An Army of Frogs

by Trevor Pryce

  He was lying on a cot inside a long rectangular tent.

  Dozens of cots lined each wall, with footlockers beside them. A row of thick poles marched down the center of the tent, and a few small fires smoldered in pits beneath blackened copper pots. Soiled clothing draped over cots, and trash was scattered everywhere.

  Lizards snored in the smoky half-light, a hissing wheeze that set Darel’s teeth on edge. A sudden fear struck him, and he reached for his belt, sure that the lizards had stolen his dagger. But, no, the hilt rested comfortably in his palm, and he inflated his throat in relief.

  The relief didn’t last long.

  A guttural voice suddenly sounded behind him. “I’ve got a question for you, croaker.”

  He started like a surprised tree frog, then turned. Captain Killara sat on the next cot, watching him with his one reddish eye.

  Darel suppressed a shudder of fear. “Oh, um—yes?”

  “You said there were two reasons I shouldn’t serve you roasted with onions. One was because you could beat my recruits. What was the other?”

  “Because I’d taste better in a cream sauce.”

  The captain grunted—not quite a laugh, but close. “You’ve got guts, croaker, I’ll give you that. You’re fast, too.”

  Darel rubbed his aching head, reminding himself to act tough and unafraid. “Not fast enough,” he said. “The sandpaper frogs really aren’t here?”

  The captain nodded. “That’s why you came, huh? To enlist?”

  “Sure,” Darel said. “I mean, why else would a frog come to the scorpion camp?”

  “Good question.” The captain’s eye narrowed. “You don’t mind fighting your own kind?”

  Darel tried a mean smile. “Not if I’m getting paid.”

  “In that case, I could use a frog like you. Small and mud-green—makes you good for scouting.”

  “How much?” Darel asked.

  The captain explained the pay and the duties involved, but Darel only half-listened, his mind on Gee.

  So he nodded, even when Killara said, “… your job is to clean the tents, do the laundry, polish the gear. And stay out of everyone’s way. Do that well enough, and we’ll see about training you to scout.”

  “Hey, bosss,” a slithery voice said from across the tent. “Did you jussst tell the croaker to clean for usss?”

  “That’s right.”

  The lizard shoved some dirty clothes to the floor. “Then clean thisss, frog.”

  “And that,” a broad-shouldered monitor lizard said, gesturing to a pile of dirty dishes. “I’m tired of eating off crusty plates.”

  “And make my bed,” a third lizard snarled, from a few cots down.

  “And mine,” another voice said.

  Darel gulped in dismay as a chorus of gruff, hissing voices filled the tent. So much for his daydreams of battle and victory. Even after bravely sneaking into the scorp camp and joining a mercenary company, he was still stuck doing the cleaning.

  HIEF OLBA’S THROAT WAS BULGING as she hopped into the Outback Hills. She paused in the shade of a cotton bush to catch her breath, and a dozen frogs waited with her: grizzled old veterans who hadn’t carried a spear since the Hidingwar, a few of the more proficient hunters, and the healer, along with his daughter, Coorah. Even Arabanoo, the white-lipped tree frog, had come along—though Olba guessed that he was mostly interested in impressing Coorah.

  She gazed at the assembled frogs. They were all willing to fight, but even the veterans were farmers and merchants at heart, not warriors.

  Coorah offered her a gourd. “Want a sip of water, chief? It’s good for digestion.”

  “Digestion is the one thing I don’t have trouble with.”

  “It’s lime flavored, too.”

  “In that case,” Olba said, smiling her thanks, “how can I resist?”

  She drank, then sprinkled some water on the glossy skin of her forehead. She always thought best when slightly moistened.

  The top of the first hill was only a hundred yards away. Perhaps she’d find some answers there. If the story about scorpions inside the Veil was true, the Amphibilands was in deadly peril.

  And what else would explain Darel and Gurnugun’s disappearance days earlier?

  She furrowed her brow as she resumed the climb. When Darel and Gurnugan hadn’t returned that first evening, everyone assumed the two young friends were off on an adventure.

