Paul Kemp: Realms of War

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.