Realms of War

WEASEL'S RUN

The Year of Monstrous Appetites (-65 DR)

Weasel was going to die. And he was going to die sniffling.

He hated that.

He stared his hatred at the yellow pollen that drifted in lazy circles below him as he hung, face down, a quick-pace above the ground. The stinktrees were in bloom again, filling the air with a stench sharp as cat urine. He wished he had a hand free to grind into his itchy, weeping eyes. The pollen dusted his beardlocks and tickled his nose like flung pepper, clogging it with a constant, snuffling drip.

At least he couldn't smell the blood.

A hand grabbed his forelock and wrenched his head up. The Ghostwise cleric known only as "The Beast," his face blotched white with skull paint, inspected the magic-negating symbol painted on Weasel's forehead. The pelt of a dire wolf draped the cleric's head and shoulders; empty paws dangled against his scar-gnarled chest. Sweat trickled lines through the splashed blood that had congealed on his body.

The Beast gestured at the line of six trophy heads, impaled on stakes. "Your warriors have been winnowed. Malar has taken them."

Weasel almost laughed. His warriors? Weasel was a mere scout-the army's favorite boot-out boy. Barely a sword-slogger; nowhere near being a sergeant.

"'Taken' them, has he?" A dribble escaped one nostril; Weasel snuffled it back in, priming his nose for a shot. "Then he'd better give 'em back. The Stronghearts don't like thieves; if they catch Malar, they'll strip him and dip him."

He trumpeted air out his nostrils, sending a wad of snot flying at The Beast's blood-caked feet. It missed by more than a quick-step. Flies stirred lazily, then settled again.

The Beast's eyes narrowed. "Do not mock the Beastlord."

"Or what?" Weasel sneezed. Snuffled. He twisted to get a look at the thongs that stretched from his wrists and ankles. They held him suspended at the center of a ring of human-high, claw-shaped stones. His hands and feet felt hot and numb; the raw leather thongs had dried tight. "No, wait. Don't tell me. I'll be strung up in the jungle and left to dry, right?" He rolled his eyes. "No, silly me-you've already done that."

He snorted out another wad of snot; this time, it landed next to The Beast's broken-nailed toes.

The Beast shifted his foot aside. He squatted down, one hand still tight around Weasel's forelock. His fingertips bulged, nails turning to claws. His breath was rank, like a dog's. "Take a good long look at your warriors," he breathed. "Tonight, you'll join them. This is the evening of the High Hunt-the only reason you are still alive. Tonight, we hunt."

"'We?'" Weasel sneezed. "Why, I'm flattered. But if it's just the same to you, I won't stick around for supper."

The Beast bared file-point teeth in a snarl. He stood, releasing Weasel's forelock. "Try to please Malar; give us a good chase."

Weasel flipped the forelock out of his eyes. "How much of a head start should I give you?"

The Beast roared with laughter. Leaves quivered; a bird screeched and flew away with a burst of orange wings. "Well spoken! A jest worthy of the Trickster!"

"Cut me down, and I'll dig up a sapling for you."

The Beast laughed again-even he, it seemed, knew the tale of Kaldair and the Toppled Tree.

It was Weasel's favorite tale, the one that had always earned him a seat at the Stronghearts' ale tables. Kaldair the Trickster, disguised as a halfling, had challenged Vaprak, god of ogres, to remove a tree from the ground without tearing its roots. Vaprak had torn out one mighty ebon tree after another, damaging them all; Kaldair had dug the tiniest of saplings out of the ground. As a result of Kaldair's victory, the ogres had been banished to the Toadsquat Mountains ever after.

The Beast drew one of his bone-handled daggers from a wrist sheath. "You're strong, for a spriggan." Serrated steel winked red in the ruddy sunlight as dusk settled deeper upon the jungle. "Let's see how strong." The Beast stepped over a taut-stretched thong and walked to Weasel's feet. He teased the tip of the blade along the rough sole.

Weasel braced himself for the slice and the aching rush of blood that would follow. Steel flashed. Weasel involuntarily bucked..

The thong holding his left ankle parted with a snap, and his foot thudded against the ground. Tingling fire streaked into his toes as sensation returned.

The Beast moved to his other leg. "Survive the night. ." slice, twang, thud "and I'll spare your life-I swear it, by Malar's blood." He moved to Weasel's right hand. "But if my Hunt runs you to ground before the sun has risen…"

Steel flashed, parted leather. Weasel fell.

