Paul Kemp - Realms of War

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?

Weasel drew in a deep breath-nice, not to be sneezing-and shatter-shouted. The Beast whirled, a stricken look in his eyes-then exploded.

Weasel didn't mind when the explosion slammed him to the ground. Nor did he mind the ringing in his ears. He didn't even mind the blood running from his nose-it wasn't half as bad as being plugged up from pollen, nohow.

He stepped to the edge of the crater where The Beast had been, and tsk-tsked at the tooth-and-claw necklace that had somehow survived.

"You really ought to be more careful about what you eat."

Then, before Malar's clerics or the orcworts could return, he sprinted away.

The Year of the Tankard (1370 DR)

The halfling drained his ale and set it aside, then leaned back against the mahogany tree. "And that's how it happened," he told the younglings. "How The Beast was defeated, by Kaldair in the form of a spriggan."

The younglings looked up at the storyteller with wide eyes. "Is it true?"

The storyteller shrugged. "What do you think?" He waved a hand at the athletic contests taking place in the sun-dappled field a few paces away. "To this day, the hin of the Luiren compete in the stone toss, the obstacle course. . even our Weasel in the Hole game comes from this tale."

The younglings murmured together excitedly. "Could it be true? A spriggan?"

The storyteller waved a hand, shooing them away. "Off with you, now. I need my nap."

As they departed, he leaned back against the tree. "Younglings," he chuckled. "They'll believe anything." He drifted off into contented slumber.

As he slept, a twig-shaped hand gently stroked a lock of hair that hung against the storyteller's temple. A lock of hair tied with a ribbon-one of the peculiarities of fashion observed by the halflings of the Luiren.

"It's true," her leaves whispered. She sighed as she looked out over the cultivated fields of the Strongheart and Lightfoot-the fields that had once been thick jungle. "It's true."

27 Eleint, The Year of Queen's Tears (902 DR)

The Chondalwood

"How dare he," Maze said.

Jaeriko struggled to keep up with the angry woman as she tromped through the tangled under shy;growth of the Chondalwood. It was obvious Maze had little regard or skill for the ways of the forest. If she had possessed even a modicum of respect, she wouldn't have been making such a racket. Predators and worse for miles around must have cocked an ear to the woman's infernal crashing. Not that such attention would vex Maze any-Jaeriko imagined the fierce woman would welcome the chance to wet her blades on anyone unfortunate enough to cross her path.