by Trevor Pryce
He continued onward, keeping himself awake with thoughts of Gee. Then with a sudden jolt of adrenaline, he realized he was hopping across a battlefield.
According to Old Jir, the dry plain just past the Outback Hills was the site of the final battle of the Hidingwar. He gazed at the barrenness. Here the Kulipari had defeated the scorpion hordes—though the victory had driven them to near-extinction.
Here the mighty crocodiles had attacked; here the turtle king had cast the Veil. Even regular wood frog and bullfrog soldiers had taken part in that battle, supporting the Kulipari with swords and shields, with long leaps and flashing tongues.
Darel crouched and grabbed a handful of dirt, then let it slip through his finger pads. Maybe his father had stood on this very spot, single-handedly facing down a squad of charging scorpions.
And now, years later, his son was single-handedly tracking down another squad. He hoped his father would be proud of his courage rather than ashamed of his foolishness.
Darel raised his head to gaze at the stars dotting the night sky.
Then he sighed. What his father might think didn’t matter at the moment. He needed to save Gee. He filled his throat with air, feeling the skin bulge, then continued onward.
As he hopped through the night, mountains loomed in the distance, and smaller hills rose closer to him. They were dotted with bushes that looked black in the moonlight. The hike was long, the trail was rough, and he was afraid he’d lose the cart. The scorpions were larger than he was and better at traveling in the outback. And Darel was thirsty. He’d need to stop for water soon.
Still, he didn’t fall too far behind. He was a wood frog—what he lacked in size he made up for in determination. He’d seen his mother work through the night a hundred times, and hopping through the night wasn’t that much different.
Heading past a stand of thorn trees, he paused to watch humped shadows in the distance: a troop of kangaroos grazing on shrubs. A short time later, a glow appeared on the far side of a looming ridge.
At first, Darel didn’t understand: It was hours before dawn. Then he realized that the glow was campfires—thousands of campfires. The entire scorpion army was waiting on the other side of that ridge.
“Oh boy,” he muttered, feeling his eyes bulge.
At that moment, the cart carrying the waratah tree was silhouetted at the top of the ridge.
Darel started after it—then froze. The creak of carapaces sounded from nearby, the crunch of too many scorpion feet, the jangle of battle gear.
With his eyes wide and his nostrils clenched, Darel scanned the shadow of the ridge and saw them: a two-scorp patrol walking the perimeter of the big encampment.
Heading directly for him.
Fifteen feet away.
Ten feet away.
In a sudden panic, Darel forgot all his years of practice, of stalking the bigger frogs and sneaking through the brush. He sprang backward, a high leap that sent him sprawling beside a thicket of sharp-edged grass, his heart thumping in his chest.
“You hear that?” one of the scorpions said, raising her stinger.
“Of course I heard it,” the other scorp grunted. “Probably one of those scaly-foot lizards slinking around again.”
Darel wriggled into the sand beneath the hillock of grass, burying himself up to his head. His ragged, frightened breathing sounded loud in his ears.
“Maybe,” the first scorpion said. “I thought I saw something jump.”
“Where?”
“Over there. Near that grass.”
At the scraping of feet prowling closer, Darel shifted deeper, narrowed his nostrils, and prayed he was hidden.
A hard edge of something half-buried under the grass jabbed into his cheek, but he didn’t move. Maybe being mud-colored would save him again.
The footsteps came closer.
Deadly pincers prodded the grass.
RAZOR-SHARP SCORPION TAIL JAMMED into the earth an inch from Darel’s shoulder, and he had to force himself to stop trembling.
The scorps kicked the hillock a few times, and then one of them grunted, “Nothing here but dirt.”
A moment later, they headed off. Darel didn’t dare move.
He stayed half-buried, ignoring the pain in his cheek and wrestling the fear in his mind. With patrols like that, how was he going to sneak into the camp? And once he got there, he’d stick out like a … well, like a frog in an army of scorpions.
If only he really were a sandpaper frog, he’d have the run of the camp as a mercenary. At least, according to Old Jir’s stories. It was hard to imagine a frog crazy enough to wander around among a bunch of scorps.