"… you're meat."

Weasel lay on the ground, one hand in the air. He twisted and fumble-grabbed the thong an arm's span away from where it was tied to his left wrist. He'd been taught the strangle-snap as a boy, he'd used the trick on the Ghostwise, the time or two he'd been circled-round during a range-ahead and been forced to fight his way out, quietlike. But against The Beast, high cleric of Malar? Weasel might as well try to take down the Beastlord himself.

He drew the cord taut between wrist and numb hand, and offered it up to The Beast.

The Beast rested his blade against it. "A wise choice."

The leather thong parted.

The Beast stepped back and growled a word. The pelt he wore melded with his body, hairs shivering erect along his arms and legs. Magic crackled like a raging fire across his chest. A snarl burst from his elongating muzzle, and ears perked erect atop his head. His eyes grew yellow-red. Panting, he ran his tongue along jagged canine teeth. The dire wolf he'd become held Weasel's eye with a glare fierce and hungry. "Until the sun has risen," he snarled. "Or meat."

The dire wolf bounded away, up the trail leading to the clearing where the Ghostwise trap had been sprung. To the Ghostwise village where Puffpipe and Swaggerstep, Flashblade and Stomper, Chucklebelly and Headsuplads the sergeant had been run to ground, slaughtered, and eaten. The Beast himself had taken the first bites, ceremonially tearing open their bellies and bolting down great chunks of flesh from each soldier, one after the other, while Weasel had watched in horror from his hiding place, immobilized by the magical trap that had caught him.

Weasel glanced at the heads staked in the blood-soaked soil and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He glanced at the darkening jungle, wondering which way to run. Wondering if he could run. His feet were blocks of fire, as if he'd just stomped through a numberry bush. He clomped his instep against his leg, trying to bang sensation back into it. And sneezed.

He glanced again at what remained of his squad, and shook his head, thinking of all the close scrapes they'd been through together since he'd joined their army. He almost wished there was a seventh stake, with his head on it. Almost.

"Pray me some of Tymora's luck, fellas. I'm gonna need it."

The Year of Discordant Destinies (-68 DR)

Weasel yawned as the Stronghearts' warchief made his way slowly up and down the rows of pole-stiff soldiers. The halflings all looked the same, to Weasel's eyes, in their identical wax-stiffened leather vests and helms, wooden shields slung across their backs. Each had a sling tucked into his belt, next to his stone pouch and waterskin, and stood with short sword thrust out ahead of him.

Warchief Chand padded up and down the rows, peering intently at this and that. The sergeant-Weasel could tell he was a sergeant by the green bracers on his forearms-trotted along at Chand's side like a dog, nodding earnestly at each thing the warchief said.

"There's a spot of rust on that sword, soldier," Chand would comment. Or, "That vest is laced crosswise." Or, "Comb that foot, soldier."

Weasel hoped the inspection would end soon. It had begun with a long and boring speech by the warchief about how the halflings would put an end to the bloodletting of the Ghostwise. How the assembled soldiers "Strongheart and Lightfoot, shoulder to shoulder," would purge Malar's worship from the Luiren. How they'd make their villages safe again. How proud Chand was of "this hin's army." And on and on and on…

Weasel snorted. Proud? Chand seemed to find something wrong with every other soldier he inspected. The halfling found more faults on his soldiers than a herder found fleas on his dogs.

Chand finally made his way to the last row-and halted like he'd been cudgel smacked when he came to Weasel.

"Sergeant Hewn!" the warchief snapped. "What is. . this?"

The sergeant quivered to stiffer attention. "A spriggan, Warchief Chand."

"I can see what he is, Sergeant," Chand said. "I want to know why he is where he is."

Sweat trickled from the sergeant's temples. "He's the new scout for Wildroot Squad, Sir."

"New scout?" Chand echoed in a strained voice.

Weasel smiled. "Yup." He nodded down at the sword he was leaning on. "Even brought my own sticker."

Weasel could practically hear the eyes of the halflings next to him creaking as they strained to watch what was happening-while still pretending to stare straight ahead.

The sergeant cleared his throat nervously. "The lads caught the spriggan trying to lightfinger a jug from the mess. They had him stripped and upside down in a vat of ale by the time I got there."

