Realms of War

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 some­thing 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