Once he was sure the patrol was gone, Darel scrambled out of the sand and brushed the grains from his arms and legs. He felt light-headed with fear and relief. When his heartbeat returned to normal, he rubbed his aching cheek, then poked around to see what had been jabbing him.
Felt like metal. He tugged at a hard edge, and worked leather shone dully in the moonlight.
A bowl?
No, a helmet. A battered old helmet—probably from the Hidingwar. He brushed dirt from the inside, as an idea glimmered in the back of his mind.
Darel dug around a little more but didn’t find anything else. So he cleaned and polished the helmet as well as he could, then tugged it onto his head.
Not a bad fit, though it smelled like dirt.
Okay, he told himself. Act like a Kulipari. Act like a warrior. Get moving.
Instead, he crouched there, slowly inflating his throat. He’d never been this frightened before. He’d always dreamed of fighting the scorpions, of glorious victories, of beating a dozen enemies single-handedly.
But the truth was that just one scorpion was enough to scare the warts off him. A whole army of them was a nightmare.
He wasn’t sure if he could go on. Still, he knew he couldn’t run away. When he’d asked Chief Olba how you knew what was right, she’d said, “Maybe you don’t.”
Well, he didn’t know if this was right, but he knew he’d never turn his back on Gee. Maybe that’s what she’d meant.
So after a minute he stretched his long legs and returned to the scorpions’ trail, a little wider here from traffic to the scorpion camp.
He hopped up the ridge, then paused at the top, staring at the size of the scorp encampment. The tents seemed to reach halfway to the horizon, in messy rows with openings for training grounds and fire pits. Most of them were the same size, probably barracks, but a few were larger: mess halls or armories.
And the entire place hummed with activity. Firelight glinted off carapaces; the clash of fighting rang in the night. A bark of harsh laughter sounded. Smoke from a hundred fires blurred the moonlight and carried the scent of roasting cockroach.
He scanned the camp but didn’t see the soldiers who were holding Gee.
There was no way to sneak into an army that size—which meant that he had only one way forward. Darel inflated his throat a few times, then strolled openly along the path, trying to swagger a little like he wasn’t terrified.
On the outskirts of the tents, a bunch of scorpions turned a dripping chunk of rat meat over a spit. They glanced at him but didn’t say anything. They must’ve figured he was allowed there, because what kind of frog would wander into the scorpion horde if he didn’t belong?
A crazy frog.
Darel almost smiled to himself, but the dark shadows and flickering fires kept his face frozen.
He checked the path, and, despite all the scuffs and bootmarks, he found faint indentations from the cart’s wheels. He followed them deeper into the camp, skirting a gang of rowdy scorpion warriors.
The cart tracks disappeared at a wide intersection, but Darel found them again in the alley beyond. His eyes were bulging halfway out of his head, and he paused in the shadow of a tent to gather his courage.
Strange sounds and foreign smells swirled around him, so he did the calming exercise that Old Jir had taught him. His heart rate slowed and
his hands steadied—then he glanced at the tent flap beside him.
Frogskin.
The tent was made of frogskin.
Disgust rose in his stomach and turned his nostrils to slits. And then, following the disgust, something else: anger. A hot anger that burned away his fear.
These scorpions had invaded his home. They’d kidnapped his friend. They lived in tents of frogskin, and they planned to overrun the Amphibilands and suck all the life from the forests and ponds and swamps, leaving lifeless desert behind.
No. Not without a fight. Maybe he was just a wood frog, but Chief Olba was right. Wood frogs never gave up.
Never.
AREL NARROWED HIS EYES AND continued along the wide alley between tents.
A moment later, a scorpion soldier loomed in front of him. “What’re you doing, hopper?” the scorp growled.
Faced with eight legs, a curved stinger, protruding mouthparts, and at least five pairs of eyes, Darel froze.
Then he shook himself, like shaking water off his skin after a swim, and snarled back, “What’s it look like? I’m returning to the barracks.”