  Then the hunters arrived, telling a wild tale of scorpions in the Outback Hills, attacking them and kidnapping Gurnugan. They’d spent the entire night looking but found no further sign of the scorps or the froglings.

  Search parties were scouring the eucalyptus forest, but the chief had decided to travel to the hills herself. If the Veil was falling, she had to prepare the frogs. They were in grave danger.

  “There!” Coorah said, pointing toward a wattle-flower bush. “Some of the flowers are freshly cut.”

  “So we know they got this far,” Olba said.

  “This is all my fault!” Coorah croaked. “If I hadn’t asked for the flowers, Darel and Gee—”

  “Nonsense,” Chief Olba snapped. “If anything happened, it’s nobody’s fault but the scorpions’! And why did you want the flowers?”

  “To make medicine—a better way to treat wounds.”

  “That’s right, because you and Darel were the only ones who saw this coming.” Olba raised her voice.

  “Chief!” one of the hunters called. “Here—look.”

  Olba hopped closer and inspected the ground.

  Her inner eyelids flickered in dismay. There could be no mistake. Here, in the dirt of the Outback Hills, were the tracks of a scorpion warrior.

  “Inside the Veil,” someone gasped.

  “Impossible,” someone else muttered. “If they’re inside the Veil, we’re dead. We’re all dead.”

  “Let’s continue,” Olba said, before the fear spread. “Follow the boys’ footprints. Stay alert, everyone.”

  The hunters searched through the underbrush until they reached the top of the first hill, where the lead hunter said, “They stopped here. Gurnugan turned back, and Darel continued to the second hill.”

  “Why’d they stop?”

  “Because …” Coorah’s voice shook as she pointed into the distance. “Chief, over there.”

  In the desert beyond the Outback Hills, the scorpion army covered the dunes like spines on an echidna.

  “There’s more of them than in the Hidingwar,” Olba gasped, her eyes bulging.

  “Twice as many,” an old veteran muttered. “And we’ve got no Kulipari.”

  For a long moment, Olba didn’t speak. Then she puffed her throat and said, “We need to tell the turtle king. He’s the only one who can save us.”

  “But—” Coorah shook her head. “There’s an army between us and the Turtle Coves.”

  “Someone will need to sneak past.”

  “That’s suicide,” the old veteran said.

  “But if we don’t reach the turtle king,” Chief Olba said, “we’re dead … We’re dead either way.”

  “We’ll do it,” Arabanoo said. “Me and my friends. We’ll do it.”

  Olba smiled at him—a little sadly. “That’s brave, Arabanoo, but you’re barely more than froglings.”

  “That’s right,” Coorah’s father said. “We need to send our best hunters. We need frogs who were in the war and still remember how to fight.”

  “What we need,” Chief Olba said, “is a chorus.”

  After they returned to the village, Chief Olba gathered frogs from every village and tree and burrow in the meeting hall.

  She told them about the scorpions in the Outback Hills and the army gathering in the desert beyond. A frightened croaking filled the hall—the echoing ribbet of the burrowers, the musical call of the peepers, the low rasp of the Baw Baws.

  Olba asked for quiet. “We need volunteers,” she croaked, “to leave the safety of the Amphibilands and travel to the turtle king, to ask for h
is help.”

  “How’re they supposed to get around the scorpion army?” Old Jir asked, leaning on his cane.

  “I don’t know,” the chief answered. “They’ll have to sneak past without being seen.”

  “Impossible!” a burly bullfrog called, her lumpy face scowling. “Maybe you saw scorp tracks in the Hills, but we’re still safe here.”

  “Not for long,” Old Jir croaked.

  “The Veil will protect us!” the bullfrog rumbled. “We’re panicking over nothing.”

  “That’s why I called this chorus.” Olba looked over the crowd. “We must decide what to do. Arm ourselves? Hope the Veil holds? Or ask for volunteers to alert the turtle king?”

  A few tree frogs shouted, “Arm ourselves!”

  From a shadowed burrow, a low voice said, “Warn the king.”

  “Do nothing,” the burly bullfrog rumbled.

  A moment later, other frogs started repeating those phrases—Arm ourselves … Warn the king … Do nothing … Soon a chorus of croaking filled the meeting hall.

