'Easy, lad,' the cook husked in a weak echo of hi, normal voice. Brandor stopped rolling and opened hi eyes. He was looking up at a ring of angry faces: thi Tyrant, Commander Maerlin, his master Druskin, an‹ a growing army of men-at-arms with drawn swords ii their hands.
'Your cooking spell,' Druskin snapped, 'an‹ quickly!'
A dozen hands hauled Brandor to his feet before thi apprentice could do more than blink. Druskin slappec a hand across Brandor's forehead to wipe away bully wug blood and slime, no one let him look at what was spattered all over the floor, and the apprentice fount himself frog-marched-if that wasn't too unfortunate an expression-across the chaos of the kitchen floor.
An army of hard-faced warriors in full armor wai watching him. He was drenched and stinking witl dead bullywug. Anger and fear glared forth at hin from scores of tight, white faces. Oh, gods, he was in foi it. They looked about two breaths away from executing an apprentice…
The spell, lad,' Druskin said flatly. 'Now.'
Brandor saw six gauntleted hands bring the long tongs up and hold them ready by his side. He let out Ј long, unhappy breath, swallowed, felt for the components he'd need, faced the empty space in front of the stop-log, and did his duty.
Warriors snatched the log aside and wrenched the empty barrel out of the way. The others began to roll The tongs were handed wordlessly to Brandor, and he steadied the first full barrel squarely in the midst of the field only he could see.
Steam rose from its staves, and an evil smell. When he rolled the barrel along, warriors with axes hastened to break it open. A bullywug sagged out, dark and slimy, with steam pouring from its gaping mouth. It sagged to the stones even before their axes bit down in bloody unison. The smell made Brandor retch.
Commander Maerlin barked an order Brandor did not catch, and the armsmen surged forward. They swarmed up around the barrels, rolling them into Brandor's field and breaking them open with axes. Squalling bullywugs were pierced with spears and pinned in place to cook with brutal speed and efficiency. The slaughter went on and on, and more than one person in the kitchens was noisily sick. Several spewed in unison when Halger looked up from the priest tending to his shoulder and told the room gruffly, 'No, I don't know any recipes for bullywug soup… but I'm willing to improvise.'
Brandor rolled barrels into the heat with the heavy, unwieldy long tongs like a madman until someone- the Tyrant of Mintarn himself-took him by the shoulder and shouted at him to stop and stand easy.
When he let the long tongs fall, Brandor found that he was shaking with weariness. He looked across a kitchen that stank with carnage. Shalara, Druskin, and the other two Buckler mages were on their knees, white- faced and retching, and grim armsmen were clambering about knee-deep in wet, bloody bullywugs. Oh, he was going to catch it now…
Commander Maerlin was wading grimly through the remains toward him. Brandor closed his eyes and waited for the cold words that would end his Buckler career and direct him to a cell.
The hand that came down on his shoulder grippec warmly, and out of a dizzy fog Brandor heard Oldivai Maerlin say, 'Well and bravely done, lad. My thanks.'
From his other side came the sound of Druskir clearing his throat. The wizard sounded a little breath less as he said, 'You'll teach us all both of those spells I hope. 111 exchange four of comparable power for eact of them, of course.'
'Moreover, Mintarn you've saved,' the Tyrant saic from nearby, his voice rolling out to carry to everj corner of the lofty room, 'and Mintarn is in your debt I see no reason that we cannot reward you fittingly in the days ahead.'
Brandor lifted his head, then, to stare at the ruler oi Mintarn in astonishment, but somehow his gaze was caught and held by the shining eyes of Shalara. Thej stared at each other for a long, wordless time, and suddenly the Tyrant's daughter raced across the space between them, heedless of heaped bullywug remains, and threw her arms around him.
Her kisses were warm and fiercely eager, and it was some time before she drew back, her eyes shining. It was longer still before Brandor could look at anything else but the look of adoration on her smiling face. The first thing he saw was the bullywug slime and gore that had soaked all down the front of her fine gown, and even its flared sleeves where she'd embraced him.
'I've… I've ruined your dress,' he mumbled, reaching forth a tentative hand to brush away slime from her bodice, letting it fall without touching her.
Shalara glided up to him again, and murmured into his chest some words only he could hear: 'Let it be the first of many of mine you ruin, lord of my heart,' before whirling away from him.
It was about that time that Brandor became aware that the movement he'd been noticing out of the corner of his eye was a broad and knowing smile growing across the Tyrant's face.
Brandor*s face flamed, and he looked down quickly. Then he bent, fished around in the gore at his feet, and came up with something that was small and bloody, but unmistakably a weapon.
'Hold hard!' said the Tyrant in alarm, stepping back. 'What's that for?'
'The drudge duty of potato peeling,' Brandor replied in a voice that quavered only a little. He waved with his knife at the mound of potatoes. 'The true value of a warrior, sir.'
A slow smile grew on, the Tyrant's face. 'Really?' he replied, 'and here I thought it was doing guard duty… snoring at posts.'
Shalara's high, tinkling laughter rose over the chorus of deep warriors' chuckles. Brandor, who was busily turning all shades of red as the Tyrant dealt him a friendly slap on the back, thought it was the most glorious sound he'd ever heard.
LOST CAUSE
17 Kythorn, the Year of the Gauntlet
Resplendent in his burnished plate armor, jaunty scarlet plume, and matching cape, Sir Hylas rode his roan destrier down the white sand beach. A dozen militiamen and I, their sergeant, trudged along after our new commander, each of us carrying one of the pickaxes we'd borrowed from the quarrymen. The young knight had sneered when he saw them, but we'd found them more useful than short swords against our current foe.
Gray on this overcast morning, the surf murmured, filling the air with the smells of seaweed and saltwater. Granite cliffs towered on our left, and, dead ahead, a colossal mass of rock extruded across the beach and into the waves.
The closer we got to the promontory, the edgier the men became. At last, Hylas reined in his steed.
'So that's it, is it,' he said in his cultured baritone voice. The castle of mine enemy.'
'Yes,' I said, 'and you can see that it would be as difficult to take as any keep built by man. We certainly couldn't seize the place with fifty men-at-arms.' In reality, we were already down to forty-two. Three were dead and five more too sorely wounded to serve.
'It might be impregnable if we were fighting other humans,' Hylas said, 'but surely these crabmen of yours are no better than beasts.'
That may not be true,' I replied. 'Even if it is, they're formidable beasts, and the caves are full of them.'
The knight grimaced. 'There has to be a way,' he said, and at that moment, a crabman scuttled forth from one of the narrow fissures in the birdlime-spattered crags.
The creature was ten feet tall with an orange shell. Like all its kind, it walked on two legs, and held two sets of pincers before it, the greater above and the lesser below. The intricate mandibles comprising its mouth twitched, and its eyestalks swiveled back and forth.
Hylas grinned and couched his lance.
'No!' I cried. But Hylas was already charging, with never a thought to spare for directing his command. It fell to me to give the order the men were dreading: 'Forward!'
