Lynn Abbey - Realms of the Deep

"Hold on, lad!" Halger shouted, his thundering boots now growing closer again. Til be right there!"

He wasn't strong enough to hold it. He was going t(die. He was Abruptly the thing gave a roar of rage or disgust and clawed Brandor sideways, sending him skidding helplessly on the wet flagstones. He fell hard on his behind, saw the cook sprinting across the kitchen with a harpoon in his hands, heard the men on the balconj strike alarm gongs with enthusiasm-and saw the bul-lywug pounce on Shalara.,,

She tried to run, slipped and fell, and screamed in utter terror. Up on the balcony, Druskin was cursing like a sailor, hands raised to unleash a spell he dared not cast.

Brandor scrambled up, swung the tongs with all his might, and rushed forward with his swing. The hearth girls chose that moment to scream.

He blundered clumsily into the bullywug's side, managed to make it hiss and stagger, then was flung free, losing his grip on the tongs, by one slap of a webbed hand.

The metal tongs bounced on the floor with a clang like a forge anvil, and the bullywug's hiss rose into a sort of a roar as it flung its spear, taking Halger in the shoulder and spinning him around. The harpoon that Brandor would barely be able to lift bounced away.

The apprentice gulped, found his feet again, and ran like he'd never run before in his life. The cutlass was already sweeping up. When it came down, Shalara's life would end.

The bullywug had fought men on pitching ship decks, beaches, and on wet, rock-strewn shores. It had faced down sharks in its time, and even slain sahua-gin, but its experience of weak, clumsy, and recklessly stupid apprentices was limited. It chose to ignore the puny youth's charge as its blade swept down to lay open the she-thing.

That blade went wide, striking sparks from the flagstone floor, as Brandor lost his footing and crashed helplessly into the bullywug's legs. The frog-monster staggered, then turned to hack this persistent annoyance to pieces.

Brandor stared up into cold, goggling eyes, saw his death in them, and as he wriggled sideways in wetness, remembered slipping about in slivers of diced potato, and-of course! Mystra aid me, he thought. The potato-peeling spell!

"Get away, Shalara!" he cried, frantically rummaging in his robes for the components, and continuing to wriggle sideways on the floor, away from the Tyrant's sobbing daughter. The bullywug made a chuffing hiss that could only be laughter. Gods, he must look like a fish flapping out of water. Go on, goggle-eyes, laugh at me just a moment longer…

He snapped out the spell with haste but precision, as the cutlass swept up again, then rolled aside, throwing his hands up in front of his eyes. He doubted diced bullywug blood would be something he wanted to ingest.

The squalling, hissing, and wet slicing sounds were truly grisly, and the smell made him gag, but to Bran-dor they might have been a minstrels' symphony, embroidered with trumpets-well, one blast at least: the clang of the cutlass striking the floor.

He was drenched, he was rolling desperately, col‹ shine was everywhere… and it seemed an eternity o sweaty, desperate rolling before he ran into somethinj lying on the floor that groaned at him. Halger.

"Easy, lad," the cook husked in a weak echo of hi, normal voice. Brandor stopped rolling and opened hi eyes. He was looking up at a ring of angry faces: thi Tyrant, Commander Maerlin, his master Druskin, an‹ a growing army of men-at-arms with drawn swords ii their hands.

"Your cooking spell," Druskin snapped, "an‹ quickly!"

A dozen hands hauled Brandor to his feet before thi apprentice could do more than blink. Druskin slappec a hand across Brandor's forehead to wipe away bully wug blood and slime, no one let him look at what was spattered all over the floor, and the apprentice fount himself frog-marched-if that wasn't too unfortunate an expression-across the chaos of the kitchen floor.

An army of hard-faced warriors in full armor wai watching him. He was drenched and stinking witl dead bullywug. Anger and fear glared forth at hin from scores of tight, white faces. Oh, gods, he was in foi it. They looked about two breaths away from executing an apprentice…

The spell, lad," Druskin said flatly. "Now."

Brandor saw six gauntleted hands bring the long tongs up and hold them ready by his side. He let out Ј long, unhappy breath, swallowed, felt for the components he'd need, faced the empty space in front of the stop-log, and did his duty.

Warriors snatched the log aside and wrenched the empty barrel out of the way. The others began to roll The tongs were handed wordlessly to Brandor, and he steadied the first full barrel squarely in the midst of the field only he could see.

Steam rose from its staves, and an evil smell. When he rolled the barrel along, warriors with axes hastened to break it open. A bullywug sagged out, dark and slimy, with steam pouring from its gaping mouth. It sagged to the stones even before their axes bit down in bloody unison. The smell made Brandor retch.

Commander Maerlin barked an order Brandor did not catch, and the armsmen surged forward. They swarmed up around the barrels, rolling them into Brandor's field and breaking them open with axes. Squalling bullywugs were pierced with spears and pinned in place to cook with brutal speed and efficiency. The slaughter went on and on, and more than one person in the kitchens was noisily sick. Several spewed in unison when Halger looked up from the priest tending to his shoulder and told the room gruffly, "No, I don't know any recipes for bullywug soup… but I'm willing to improvise."

Brandor rolled barrels into the heat with the heavy, unwieldy long tongs like a madman until someone- the Tyrant of Mintarn himself-took him by the shoulder and shouted at him to stop and stand easy.

When he let the long tongs fall, Brandor found that he was shaking with weariness. He looked across a kitchen that stank with carnage. Shalara, Druskin, and the other two Buckler mages were on their knees, white-faced and retching, and grim armsmen were clambering about knee-deep in wet, bloody bullywugs. Oh, he was going to catch it now…

Commander Maerlin was wading grimly through the remains toward him. Brandor closed his eyes and waited for the cold words that would end his Buckler career and direct him to a cell.

The hand that came down on his shoulder grippec warmly, and out of a dizzy fog Brandor heard Oldivai Maerlin say, "Well and bravely done, lad. My thanks."

From his other side came the sound of Druskir clearing his throat. The wizard sounded a little breath less as he said, "You'll teach us all both of those spells I hope. 111 exchange four of comparable power for eact of them, of course."

"Moreover, Mintarn you've saved," the Tyrant saic from nearby, his voice rolling out to carry to everj corner of the lofty room, "and Mintarn is in your debt I see no reason that we cannot reward you fittingly in the days ahead."

Brandor lifted his head, then, to stare at the ruler oi Mintarn in astonishment, but somehow his gaze was caught and held by the shining eyes of Shalara. Thej stared at each other for a long, wordless time, and suddenly the Tyrant's daughter raced across the space between them, heedless of heaped bullywug remains, and threw her arms around him.

Her kisses were warm and fiercely eager, and it was some time before she drew back, her eyes shining. It was longer still before Brandor could look at anything else but the look of adoration on her smiling face. The first thing he saw was the bullywug slime and gore that had soaked all down the front of her fine gown, and even its flared sleeves where she'd embraced him.

"I've… I've ruined your dress," he mumbled, reaching forth a tentative hand to brush away slime from her bodice, letting it fall without touching her.