  At first, Do nothing drowned out the other phrases, and Olba’s forehead furrowed deeply.

  Then, slowly but steadily, Warn the king grew louder and louder. Within minutes, all the frogs were chanting together, Warn the king, Warn the king, and the cry shook the walls and echoed above the village.

  Then the chorus stopped, and Chief Olba spoke into the sudden quiet: “We will need volunteers—experienced trackers and fighters. This is a dangerous job. You might not survive. But you must try.”

  After a moment, the burly bullfrog hopped forward. “I’ll go.”

  “Me too,” a tree frog said, leaping down from the branches.

  Soon, five of the best hunters in the Amphibilands had volunteered, frogs who could put an arrow in a snake’s eye and track a butterfly across a lake. They were joined by four middle-aged veterans of the Hidingwar, who would now take their dusty shields from chests and strap themselves into creaking armor.

  Early the next day, the village arranged a send-off at the edge of the Veil.

  The party of courageous frogs set off—braving the scorpion army, risking unknown dangers. Olba watched them leave, a weight in her heart. So much depended on their success.

  The following morning, an urgent croaking woke her from restless sleep. She found a grim-faced frog outside her door.

  “Bad news,” he told her.

  Olba swallowed. “What happened?”

  “A scorpion war party found them, chased them back here. Of the nine volunteers, only two survived. There’s no way to reach the turtle king.”

  Olba made a soft, mournful croak. “Oh, those poor, brave frogs.”

  “What are we going to do now?” the grim-faced frog asked.

  “What can we do?” she said. “Prepare for the worst.”

  ORD MARMOO PACED THE FLOORS OF the rocky chamber, his eight-legged stride clattering against the stone. He didn’t like the spider queen’s castle—the cramped corridors, the moist air, the weight of the boulders around him. Give him the harsh desert sands, the burning sun high overhead, and the scorched air.

  Still, he needed Queen Jarrah—just as she needed him—so he’d tolerate the discomfort. He’d tolerate a great deal more than discomfort if it helped him conquer the Amphibilands and claim all that fresh water and easy prey for his scorpion nation.

  Only then would he turn his attention to the spiders.

  “Soon,” he told himself. “Soon that day will come.”

  He turned suddenly and marched down the corridor. He crossed the web moat, heading for the mines. He didn’t know if Jarrah mined gems for her nightcasting or simply because she liked jewelry, but he hadn’t killed anything in days; perhaps he’d sink his stinger into some scrawny miner.

  Killing always improved his mood.

  But halfway to the mines, he found something even better: Commander Pigo and a company of soldiers, coming from the desert encampment with an Amphibilands tree for the spider queen.

  “Pigo,” he said, scuttling closer. “Report in.”

  “Everything went according to plan, my lord. We uprooted the tree and withdrew. We even captured a succulent frog.”

  “Well done, little brother. A well-deserved meal for me when I return from this wretched place.”

  Pigo saluted crisply. “Your troops are assembled, my lord, and eager to crush the croakers. They wait only for your command.”

  “And I wait only for the spider queen,” Marmoo said.

  Together, they delivered the tree to Queen Jarrah, who was lounging with her ladies-in-waiting at the top of her boulder castle.

  “This is from inside the Amphibilands?” she asked.

  Marmoo nodded, his main eyes bright and his side eyes watchful. “From the Outback Hills.”

  “Then the Veil will soon fall—as I promised.”

  “And I will lure the turtle king from his Coves—as I promised.”

  “Excellent,” she said. “The old fool cannot even sense how strong I’ve become. But an attack on his precious frogs should rouse him.”

  Jarrah circled the tree, stroking each of the bright red flowers in turn. Then she stopped abruptly at the single white bloom, a big flower head with rings of little petals.

  “Perfect,” she murmured. “Look how lovely and glowing and pure.”

  She called her ladies closer, and they surrounded the uprooted waratah tree. Each pulled a strand of webbing from her spinnerets, and then Queen Jarrah began nightcasting.

  Her eyes shone black as she summoned her poison. The silk shimmered and twisted.

