, by standing out slightly in front of his fellows, appeared to be the chief. “Us gods!” proclaimed the dwarf, thumping himself on the chest. “Come from Land of Rising Sun to give greeting to our subjects on Isle of Gargath.”

“You’re a dwarf,” said the warrior glumly, speaking excellent Common “You’ve come from Ansalon, and you’re probably after the Graygem.”

“Well... uh... now...” Dougan appeared flustered. “That’s... uh... a good guess, lad. We are, as it happens, mildly interested in ... uh ... the Graygem. If you’d be so good as to tell us where we might find it—”

“You can’t have it,” said the warrior, sounding depressed. He raised his spear. “We’re here to stop you.”

The warriors behind him nodded unenthusiastically, fumbling with their spears and clumsily falling into some sort of ragged battle formation.

Again, Palin noticed many of them looking into the jungle with that same nervous, preoccupied expression.

“Well, we’re going to take it!” Tanin shouted fiercely, apparently trying to drum up some enthusiasm for the conflict. “You’ll have to fight us to stop us.”

“I guess we will,” mumbled the chief, hefting his spear in halfhearted fashion.

Somewhat confused, Tanin and Sturm nevertheless drew their swords, as Dougan, his face grim, lifted his axe. The words to a spell chant were on Palin’s lips, and the Staff of Magius seemed to tremble with eagerness in his hand. But Palin hesitated. From all he’d heard, battles weren’t supposed to be like this! Where was the hot blood? The ferocious hatred? The bitter determination to die where one stood rather than give an inch of ground?

The warriors shuffled forward, prodding each other along. Tanin closed on them, his sword flashing in the sun, Sturm at his back. Suddenly, a cry came from the jungle. There was movement and a rustling sound, more cries, and then a yelp of pain. A small figure dashed out of the trees, running headlong across the sand.

“Wait!” Palin yelled. “It’s a child!”

The warriors turned at the sound. “Damn!” muttered the chief, tossing his shield and spear into the sand in disgust. The child—a little girl of about five—ran to the warrior and threw her arms around his legs. At that moment, another child, older than the first, came running out of the woods in pursuit.

“I thought I told you to keep her with you!” the chief said to the older child, a boy, who came dashing up.

“She bit me!” said the boy accusingly, exhibiting bloody marks on his arm.

“You’re not going to hurt my daddy, are you?” the little girl asked Tanin, glaring at him with dark eyes.

“N-no,” stuttered Tanin, taken aback. He lowered his sword. “We’re just”—he shrugged, flushing scarlet—“talking. You know, man talk.”

“Bless my beard!” exclaimed the dwarf in awe. More children were running from the jungle—children of all ages, from toddlers who could barely make their way across the sand to older boys and girls of about ten or eleven. The air was filled with their shrill voices.

“I’m bored. Can we go home?”

“Lemme hold the spear!”

“No, if s my turn! Dad said—”

“Apu said a bad word!”

“Did not!”

“Did so!”