Коллектив авторов: Realms of the Dragons vol.1

The giant cocked his head and asked, "Do you talk, boy? Or was that magic, too?"

"Wh-why-?" Serreg stammered.

"You called for help," said the giant, spreading his many arms, "and here I am."

Serreg's brow furrowed. Called for help? Yes, he supposed in his panicked state he must have. It didn't matter. Help had come.

"So… what-uh, who are you?"

"Psshht!" guffawed the giant. "You really are helpless, aren't you?"

He turned away and scanned the landscape. Serreg felt affronted that he no longer merited the giant's attention.

"But… but I don't-"

"I am Targus."

For a long time there was silence, broken only by the delicate drip-drip of droplets steadily dribbling from the hem of the giant's cloak.

"Targus," said Serreg finally.

Targus's head swiveled from side to side as he smelled the air.

"Targus," said Serreg again.

The giant ignored him. "Lord of War," added Serreg.

"Yes," replied Targus simply. He turned to face Serreg again, and snorted. "That's all right with you, isn't it?"

"Wh-what are you doing here?" asked Serreg.

"You called," answered Targus with a shrug.

"But-but you're a god!" blurted Serreg.

"So? I had a whim to answer you." There was something awfully frightful about that voice, thick with death and carnage, speaking whimsically. Serreg surmised Targus could speak of rape and slaughter with equal aplomb. "You ought to be thankful, since the only other possible help is three tired farmers a few dozen leagues from here." Targus looked pointedly at Serreg, who mutely nodded his assent. "Besides," the god added, "you have potential."

"All right…"

Targus stepped forward, put one heavy boot on a rock outcropping, and leaned over Serreg in the crevice. Serreg wasn't sure how he fit his massive bulk into that small crack, but then again, he was a god.

"So," said Targus with a conspiratorial wink, "I'm here. What do you want?"

"What do you mean?" asked Serreg.

The mere presence of a god had eclipsed all other considerations at that moment.

"You asked for help," said Targus reasonably. "What sort of help would you like?"

Serreg thought about it for a moment, and an idea struck him

But before he spoke, Targus, seeing the glint in Serreg's eye, interjected, "Understand that I will not fight your battles for you. I am the supreme general, and while I give my troops the best odds of winning, it's up to foot soldiers like you to do the fighting."

Curse the luck, thought Serreg, selfishly ignoring the amazing good fortune that had caused his frantic plea to catch the ear of a god.

He thought some more, carefully formulating his answer.

"What I would like," he said, "is a weapon. A physical weapon, because spells do no good. Something small and light, like a knife or an ice pick, because I haven't had military training. I want this weapon to inflict great damage. And I also want it to grant me powers."

Targus pursed his lips knowingly and replied, "Powers? Plural? No. Were I to grant you that, we'd be here all night listening to you prattle off your avarice. Choose one, and be quick."

"I want it to polymorph me, changing me from one creature to another, in such a manner that those things out there can't steal the magic away."

Targus grinned broadly.

"As you wish," he said. "You'll have your weapon. But be careful, because it likes to draw blood." He bowed ever so slightly. "Good evening, good luck, and I hope you live up to your potential."

The giant collapsed in on himself, leaving nothing but the echo of a thousand screams and war cries, and a cloud of droplets suspended five feet off the ground. Serreg saw a dagger hanging in the center of the mist. He grasped the handle, surprised at the warmth of the supernatural fog. As he pulled the dagger closer to inspect it, three things struck him at once.

It was a beautiful dagger, exquisitely wrought and decorated.

His hand was covered with warm blood.

The night insects started chirping again.

Until that instant, Serreg hadn't even realized they'd stopped. His intuition told him that the entire conversation had occurred outside of time, suspended on a whim by Targus. That meant the demons were close….

Serreg heard a grunting moan, and saw a dark bulk rise in the darkness, blotting out the stars behind it. He turned the dagger blade down in his hand and gripped it tightly. The thing came closer. Its four arms waved gracelessly, tracing embers of magical fire in the night. It abruptly turned toward him in a manner that indicated it had noticed him in his hiding place. The creature made a few mystic passes with its arms, spinning an incantation. A web of phosphor spread all around the monster, Serreg, and the cleft, then vanished.

Concealment, thought Serreg. It wants me all to itself.

The creature paused, swimming back and forth for a moment, and Serreg had the distinctly unpleasant sensation that it was studying not him, but his dagger.

Then without further preamble or caution, it charged straight for him. It seized Serreg's torso with two of its four arms and hauled him out of the cleft, while the other two grabbed his head to maneuver it toward the gaping, spiny-toothed maw.

Serreg desperately plunged the dagger into the creature's mouth, sinking the weapon up to the hilt into the pulpy flesh behind the teeth. The thing screamed, an unholy and utterly alien monotone cry, and suddenly the creature was eight times as large, filling the sky, and Serreg fell from its loosened grip.

How did he get so high up? He had no time to consider that, so instead he spun his tail around to land on his feet, and ran. The ridge seemed much larger than it had before. He leaped for a rock outcropping, landing nimbly on his forelegs and pushing off with the back, just in time to-

Forelegs? thought Serreg.

He quickly scurried behind the outcropping and hid. The moaning creature nursed its wound on the far side of the rock, so Serreg chanced a look down at his paws.

Paws?

He had two furry forelegs ending in paws. He lifted one up, flexed the claws, and stared. His tail twitched in irritation and confusion, because he-

He looked over his shoulder to see haunches and a lashing tail, all covered in soft tabby fur.

He was a cat.

A cat? Well, he hadn't wished to be a cat, never told the dagger to change his shape, but it had anyway. Fair enough. But where was the dagger? For that matter, where were his clothes? He looked at his claws again, and sure enough, one of the claws on his right paw glinted merrily in the moonlight.

He smiled. All he had to do was change into a sparrow and dart out of there. A sparrow would be very tough to follow, and he knew he could out fly one of those things. Heck, once he got away from the immediate vicinity, he could become a falcon and really put some speed on.

He looked at his claw and gave the mental command: Change me into a sparrow.

Nothing happened.

I command you to change me into a sparrow.

Nothing. Did it have to be verbal?

"Rreeooowwf," he said as quietly as he could.

Again, he started to panic. How could he command the dagger if he could only howl like a cat? But wait-he'd never asked to be a cat in the first place, it just-

A great, cold hand with two opposable thumbs plucked him off the ground. He wriggled and writhed, knowing how hard it is to hold an uncooperative cat, but the thing held him fast. Three other arms spun spells of divination upon him to discern the cause for his change, and perhaps to try to undo it.

The vile creature gave up quickly, however, much to Serreg's dismay. Instead, the maw opened wide to swallow Serreg whole. Desperately the tabby archwizard attacked the creature's thick skin, using his pathetic little weapons of tooth and nail. It was like trying to bite a wall, or scratch stone. He looked up as the mouth drew closer, filling his vision, and amidst a new frenzy of struggle, he felt himself change again.