  A noxious cloud rose above the writhing web, and Jarrah stared into the smoke as her long legs danced across the silken strands, plucking and tugging and strumming.

  The cloud seemed to pulse with power. Marmoo had heard that dreamcasting was a quiet magic, almost like meditation, but this was something completely different. Watching Jarrah tap into her full night-casting strength, he finally saw why she hated the turtle king so much.

  Sergu used thoughts and visions to propel his power forward, like a turtle gliding through the ocean, riding the currents. Jarrah, on the other claw, used her silken web and poison fangs to trap her power, to drain magical energy from the world, like sucking blood from a fly.

  Marmoo realized she hated King Sergu because he reminded her that without him and his stupid, gentle magic, she could never have invented nightcasting. Without his lessons, she would’ve remained an ordinary spider—and died long ago. She owed her life and her power to the magic she despised.

  Of course, she’d taken all his lessons and turned them upside-down. She’d turned dreamcasting into a weapon.

  Marmoo smiled to himself, grinding his mouth-parts in appreciation as he watched her work.

  Finally, a strand of her web snapped, and he felt an eerie pulse through the windless day, as if the air had suddenly thickened around him.

  The white flower turned to ash, and the rest of the waratah tree shriveled into a handful of blackened twigs. Jarrah lowered her arms and swayed, exhausted from her nightcasting. She sank her fangs into a silken bundle her attendants provided.

  After she drained the blood, she sighed deeply.

  “Success?” Marmoo asked, his pincers clenching expectantly.

  “Indeed, Lord Marmoo,” she purred. “I’ve learned exactly how to undo the turtle king’s feeble magic. Take me within the outermost layer of the Veil, and I will destroy it completely in a day.”

  “Then we’ll leave immediately.”

  Jarrah wagged her finger at him. “My lord—there’s no reason for such unseemly haste.”

  Marmoo heard the iron in her voice, despite her teasing tone, and realized his error. If she thought he was trying to rush her, she’d slow down, just to prove that she wasn’t in his control.

  He gave a courtly bow with his mid-legs and said, “Of course, Queen Jarrah. Excuse my impatience. I’m simply eager to present your gift.”

  She brightened
with interest. “My gift?”

  “Waiting for you at the encampment. My soldiers captured a frog inside the Amphibilands, plump and juicy, with smooth, shiny skin. We’re keeping him in a cage for you, to give you the honor of the first taste of Amphibilands frog.”

  She laughed, a tinkling sound like glass breaking. “Then, by all means, I will pack as quickly as I can. Why, I can taste him already!”

  AREL’S FIFTH MORNING IN THE mercenary camp started the same as the first four.

  He woke before any of the lizards and checked his ratty old shield and armor—and of course the dagger that never left his hip. Then he grabbed a ladle of mush from the common pot and stuffed his face, trying not to taste the food. He was eating for strength, not for flavor.

  He stretched and practiced the drills that the grizzled lizard trainer had showed him and then went for a run—in full armor, looking more like a lizard than a frog.

  Every morning, he hopped past the cages where they kept Gee, and every morning a lizard was on duty, watchful as a hungry hawk. And to make things worse, the captain only assigned the toughest lizards, the ones who’d won spars, to guard duty.

  When Darel returned to the mercenary camp, he scrubbed the floors and scoured the dishes. He polished armor and hauled the trash to the pit. Then he did the laundry, and when he got back from that, the dishes were dirty again. Then he made the cots, tidied the tent, and swept the floors one more time.

  The lizards thought they were grinding him down with all the chores, but they didn’t know his secret: He was his mother’s hardworking son. He pretended he was exhausted in the evenings and slumped down at the sparring pit, watching the fights—but actually, he’d hardly broken a sweat.

  No one could work harder than a wood frog.

  He liked spending the evenings watching the mercenaries fight, seeing the different styles, then practicing the new moves himself. He watched the scorpions, too. They sparred viciously, tails slashing and pincers snapping. And unlike the lizards, the scorps sometimes fought to the death. A victorious scorpion would strike his opponent in the only weak spot, the unprotected underbelly.