Weasel grinned, remembering that. The ale had been tasty.

"The spriggan shoved the lads off with magical fear," the sergeant continued. "I was of a mind to just run him off, until he told me he'd just come from the Gloomthicket. He passed right through it while The Beast's Hunt were wilding there, and somehow lived to tell the tale. I convinced him that fighting held more honor than fleeing. That he could make a worthwhile contribution to our forces as a…"

The sergeant faltered to a halt under the warchief's stern glare.

Chand turned his attention back to Weasel but spoke to the sergeant. "I'm disappointed in your lack of judgment, Sergeant Hewn." Chand's nose flared. "A spriggan, in this hin's army? Just look at him. That sword-filthy with rust! No shield. Trousers, spotted with. . something nasty, I'm sure. Non-regulation vest, unlaced. And that hair and beard! All those ridiculous tufts and ribbons-and greasy. Why, the very smell of the creature is enough to make my eyes water. I'm sure he hasn't washed in…"

Weasel didn't hear the rest. He was beyond listening. The warchief might say what he liked about his silk vest and sword, but insulting a spriggan's beardlocks warranted a swift fist in the face. Weasel glared back at the warchief, who stood no taller than he did. Weasel's eye fixed on the ridiculous collection of feathers pinned to the warchief's leather vest.

"Listen up, you beardless little Cockelfeather," Weasel growled. "You apologize right now for sayin' that about my locks, or I'll-"

The sergeant's hand shot backward and clapped over Weasel's mouth. "My apologies, Warchief Chand, for this man speaking out of turn. It won't happen again."

"No. It won't." Chand spat the words out from behind clenched teeth. He leaned forward until his face was a blade's thickness away from Hewn's. "Get. . rid of him," he hissed.

Anger flared in Weasel. So did his magic. In the blink of an eye, his body enlarged to more than twice its normal size-big as an ogre's. His unlaced vest barely covered his muscle-rippled chest; his trousers stretched tight across powerful thighs. The sword grew with him-now it was longer than Chand was tall. Weasel leaned on it, driving the point deeper into the earth, and stared down at Chand.

Chand looked up.

Way up.

Weasel cupped a hand behind an enormous ear. "What was that, Cockelfeather? It's hard to hear you from up here."

The soldiers on either side of Weasel took a nervous step back, breaking ranks. The sergeant, still holding his hand out in the spot where Weasel's mouth had been a moment ago, went white as a bone-painted Ghostwise.

Chand paled. Then he drew himself up. "Sergeant Hewn," he snapped.

"Sir!"

"I've reconsidered. Maybe a spriggan does have its uses."

"Sir?"

"This soldier is going to need a uniform. See to it."

The sergeant snapped to attention. "Sir! Right away, Sir."

Chand spun on his heel and marched smartly away.

Weasel grinned.

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.

He stared at the priestess leading the procession, wondering how much a person would have to eat to get that fat. The halfling's blonde hair was unbound-a sure sign of a wanton wench-and she was nearly as wide as she was tall, so broad she waddled as she led the procession. She held a wooden shield in one hand, a woven wicker cornucopia in the other. Every few steps she jerked the cornucopia into the air, releasing a spray of loose grapes. The halflings behind her cheered and laughed, trying to catch them in their mouths.

"Beautiful, isn't she?" a voice behind Weasel said.

Weasel turned and saw one of the members of his squad-he never could tell one from the next, let alone remember their names-walking toward him. Only when the halfling pulled a pipe out of his vest pocket did Weasel realize which of them it was. Puffpipe-the only one in the squad who didn't crinkle his nose and complain about the smell when Weasel was nearby. Weasel hoped he wouldn't linger too long.

Puffpipe gestured with the gnawed pipe stem at the priestess leading the procession. "I'm courting her," he confided.

Weasel glanced again at the priestess, trying to see the attraction.

Puffpipe stared longingly at her. "When the spring festival's over, I aim to ask Willametta to twine the branch with me."

Weasel grunted. "Make sure it ain't attached to a snare."

Puffpipe laughed.