He kept walking, and the scorpion watched him for a second, his tail swaying in the air. Then the soldier shrugged, his eight legs shifted, and he continued on his way.
Darel managed not to faint. He knew how to act now: If he was as rude as a sandpaper frog, nobody would suspect him. As long as he didn’t show fear, he’d fit right in.
So he swallowed his terror and followed the cart tracks, getting closer and closer to a grand pavilion in the middle of the encampment. Probably the scorpion lord’s tent.
And finally he found Gee.
The path opened into a wide, torchlit clearing with a circular fence in the center. It looked like a sparring ring or a place where the scorps staged gladiator fights. A few scorpions lounged at a table, gnawing on hunks of possum meat and tossing the bones into a pile on the ground.
Past them, a row of cages stood in the shadows. Whimpering sounded from the dark recesses, and as Darel edged closer, his nostrils closed at the stench of fear and hunger and sickness.
A battle net lay on the ground in front of one of the cages, and in the flickering of the torches, Darel saw a flash of brown-green skin and bulging yellow eyes—Gurnugan.
Alive and awake and terrified.
Darel almost croaked in relief. He managed to stay quiet, though, and quickly hopped toward Gee—then he stopped short. The cages were locked with thick chains, and a guard patrolled the shadows, pausing now and then to kick at the bars.
The guard was a rock lizard, a brawny mercenary with dark stripes running along his brow that made it seem like he was scowling. Plus, he was scowling.
His overlapping scales looked like armor plating, and as he paced, his muscular tail dragged in the dirt behind him. No way Darel could get past him and through that chain. But he hadn’t come all this way to fail with Gee in sight.
He tried to think of a plan, but he couldn’t concentrate while standing in the middle of the scorpion army. He could barely remember his own name. As he stood there gulping, another lizard mercenary lumbered from the opposite side of the clearing.
“Hey, Nogo,” the new arrival said to the scowling lizard. “Your shift is over.”
Nogo grunted. “About time. I always get stuck guarding the cells.”
“The toughest fighters stand guard.” The newcomer tasted the air with her tongue. “That’s why it’s always you or me. Only way to get out of it is to lose a fight to one of those weaklings back at camp. You know that. Any news?”
“We got a new prisoner,” Nogo growled. “Straight from the Amphibilands.”
“Fresh meat.”
“Not for us.” Nogo scratched his scaly scalp. “Commander Pigo’s saving him for Marmoo.”
“So he can crunch the croaker’s bones?”
Nogo shrugged. “Don’t matter to me, long as I get paid.” He kicked a cage door with his clawed foot, then turned away. “I’m heading back to camp.”
Darel watched the big scowling lizard shamble along a path between two tents. He nibbled nervously on a finger pad, then realized what he had to do. He started after Nogo, walking in a bowlegged strut to make himself look more lizard-like.
A pair of grizzled scorpions brushed past him, and one jostled him with her rear legs. Darel ignored the jolt of fear and kept watching Nogo, who was weaving through the maze of frogskin and turtle-shell tents toward his own camp.
The mercenary camp. That’s what Darel needed, a company of sandpaper frogs. He looked enough like one to pass—he hoped. Then at least he could blend in while he figured out how to free Gee.
He followed Nogo to the outskirts of the scorpion encampment, where a ring of tents stood at the base of a sandy hill. The rock lizard crossed a clearing, pushed through a flap, and disappeared.
Darel stopped, his eyes bulging. He didn’t see frogs anywhere in the mercenary camp—just lizards. Most of them looked like monitor lizards, hard-eyed and rough-scaled.
Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea after all. Maybe he should just stick close to Gee and pray for a chance.
He turned to retrace his steps when a guttural voice sounded from the shadows: “You! Croaker!”
Swallowing hard, he kept walking, hoping that the owner of the voice wouldn’t follow. But he heard scuffling behind him, and a moment later a scaled paw clamped his shoulder.
“I’m talking to you, longlegs,” the voice growled.
AREL TURNED AND FOUND himself gazing up at a brutal-looking lizard with a spiny frill. One eye gleamed red, and the other was covered with a patch. His claws curved to razor points.
