Paul Kemp: Realms of War

The Year of Monstrous Appetites (-65 DR)

Weasel ran along the narrow path through the jungle, back the way his squad had come. He was gambling the spike-traps and snarefoots hadn't been reset, that the binge of blood drinking had kept the Ghostwise too busy to replace their defenses. He needed to put as much distance between himself and their village as possible before the hunt began.

Every few steps he staggered as a fit of sneezing struck. As he ran, he scrubbed at his forehead with a sweaty hand. The symbol they'd painted there in blood crumbled and smudged. He snapped his fingers, testing to see if his magic had returned; a dull yellow flame danced across the tip of his thumb. He waved it out.

He stopped, blew his nose clear, and spread his hands, draw shy;ing in the magic of the jungle. Magic filled him, boosting his size. His head brushed the leaves above, his shoulder forced a branch aside, and a twig snapped under his sudden weight.

He was taller now; more than twice the size he'd been a moment ago. Stronger. Faster.

Stinktree pollen tickled his nose, prompting an explosion.

Even his sneezes were bigger.

He ran.

With luck, he would make it to the spot where the drop was scheduled to be made, and signal the griffon to carry him out of here. Behind him, he heard a horn blare: the Ghostwise, beginning their hunt.

"At least they gave me a head start," he panted.

The forest had grown dark, making it hard to see the trail. Something caught his foot, sending him heels over rump. When he stopped tumbling he scrambled to his feet. He spotted stakes on the trail that had held down a length of assassin vine, which now dangled in the air. Tendrils sprang out of it, blindly questing for the creature that had blundered into it. If Weasel had been smaller, the vine would have grabbed him and held him fast. Crept its way up to his neck and strangled him.

The trap was crude, obviously intended for discovery. Weasel would easily have spotted it if he hadn't been running, even in the dark. He shrank down to spriggan size again, moved a little closer to the vine, and cautiously parted the thick wall of vegetation that grew at the side of the trail. A snap of his fingers provided enough light to reveal sawfoot traps, steel jaws open. A simple ruse: step off the trail onto one of those, and they'd snip off a foot-or as near to it as to make no difference.

He heard wolves' howls: Malar's clerics, hot on his scent. He didn't have much time. He stayed low to avoid the vine, and broke a branch off a tree. He used it to ease three of the sawtooth traps onto the trail, and threw leaves over them. The shifted clerics would have four paws in contact with the ground, and would be coming fast. With luck, one or two of them would spring the traps and be put out of the chase.

The howls drew closer. Weasel wiped his nose. Better get moving. He turned-and startled when he saw a dryad, standing on the trail directly behind him. She was naked, with small breasts and skin the color of mahogany. Tiny leaves dappled her hair. She smelled like berry syrup.

"Love to taste those lips, pretty one, but I don't want slivers. And I've got to run."

He didn't, though.

She touched his arm with fingers rough as bark and moved closer, her footfalls like the crackle of twigs. She spoke words that shimmered into his mind like liquid moonlight.

Come. One hand rustled up to touch her breast. Lay your head here. Rest.

Weasel sighed. The howls drew closer. He wondered dreamily why he was still standing here. He leaned toward her and laid his cheek against her breast; it felt like the burl of a tree. The sounds of the approaching hunters faded to insignificance. He felt pressure around his hand: her fingers, twining tight as assassin vine around his. Then her hand twisted.

One of his fingers snapped; he screamed. The branch fell from his hand. The dryad scooped it up, cradled it to her breast, and glared at Weasel. Then she vanished.

Weasel held up his right hand; his middle finger was splayed out at an angle, like a broken twig. He heard excited yips on the trail: Malar's hunt, closing in! Too close to run. He looked wildly around for a place to hide, then remembered the sawtooth traps. Even if he could leave the trail, the Hunt would scent him out. A tendril of assassin vine brushed his scalp; he ducked, escaping it.

Suddenly changing his mind, he grabbed the vine with his left hand. He yanked. The vine yanked back, pulling him into the air. He crashed through branches and came to a halt just as the first pursuer flashed into view below. The wolf started to glance at a falling twig-then yelped. Weasel heard the dull crunch of a sawtooth trap snapping shut and the crack of splintering bone.

His broken finger throbbed in misplaced sympathy.

A second wolf pummeled into the first, knocking it down but unfortunately not springing either of the other two traps. The rest of the pack halted in time. The largest of the Hunt-The Beast, in dire wolf form-sniffed the spot where the traps were concealed and growled.

Weasel, hanging above, felt the assassin vine twine down his arm, toward his neck. He didn't dare peel it off; a rustling noise would betray where he'd gone. With luck, The Beast would figure he'd either doubled back or used magic to escape.

The assassin coiled around his throat. Before it could tighten, Weasel wedged his free hand under it-nearly crying aloud at the pain of his broken finger twisting-and called a dull red flame to his palm. The vine recoiled from the heat, loosening. Another tendril wound around his chest. He let that one be.

The dire wolf growled at the wolf caught in the trap. The lesser wolf cringed, then rolled over, exposing its belly. The Beast cocked a leg over it in disdain, then turned and ripped open its stomach with his teeth.

The others sat and watched in silence as the shamed wolf bled.

The Beast yipped at the others, then sprang over the spot where the traps were hidden. Half of the Hunt did the same. The rest raced back the way they'd just come.

Weasel sighed in relief. A few moments more, and the wolf below would be dead. Then Weasel could move off. But as he listened to the whines of the dying wolf, stinktree pollen tickled his nose. He fought the urge to sneeze, felt his eyes grow watery and hot, nose-wriggled the urge away, only to have it build up again. He choked it back, sweat beading on his temples from the effort.

The assassin vine squeezed it out of him.

Ah-choo!

The tiny flicker of flame he'd been maintaining in the hand nearest his neck exploded in a bright flare of light. Flames also shot from his other palm. The assassin vine unraveled, dropping him. He crashed down through the branches, frantically trying to grab them with his good hand. He thudded onto the trail, narrowly missing one of the concealed traps.

The dying wolf looked up, saw Weasel, and let out a blood-choked howl.

Howls answered from up and down the trail. Malar's Hunt, acknowledging the news their prey had been spotted.

Weasel swore.

The Year of Festivals (-67 DR)

Weasel stood outside the hill-house that served as the armory, sword in hand. He watched as the procession wound its way through the village, singing lustily. Most of the halflings stumbling after the priestess were addle-witted, minds and bodies reeling from the aftereffects of spring cheese. Weasel had nibbled a little of the hard white cheese a while back, out of curiosity, but it didn't seem to have the same effect on spriggans. Nor did he much care for the taste. He'd quaff a double hand of ales instead, when he cared to get fumble-mouthed.

Today, however, he needed to keep his wits about him. Reeling the halflings might be, but if Weasel wasn't quick in his doings, someone was sure to notice the armory door had been left unguarded.