But Binky wasn't done. I thought he was going to attempt to shoot a web at the creature, though its position above would make aiming tricky, as would the strictures of the wagon's yoke, what with his spinnerets being located on his rear end and all.
The spider hissed threateningly, then did something entirely unexpected. He convulsed, like a cat about to vomit. But instead of a hairball, a wad of sticky whitish goop was propelled from his mandibled mouth. It arced across the space between them, looking like an egg sac launched from a catapult.
As I stared at the icky lump in disgusted fascination, the Augmentary's silvery text shimmered into being.
Spit
Arachnid ability
Spit fluid that congeals on contact, trapping the target in a sticky fluid of venom and liquid spidersilk produced in the chelicerae.
Range: 3 meters
Cooldown: 60 seconds (mana cost to use sooner)
Cost per additional use: 10 mana (currently unavailable)
Incredibly, the owl managed to dodge the projectile, but only just. The pearl-colored spit-bullet sailed off into the darkness and splatted against a tree with a faint sizzle.
Binky was preparing to follow up the missile with a Web Shoot, but the owl had had enough. Clearly deciding we weren't worth the hassle, it led out one more aggravated "Hoooo!" in Binky's direction before flapping off into the night.
"Holy shit. I didn't even see it coming." Benin stared around at the shadow-filled canopy, the whites of his eyes gleaming in the light from the gnomes' illumishrooms. "Hope it doesn't go and tell its friends where to find us. Aren't birds known for that?"
"That's bees," I told him.
"You don't have to be rude about it."
"No, bees. As in, bumble, honey, the birds and the, etcetera."
The mage said something else, but my attention drifted from the conversation as I took in the near-miss we'd just had. I was suddenly, overwhelmingly conscious of how small the gnomes were—how small we all were—compared to the rest of the world. If Binky hadn't reacted so quickly, that owl could easily have killed or carried off any one of my gnomes, and there was nothing we'd be able to do about it. It would be so easy for anything—a flock of owls, a herd of possums, even a pack of small voles—to tear through our ranks and wreak untold damage.
I refused to spiral into despair, though the weight of our task—my task—was already near unbearable. We needed to be more prepared. We'd been taken by surprise, but we'd made it out alive. Now we just had to stay that way. True, I didn't have my god-born. But we hadn't had them during the main part of the kobold battle either, and the gnomes had pulled through. They could do so again. I needed to take stock, to assess what they could do.
But first, they needed to rest and recover their strength.
"All right," I said. "Let's make camp."
Twenty-Seven
Wet Dreams
Corey
The process of making camp was, surprisingly, less chaotic than expected.
Sure, most of my denizens plopped themselves down in their usual slapdash fashion as soon as the order was given. But their group leaders immediately chivvied them back to their feet, directing them to help set things up in a more practical arrangement.
I would have liked for them to encircle the area in a protective barrier of wagons, but there weren't enough vehicles for that. Instead, I had Gneil order them to be placed in a semi-circle shielding the main body of the campsite from the side closest to the forest. We had no idea what might be lurking in the undergrowth, and though it left us vulnerable to attack from the more open area we'd just traversed, we could at least see things coming that way.
Assisted by the clothiers, Shuck the armorer began to lay down the hides she'd salvaged from the flood. They were too damaged to be of any use in crafting, but they served just fine as floor mats, and would at least ensure that those on the ground would not have to sleep in the mud.
Rolls of thatch—taken from the gnomehomes' conical roofs—were also unloaded from the wagons. The builders attempted to assemble them into decent-sized shelters. But without the shroomwood framework to support it, the sagging material lacked the structural integrity to stand on its own. The workers were glancing around despairingly at their surroundings, and I could see why. They sought to improvise a frame, but most of the branches on the nearby trees were all either too large for them to handle, or were twigs too slender to be of any use.
If only I had access to Growth, I thought. I could've grown those twigs to the perfect length and width.
It was difficult not to feel constant resentment at my situation. But my gnomes were getting on with things as best they could, so I resolved to do the same.
Along with the woodcutters, the builders were able to collect enough decent-sized branches from the ground to make around twenty improvised tents, much smaller and sadder-looking than originally intended. Each sheltered just four gnomes, leaving a fifth of my denizens still outside. Most were warriors who'd nobly volunteered to brave the elements; Hammer directed half of these into positions around the perimeter to keep watch, while the rest formed a makeshift lean-to with the help of Coll, who lent them his shield and cloak. After snuffling around for a dinner of insects, the four unyoked badgers settled in with them as well.
At least they won’t get cold.
The humans had assembled their own two-man tent on the western edge of the camp. The wind was blowing from that direction, driving the rain sideways in misery-inducing sheets of cold water, and the position of their tent provided a windbreak that sheltered the main camp from the worst of it. Benin had grudgingly held
