T Lain - Treachery's Wake

Malthooz took his club from his belt to practice the moves that the women had taught him. He saw Krusk grab his axe and move toward him. Malthooz dropped his arm to his side.

“I talked to the druid,” Krusk said, raising his axe. “I know about the symbol and your vision.”

Malthooz was stunned, unable to read the barbarian’s emotions. Krusk nodded to his club and Malthooz raised it in front of himself, spreading his legs to match Krusk’s stance.

“The elves know how to fight,” the barbarian said, “but they don’t know how we fight.”

He swung his axe around on a small tree. The blade sliced cleanly through the three-inch trunk, toppling it to the ground.

Krusk ignored the glare Vadania shot him and continued, “You must use your strength to your advantage. Put the whole strike back ” He rested the head of his axe on the ground and added, “I am not going back to the village.”

“I know that,” Malthooz said, nodding.

“Just so we’re clear.”

Krusk walked back to where the others were seated. Malthooz followed him over.

“It was really more an audience than a vision, I think. I saw this,” Malthooz said, reaching into the neck of his tunic and drawing forth the wooden symbol. “I felt something coursing through me that I’ve never felt the likes of before. It comes back, though much reduced in strength, when I touch this.”

“A cleric?” Mialee asked, moving closer and taking the symbol from his hands. “It’s certainly not like most of the symbols I’ve seen. They are generally made of silver or better.”

“That may be, but whether that’s a requirement of the god or of a cleric’s vanity is an open question,” Vadania said. “It is not unlike a fetish to the nature gods. Still, I agree that it is unusual for Pelor to grant favor to a half-orc.”

“Bah,” Krusk sputtered. “I think you’re letting that blow go to your head. Gods! What good have they done for your village? All of the praying and ceremony of the zealots never stopped the worgs from carrying off livestock or children. Stick to the club. The wolves understand what a bash on the snout means.”

Malthooz took the symbol back from the wizard and dropped it down the front of his tunic.

“Say what you will, Krusk. I don’t expect you to understand.”

Lidda appeared in the dense trees ahead. She was moving in a crouch, a finger over her mouth, signaling the others to keep quiet. Her cloak blended perfectly with the tree trunks as she moved silently toward them. Malthooz reached for his club to steady his shaking hand. He watched the others react to the rogue’s return, tightening their own grips on the weapons they held ready. Krusk drummed his fingers in sequence along the handle of his axe. The sound only added to Malthooz’s anxiousness.

Sleep had been difficult for the half-orc the previous night as the companions camped on the open plain. He spent most of it tossing and turning as nightmares of the troll chasing him ran endlessly through his head. Every sound that echoed from the nearby forest startled him wide awake. When he wasn’t peering anxiously into the darkness, he was shivering under his coarse, wool blanket.

The light of day found him still weary and sore. No one wanted to light a fire for fear of attracting unwanted attention, though the damp, frigid air left Malthooz wishing for one.

They followed the footprints deeper into the forest for most of the morning. By noon there was still no sign of their quarry beyond the tracks they left behind. Tall pines and firs, standing over the group like sentinels, blocked most of the light of midday and brought a dismal feeling over the journey. At least the cover kept them out of the icy wind, though Malthooz would have welcomed its sound over the eerie silence that hung over the place.

“Gnolls ahead. A pair of them,” Lidda said in an urgent whisper, holding up two fingers to emphasize the point. “About a quarter mile. They look half drunk.”

Krusk’s tapping stopped suddenly.

“Dog faces,” he said with a sneer, “should be easy.”

He started moving.

“I’m not so sure,” Vadania said, grabbing his arm. “We don’t know how many there are, or how organized they are.”

“She’s right,” Mialee said. “What about the big footprints? Let’s not get carried away until we know what we’re up against.”

“I’d guess that the rest of the group is somewhere ahead,” Lidda said. “They must have a camp. I don’t think they’d post guards if they were going anywhere.”

“That’s a fair guess, but I don’t want to stake my life on it,” Vadania said. “I’d be much more comfortable if we did more snooping. I shouldn’t have too much trouble getting by them.”

They all turned as Krusk buried the head of his axe in a tree trunk.

“Make your plans,” he growled, “but be quick with it.”

Vadania scowled at the barbarian. “There’s precious little living in these parts as it is,” she said.

Malthooz missed Vadania’s transformation the previous day and he watched with fascination as her body changed. He tried to keep his eyes on the woman as it happened, but the process was difficult to track. The details were easy enough, the fur emerging from her skin and her fingernails becoming claws. It was the gross metamorphosis of form that made the half-orc queasy. He was not sure that he could describe what he was seeing. Vadania’s body collapsed on itself as her muscles shrank and contracted. Her skin folded over and condensed. Fur sprouted from the tips and insides of her pointed ears.

Within moments, the elf woman Malthooz knew was nowhere to be seen. A squirrel twittered on the ground where she had been. The animal leaped onto a nearby tree trunk, making a quick circuit. She appeared on a branch high above, chirping and chattering at her companions on the ground. With a swish of her bushy tail, the druid jumped to another branch and darted into the woods.

The half-orc was thankful for the delay that the druid’s scouting mission brought, even though he realized it was only temporary. A fight seemed inevitable at this point, and Malthooz was not overly eager to see it happen. He suspected that Krusk felt differently, guessing from the way he paced around, muttering curses into the air. It had always been that way with Krusk for as long as Malthooz knew him. Krusk had never been one for subtlety. He was the one who rushed headlong into whatever lay ahead, whether he knew what it was or not. Most often he didn’t. Malthooz was glad for the presence of the druid and the other women. He’d hesitate to say that they made Krusk into a more sensible or gentle creature, but they did have a certain balancing affect on his reckless urges.

Something about Krusk’s attitude was strangely infectious, though. Malthooz had never developed much physical prowess, but Krusk was different. Ever since he’d arrived at the village of outcasts, seeking a safe place to lay low, he’d been the best at anything involving strength, and Malthooz admired the attention it brought him.

Maybe he’d spent too much time with the barbarian, Malthooz thought, watching as a combined glare from Lidda and Mialee made Krusk set his axe down and take a seat. Malthooz could not deny that he felt a small but growing part of himself that hoped for a fight. He would have thought that the encounter with the troll would have been sufficient to frighten him off. The nightmares were certainly terrifying enough. Strangely, it was having the opposite effect, and he wasn’t sure why. As scared as he was, he felt like he had to face the fear head on. The only way he was going to do that was through battle.

Malthooz shook his head. Did he have any idea what he was saying to himself? He looked up and saw the druid approaching. He reached for the disk under his shirt to calm his fear and get a grip on his fluctuating emotions.