Realms of War

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, draw­ing 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