Margaret Weis: Heroes And Fools

Two huge hairy hands reached down. One grabbed the kender’s rope where it dangled from the pole, the other sliced it cleanly through with an overlarge knife.

“Whoaaaaa-uuulllpppppppp!” was all Thistleknot could manage as he vanished into the canopy.

“The boojum!” Gunnar cried.

“Ready the weapon!” shouted Mennarling at the same time.

The Dark Knights swirled with activity, ripping off the canvas shrouding their death machine. Then they rolled in a big round shape, poured liquid from skins down its throat, and tamped it all with a large padded stick. Two men stood at each wheel to turn the mechanism on orders from their commander. Relthas and her sister soldier stood waiting to ignite the wick with a torchlight. Everyone seemed to be holding their breaths.

“I think you confused them,” whispered Thistleknot to his companion. “Thanks for finally getting me off that rope. It hurt!” He gingerly rubbed his stomach.

“Shift your location, so that when they fire nothing will perish but leaves.” The big hairy thing beckoned. Thistleknot nimbly followed his rescuer along the branches-good thing, too. Moments after, several arrows flew into the foliage where they’d stood.

“Predictable,” whispered the tall costumed man. He stepped down to another branch, grabbed a bunch of bloody bones secreted there, and cut one of two cords holding them to a branch. They dropped among the Dark Knights with a muted thwap and left a sticky dark stain on Gunnar as one glanced off his leather armor. The big hairy thing stepped to a large cone-shaped contraption and spoke into the small end, sending his voice through the forest much amplified from its normal pleasant baritone.

“I am Boojum. You trespass in my demesne. The penalty is death despite the tasty kender!”

Lifting his face from the cone and the hairy hood from his sweaty face, the mild-featured Solamnic Knight with curly brown hair grinned at the kender and shifted his position, whispering, “Now we’ll see what transpires.”

More arrows answered his pronouncement. Fortunately they were off target.

“That was good,” Thistleknot commented, impressed with his friend’s improvisations. “I didn’t know you were going to get all dressed up and everything.”

“I admit to being truly inspired by counterfeiting the boojum.” The Solamnic Knight scratched. “Yet this weave is vexing. I hope to be rid of it very soon. Ah, they’ve come within range. Prithee, draw on that cordage next your right foot.”

“This one?” The kender heaved. A number of buckets filled with mud and pea-sized gravel upended, pouring their contents onto the hapless beneath. Curses and howls rose from the squad, along with a few arrows, which fortunately missed by far.

“Save the fuel!” Thistleknot heard Gunnar holler. “Wait for a good shot!”

Thistleknot giggled in delight. “This is working out better than I’d hoped.”

“As long as we can purloin that weapon for study,” grunted the Knight, making his way back to the conical voice expander, “we will have achieved success.”

“SURRENDER NOW. SAVE YOURSELVES FROM CERTAIN AND PROLONGED DESTRUCTION.”

“They never will, you know,” stated the kender, watching the scurrying below. “Uh ohhhh. Run!”

The night filled with a flash brighter than lightning, brighter than day. A massive roar was followed by splintering of branches as a projectile the size of his head ripped past. The iron ball-for that is what it was-eventually struck a substantial tree and lodged there. Only moments after embedding itself, it exploded, blowing the entire crown from the forest patriarch and flinging its woody shards all around and on the ground.

“Wow!” was all Thistleknot could muster. His ears rang with concussion.

“By my father’s sword, that weapon has a god’s voice.” The Solamnic Knight sounded very far away to the kender, although the man in the hairy costume stood right beside him.

“In the name of Her Dark Majesty Takhisis, we demand your immediate surrender, boojum,” called Mennarling in his best indomitable tone.

Thistleknot looked at his partner. The Knight shrugged, indicating a stalemate. Biting his lip, the kender forced himself to think and preferably to think fast.

“Yeeeooowwwww!” The branch he stood on suddenly dipped violently, sending Thistleknot plummeting into the midst of the Dark Knights. He landed hard but scrambled out of the way as his tall associate in the hemp costume minus its disguising hood thumped down a moment later, nearly on top of him.

Although the Solamnic Knight’s expression reflected surprise, he recovered quickly, leaping to his feet to face Gunnar as the rest of the enemy. Looking equally surprised, if not confused, the Dark Knights closed a circle around him and the kender, their weapons bristling. The Solamnic’s hand curled around his cherished ancestor’s sword hilt, and he drew the ancient weapon from its scabbard. The warriors were at a stand-off and took each other’s measure for several heartbeats as the forest maintained silence about them.

Above, something rustled. Thistleknot looked up and felt his eyes go wider than ever as his muscles jellied. The grinning countenance staring into his appeared to be savoring an excellent joke. His eyes finally tore away from those huge brown ones in the foliage, and he shuffled over to where the Solamnic Knight stood ready for battle.

“Uh. . uh. .” was all he could stutter, tugging at the Knight’s sagging costume.

“Not now,” hissed his tall partner. “Can you not see I am engaged?”

A dark bass laughed, its roar seemingly coming from the bowels of the earth as well as the ceiling of the sky. It filled the forest without aid from the conical voice-enhancer. The Dark Knights froze. Everyone, even the Solamnic Knight, looked up.

“BOOJUM IMPERSONATOR. PITIFUL PLAYACTOR. NOW ENCOUNTER THE REAL BOOJUM!”

The sound of a huge bowstring’s thrum capped the end of the monster’s statement. One of the Dark Knights hissed suddenly and folded forward with an overlarge arrow stuck in his chest. Three feet of said arrow appeared to protrude from his back.

“BUT HERE IS NO SPORT. YOU ARE AS DYNAMIC AS DUCKS FROZEN ON A POND. I WILL MAKE ME SOME FUN.”

A rope snaked down, dropping over the head of the soldier standing closest to the secret weapon, and pulled tight. This Dark Knight was quickly hoisted into the trees, so fast he couldn’t even raise a weapon. A moment later was heard a yelp and the distinctive sounds of bones cracking.

A huge arrow struck the ground near Relthas. She moved back a step, then a few more when another arrow followed. The third missile caused her to leap aside. She flailed the air as dirt crumbled beneath her feet and a pit trap yawned to engulf her. Her pitiful moans were heard every few minutes, until eventually they ceased entirely.

“Come on, fill in there!” Mennarling snapped a command as he stepped bravely to the front, peering up at the trees, finding no trace of the mysterious foe. His voice was sharp, and it brought his soldiers’ concentration back into focus. “Ready that machine!”

His team bent to the task, fed fuel to the barrel of the cannon, tamped down the ball, and aimed the death machine into the canopy, all with impressive speed and precision. Except for the Dark Knight, who stumbled over Thistleknot, and Gunnar, who was looking daggers at the Solamnic Knight, there was little wasted movement.

Mennarling shouted, “Fire!”

Steel slid from two scabbards at the same instant the death weapon roared. Gunnar and the Solamnic Knight staggered from the concussive noise, but still managed to trade slices. Thistleknot was thrown to the ground, hands clapped over his much-abused ears. From flat on his back he noticed movement above him in the trees.