“Me?” Darel squeaked.
“No,” the lizard sneered sarcastically. “The croaker behind you.”
“I’m looking—” Darel gulped. “Looking for the sandpaper frogs. I’m here to join the mercenaries.”
“You, a mercenary?”
“That’s right.”
“You look more like a snack than a soldier.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, um, er …” He didn’t know what to say, so he just gulped again. “Um, where are the sandpapers?”
“Guarding the scorpion lord’s fortress,” the frilled lizard said. “Doing the grunt work, where they belong.”
“Kick his warty butt, Captain Killara,” another lizard called. “Show him where he belongs!”
The lizard captain showed Darel his sharp claws. “Okay, frog. Give me one reason I shouldn’t serve you roasted with onions.”
“I’ll give you two reasons,” Darel blurted. “First, I can beat any new recruit you’ve got. And second—”
A hiss of laughter sounded from the fire pit. “Scrawny frog. I could whip you with one claw tied behind my back.”
Darel peered into the firelight and saw a three-toed skink. “How about you put your scales where your mouth is?” he said, trying to sound tough.
To his relief, the lizard captain lowered his clawed hand. But then said, “That might liven up the evening.” Killara gave a wicked grin. “Let’s see you two fight. If you win, frog, we won’t eat you—at least not tonight.”
Two minutes later, Darel found himself circling the skink as the other lizards crowded around, jeering and spitting. What was he doing? He couldn’t beat a real warrior.
Darel’s eyes bulged as he warily watched the skink, waiting for him to make the first move.
They circled twice, and the jeers from the crowd grew louder. The skink was long and sinuous, with stubby, muscular arms and legs and a mean glint in his eyes. He moved smoothly, his long body relaxed and ready.
Then he attacked. He seemed to uncoil, his body twice as long as it looked, and his scaly fist flashed at Darel. The young frog leaped desperately backward, twisting to avoid the blow—and slammed to the ground, his legs curled tight to his chest.
When the skink rushed him again, claws extended, Darel tried to shove him away, but the skink easily brushed his hands aside.
That’s when Darel flicked his tongue at the skink’s eyes.
The skink jerked backward, and Darel kicked his powerful legs. The skink wasn’t the only one who was longer than he looked—Darel’s right foot caught the skink in his chest … hard.
The skink went flying into the air, his body squirming. He sailed over the crowd of onlookers, who grunted and laughed. Then he crashed into a tent, tearing a hole in the side.
Darel stood, brushed dirt from his legs, and made a sour face. The skink tasted disgusting. But he’d done it. He’d won.
Nothing happened—for a moment. Then a big paw appeared in the hole that the skink had torn in the tent. Followed by a big head. And Nogo stepped through, his scowl even angrier.
He glared at the crowd. “Who woke me?”
“The frog,” somebody squeaked.
“Take care of him,” Captain Killara told the big rock lizard.
Nogo shoved through the crowd toward Darel. He looked like an angry mountain with claws and a tail.
Darel nervously inflated his throat. He’d barely beaten the skink—Nogo was too big and strong for him.
But he couldn’t run. If he ran now, he’d have to keep running all the way back to the Amphibilands—and leave Gee behind.
So he took a shaky breath and faced the big rock lizard.
There was no circling, no wary testing.
Instead, Nogo simply lumbered toward him.
Darel planted his feet the way Old Jir had taught him and, drawing on years of practice, punched the big lizard as hard as he could.
Nogo didn’t seem to notice.
Instead, he swung one of his big claws. Darel saw a scaly blur, then felt the impact against his cheek. The campfire flickered and the lizards’ voices hushed. Darel hit the ground, and darkness fell.
OMETHING STANK LIKE ROTTEN vegetables and stagnant marsh water. Pain throbbed in time with Darel’s heartbeat—mostly in his head and arm. After a time, he realized that he was croaking, a low, sad chorus of one.
So he quieted and opened his eyes. Kangaroo hide stretched above him, and smoke was thick in the air.