Weasel remembered their first patrol-how Swaggerstep'd had a little of the bluster knocked out of him when he'd ignored the sergeant's warning and kicked aside a branch, only to be yanked feetfirst into the air. The others in the squad had a good laugh at his expense, catching the coins from his pockets-until Headsuplads had pointed out the sharpened stake lying nearby. By Tymora's luck, a woodrat had gnawed the lashings that had held it to a branch above; otherwise, Swaggerstep would have been impaled.

"You'd better ask her sooner, stead of later," Weasel continued, trying to nudge Puffpipe along. "You never know when they'll send us out on patrol again."

"Patrol? During spring festival? Not likely!" Puffpipe peered blearily into the stem of his pipe, and plucked a piece of burr grass to clean it. He tried to thread it through the stem, failed, and gave up. He pulled out a pouch and tamped tobacco into the bowl, which was carved in the shape of a cornucopia. Pipe stem between his teeth, he looked hopefully at Weasel.

Weasel snapped his fingers and lit the pipe. The halfling started to thank him, but Weasel interrupted. "Look there! They're bringing out the bouqtha."

Puffpipe whirled so fast he nearly fell over. His licked his lips at the sight of the trays heaped with fruit-filled pastry. Forgetting even to bid Weasel farewell, he hurried off, trailing puffs of sweet-smelling smoke.

Weasel shook his head. The way Puffpipe was eating, the soldier would be as fat as his intended by the end of the three-day festival.

Weasel wiped sweat from his forehead and resumed his guard stance. Now that the rainy season was done, the weather was heating up. Soon swollen rivers and mud-slippery slopes would give way to brain-baking heat and the annual month-long explosion of star-shaped stinktree flowers. And then Weasel's agony would begin. Healing potions would ease his snuffling, but only for so long; it would have taken the whole army's supply to get Weasel through pollen season.

At last, the procession disappeared from view. Weasel opened the door behind him and slipped quickly inside, then closed the door on the singing. The hill-house was refreshingly cool, but dark; he sheathed his sword and waited while his eyes adjusted.

He looked around. Weapons were everywhere: Slings and stone pouches hung from pegs on the walls, scabbarded swords stood upright in racks, daggers of all sizes were laid out in neat rows on tabletops. Shields had been lined up like dinner plates against the walls. Color-changing sniper's cloaks, visible only as shadows, were draped from the rafters.

Weasel headed for the three strongboxes at the back of the armory. A few quick twists of his pick opened the laughably simple lock on the first one. Weasel lifted the lid and saw dozens of finger-sized glass vials-the vile-tasting sneakabout potions issued to patrols-as well as tiny pouches of the magical dust used to conceal weapon's caches. Valuable, but easy enough to filch while on patrol-and not a healing potion among 'em. No sense wasting his time on this lot. He closed and relocked the lid and tried the second strongbox.

This was more like it! The second strongbox contained a number of pouches that, judging by the clacking sound when he prodded them, contained gems.

The quartermaster must have been anticipating thievery: a black diamond lay on the uppermost bag. Weasel wasn't going to fall for that; he knew where the gem had come from. It had been Stomper who'd found it, on one of the squad's very first patrols-that's how he'd gotten his nickname. Stomper had spotted the diamond lying out in the open in the middle of an abandoned enemy village and praised Tymora high and low for his "luck."

The diamond turned out to be cursed. Heavy as a pony, it weighed Stomper down so he could barely lift his feet. He'd tried throwing it away, but it just kept appearing again in his pockets. It had taken a priestess' blessing to finally rid him of the thing.

Carefully avoiding the diamond, Weasel picked up a pouch. He was just about to peek inside it when he heard a commotion outside: shouts of alarm, which swiftly became screams. An alarm clanged: The village was under attack!

Weasel cursed his ill luck. He'd been waiting months for the spring festival-it was the one time when no one else wanted guard duty-and now the opportunity to fill his pockets was gone. In another moment, soldiers would rush in here to arm themselves. He gave the other pouches a longing look, then decided one bag of gems would have to be enough. He slammed the strongbox shut and ran for the door.

He opened it onto a scene of chaos. The enemy was everywhere. Ghostwise halflings, faces whited out for war, tore into the unarmed celebrants. Malar's clerics, roaring their bloodsong, were a terrifying blend of halfling and beast, their arms transformed into the limbs of jungle predators. They slashed a savage furrow through the villagers. A handful of soldiers tried to stand against them bare-handed, but were no match for the magically augmented Ghostwise. The surprise attack was rapidly turning into a slaughter.

Weasel hesitated, hand on his sheathed sword. These weren't his people. He'd hired on with the halflings as a scout, not a swordsman. The army provided a steady trickle of coins and the occasional opportunity to grab a fistful more. The Stronghearts didn't pay him enough for him to throw away his life in a futile-

Something struck him from behind. He slammed face-first into the ground. Tasted dirt. Claws raked his shoulder, drawing blood. Teeth snapped for his neck. He twisted and saw he'd been knocked down by a were-jaguar. It snarled, its breath hot with fresh blood.

He screamed.

Magic burst from him, equal in volume to the shriek that wailed from his lungs. The jaguar sprang back, ears flat, belly to the ground as Weasel's fear-magic struck it. Weasel scrambled to his feet and started to back away-then realized he'd dropped the pouch. It lay on the ground between him and the were-jaguar, which lashed its tail, trying to work up the courage to attack.

"Niiice kitty," Weasel scooped up the pouch. The claws had torn a hole; a gem tumbled out of the pouch as he lifted it. Weasel caught it as it fell, then realized his folly as he saw what it really was. He'd stolen a bag of oversized glass marbles. Glowing glass marbles-but marbles just the same. The halfling's trickster god had played him for a fool!

He hurled the marble at the jaguar, yelling a shatter-shout at it for good measure.

Suddenly, he was flying backward through the air, propelled by a tremendous blast. He slammed into the wall of a hill-house and slid to the ground, ears ringing. A villager ran past, screaming, but Weasel couldn't hear her. The spot where the were-jaguar had crouched was a smoking crater in the ground. A tuft of its tail-all that remained of the beast-landed on the ground nearby.

"Some marbles," Weasel croaked, barely able to hear his own voice. "A kid could lose a finger, playing with those."

He realized he still held the pouch in his hand-and that Malar's beasts and clerics were still attacking. A Ghostwise, wearing bloodied spike gauntlets on each hand, chased after a soldier. Weasel sprang to his feet and hurled a marble at him. A shatter-shout triggered the marble, and the Ghostwise disappeared in a terrific blast. Weasel whirled and threw again, and another enemy vanished in an explosion that left Weasel reeling.

A hand tapped his shoulder, startling him-a soldier from his squad. Chucklebelly held out a hand and shouted something Weasel couldn't hear, but Weasel guessed what was being asked by the sling in Chucklebelly's hand. Weasel held out the pouch; Chucklebelly plunged his hand into it. Armed with the marbles, the halfling scrambled atop the hill-house.

Weasel, realizing the marbles would remain inert without his shatter-shout, clambered up there too. Chucklebelly's first two shots went beyond the range of Weasel's shatter-shout, but after Weasel's frantic explanation, they became an efficient team. Chucklebelly's sling whirred, released, whirred, released-while Weasel turned this way and that, shouting as each marble struck. Too soon, they were down to their last marble. But it didn't matter. Malar's clerics were beaten; those that hadn't been blown to pieces were fading back into the jungle.

Days later-when the wounded, including Weasel, had been tended at the healing house and the dead buried-Warchief Chand himself came to the village to congratulate Sergeant Headsuplads on the initiative his soldiers had shown. Both Chucklebelly and Weasel were presented with a red cock feather. As the warchief tucked this into the buttonhole of Weasel's vest, Chand leaned close and spoke in a low murmur. "One day you'll have to tell me, soldier, how you knew the command word of a weapon crafted by human wizards-a weapon that was supposed to be stored securely in a locked strongbox." Warchief Chand straightened and spoke a little louder. "That's quite the initiative you showed. I'll have to tell Sergeant Hewn to keep an eye on you."

Weasel-who a moment ago had been contemplating easing a hand into the warchief's vest pocket, just to see if he could get away with filching whatever was inside it-tugged his beardlocks nervously. "Yes, Sir, Warchief!"

When the brief ceremony was over, Headsuplads, exuding a near-visible glow of pride at having the foresight to take on a spriggan as a scout, clapped a hand on Weasel's and Chucklebelly's shoulders, dragged them off to the mess, and bought them the first of many ales. There, Weasel toasted the sergeant and capered a jest at his expense. He turned to Chucklebelly-who liked to joke he drank his belly so big on purpose, so he could keep extra sling stones tucked inside its folds. This, he boasted, gave him the "last laugh" when an enemy thought him unarmed. Weasel used a fast-hand trick to "pull" the last blast marble from Chucklebelly's folds. The others all dived for cover when Weasel fumble-dropped it at the sergeant's feet. Afterward, even Headsuplads had laughed when Weasel explained that it wouldn't explode unless he shattered it.

Later that night, Weasel staggered back to the hill-house where his patrol was billeted, drunk as a halfling with a full cheese in his belly. On the way, he spotted Puffpipe sitting on a door stoop. The halfling's head was down; his pipe lay on the stoop beside him, unlit. He was either staring at some shy;thing in his lap or he was asleep. Weasel staggered over, gave his shoulder a punch, and held out the mug of ale he'd just realized he was carrying. "Hey Puffpipe, want a quaff?"

Puffpipe shook his head. "She died," he whispered. "Earlier today. They couldn't heal her."

Weasel took a sloppy pull of his ale and wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. "Who are you-" Then he saw the cornucopia Puffpipe held in his lap. The wicker was torn, stained with dried blood.

"Oh." The pride drained out of Weasel in a rush. He set the ale mug on a window ledge and fell into a squat beside Puffpipe. He drummed his fingers against his thighs, for once, not quite knowing what to say. Flames flickered; he balled his fists, extinguishing them.

Puffpipe looked up. Tears glinted in the moonlight. "Willametta was too weak to heal herself. And the other clerics couldn't… " He sighed. A tear dripped from his jowly chin. "She was the reason I was fighting." He waved a hand. "This village. But now…"

Weasel squeezed his fists tighter. "Now you're gonna quit?" he guessed.

Puffpipe's jaw clenched. "No. Now I've even more reason to fight." One hand groped for his pipe; the stem trembled as he tamped tobacco into it. Weasel leaned forward and offered him a light.

Puffpipe sucked on the stem and exhaled a long, sad stream of smoke. Tear-puffy eyes met Weasels. "Why are you in uniform?" he asked. "Did you… lose someone?"

Weasel bit back the retort that he wasn't in uniform-the trousers, armor vest, and helmet he'd been issued were too loose when in spriggan form, too tight when he enlarged. He wore his own clothes, instead. He glanced down at the feather in his vest. "I was doing it for the reward. But after today… " His gaze drifted to the blood-splattered wall beside Puffpipe.

The halfling nodded and took a deep draw on his pipe. Its ruddy glow illuminated his face. "You're one of us."

Weasel blinked in surprise. That hadn't been what he'd meant. His ale-bleary thinking had been more along the lines of his having blown his one chance at getting rich-that perhaps it was time to finally leave "this hin's army." To gather up all the swag he'd been able to filch and move along. But his feet weren't following orders. Instead of marching him smartly along the trail that led to the spriggans' highsummer Gather, they'd meandered him back to his billet.

Weasel stood, fumbled the feather out of his buttonhole, and handed it to Puffpipe.

The halfling looked up, startled. "What… But I didn't… "

"It's for Willametta. She should have something pretty on her grave."

The Year of Monstrous Appetites (-65 DR)

Weasel tore his way through the thick undergrowth, cursing each vine and fern and bush that got in his way. The Gloomthicket was tougher than any obstacle course he'd ever run in training. He leaped over logs, crawled through thorn bushes, ran teetering along fallen tree trunks, and scrambled up and down boulder-strewn slopes. He changed size more times than he could count, enlarging when he needed to make a leap, resuming his normal size in tight-squeeze spots.

All the while, he heard Malar's Hunt braying in pursuit. By the sound of it, they were sticking to animal form, to follow his scent. That meant they had to move along the ground. By climbing a tree and moving through branches, Weasel might have been able to lose them.

Unfortunately, he couldn't. Not with a broken finger.

Still, he managed a trick or two to slow them down.

He spotted sparks inside a hole in the ground: the underground den of a pair of shocker lizards. He laid a false scent-trail into it, first forcing the electric-sparking creatures deeper into their tunnel with a dose of magical fear, then backing out again. He backtracked away from the den to a stream he'd crossed earlier and waded up it, grinning at his trick. The shocker lizards were small, but they'd be defending their eggs; with luck, they'd combine their attacks to deliver a lethal shock to the first wolf that nosed into their hole.

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.

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."