by A. J. Ponder
“Fool. You’re going to have to dump the rest of those supplies anyway. You won’t be able to budge that wagon without horses.”
“Great,” muttered the driver. “Even so, I can think of worse things.”
Hours later, when the messenger finally reached the army with two overladen horses, he was welcomed by an angry, surly, and very hungry mob.
“You, you, and you, unpack the supplies, and take them to the chefs. You, David, is it? Stop sulking, I just brought everyone’s dinner.”
The crowd cheered and let him by. It was a full minute later before the brighter men did the maths. There might be dinner, but not very much of it.
The messenger smiled, knowing he’d performed above and beyond the call of duty. Now would be the difficult bit. He had to convince King Phibiam of his genius.
The Piebald Morpholag
Barry had been very tasty. So had his friend.
They were not enough. The morpholag’s hunger for flesh was peaking. He/she[32] understood this in the same kind of visceral way that you might realise it’s going to be a bad day before you get out of bed.
He was looking for something substantial, and what should wander by, but a whole bellyful of food, with second helpings? One or two of them looked a little stringy, but what the hay, this would be a little more exciting than the last few meals. Bark strips with a side dish of young lads off adventuring. Neither were much of a challenge. Not anymore. She had to play games with her dinner just to make it more exciting. Barry and his friend had certainly been in that category. Disappointingly easy meat. At least they’d been tasty. This lot, possibly not so tasty, but if she was any judge, they’d definitely be more exciting. They might even pose some level of risk.
The morpholag didn’t really have a name. Not having ever known the company of fellow beasts, he didn’t really need one. Sometimes, however, he felt the lack, and had begun to think of himself as Christopher, and so I too think of him. It flows off the tongue better than the morpholag, that’s for sure.
Hoppity hop.
Christopher loped away, circling his prey.
In time, the adventurers would look for a place to sleep. He’d catch them unawares, when they least expected it. After all, Christopher only needed enough sport to keep life interesting. He wasn’t suicidal.
All the King’s Horses
Terrible screams shook the king’s tent all night, so when the official word came that the messenger who’d brought dinner was dead of overexertion, no one believed it.
King Phetero, in reply to the spreading gossip of torture, tried to quell the rumours by posthumously granting a medal to the man for his spectacular achievement. Then promptly ruined the effect by joking, “Pitiful supplies and a little horsemeat do not sustain a king! Nor is there ever a good enough excuse for leaving the best stuff behind. Not even that the wagon doesn’t have any!”
The tension in camp subsided as the wagons finally began rolling in and the camp feasted. Once replete, they quick-marched (as slowly as possible) back onto the trail.
King Phetero looked out over his army proudly. Swords glinted in the sunlight. The foot soldiers walked in perfect formation. The cavalry’s horses, resplendent in their red barding, frisked and snorted, ready to wheel off in displays of perfect horsemanship. The show of his strength made him feel like a Great King of old. Maybe roughing it and travelling with his army was not so bad. He might have been truly happy, except the mid-morning start meant they’d slipped further behind their quarry.
On the Hunt
Dothie reckoned that on this, the third day of their hunt for the princess, his team must be the last bounty hunters left on the princess’ trail. There was nobody in front of them, and almost certainly nobody behind them, except perhaps the Scotch Mist army.
It was possible the king would be incensed enough to carry out his plan, but what of it? By the time they’d assembled and marched down this road at a crawl, Dothie and Arrant would be back at home sipping wine and discussing the time of day. Perhaps reminiscing about the time, long ago, when they were brave heroes, defying kings and searching for adventure.
Arrant and Dothie could dream. Fergus could not. His mind was absorbed by the trail. He looked at the tracks. He looked again.
“They’ve been joined by two people. See. The tracks are fresh.”
Arrant frowned thoughtfully at the evidence.
“It seems the stakes on this little outing are about to get interesting,” Dothie muttered.
“You think they’ve captured the princess?” Arrant asked Fergus.
“No,” Fergus said. “Look at those tracks. They are headed in the wrong direction.”
“From what I’ve heard about Dirk, we don’t need any more excitement,” Dothie said. “Alone, he’s more than most people can handle.”
A truth that dissipated Arrant’s pleasant daydream of sipping wine with royalty like a Scotch Mist fog in a brisk northerly. And yet, surely Fergus was a match for any mere mortal, even a skinny freak with a very sharp sword—so long as he truly understood what he was up against. “The thing about Dirk—” he began.
“I am going to look at something,” Fergus announced.
To Arrant’s annoyance, Fergus disappeared into the undergrowth before he could finish his sentence about Dirk. How dare he just wander away like that?
Dothie wasn’t listening either. He was too busy talking under his breath to his familiar. No big surprise, but for some reason Arrant had expected Fergus to pay him a little more attention. He was the creature’s boss. Those were the rules. Weren’t they?
And where’s that idiot gone? Arrant thought. How can anything as big as a thurgle disappear into the undergrowth?
Twenty minutes later, Fergus finally returned. “Be careful. I think the baby dragon is very near.”
“A dragon?” Dothie said. “Really? Aren’t they extinct?”
Fergus screwed up his nose. “Whatever it is, it is big. And tracking the same quarry as us.”
Arrant chirped in, “Maybe it’s the piebald morpholag.”
“Perhaps it is one of those,” Fergus said, doubtfully. “We can hope.”
“What?” Arrant choked. “You’ve never heard of a piebald morpholag?”
Fergus ignored him, totally uninterested in speculation when the evidence was all around. If the trail had absorbed his mind previously, that was nothing compared to the way it now consumed his awareness utterly.
The more Fergus saw, the more he found himself in a quandary, half of him wanting to look closer, beyond the abyss of fear, and half of him wanting to escape. Every sense screamed for attention; it was a whole new experience for the young thurgle—excitement. He loved it.
Dothie, not immune to the atmosphere of imminent danger, meditated on his magic, and then on the escape plans he’d perfected over the years. He went through them all; disappearing, smoke, flames, ashes, and combinations of some or all of the above. Even short bursts of speed could be useful.
Arrant, having neither magical abilities, nor unbelievable strength, watched the other two closely, and tried to decide who he should hide behind if things went badly. Probably the biggest one.
But then, maybe the morpholag would go for the biggest one first?
Fergus, oblivious to Arrant oscillating nervously between him and Dothie, scratched the hairs on the top of his head. “This is very dangerous,” he said, “even if the dragon is not after us now.” He brushed at some grass stems and sniffed. “Dragons are tricksy. It might still attack us.”
“We’re not giving up now,” Dothie muttered.
Arrant nodded.
For a moment the Thurgle wondered if he was going to live until tomorrow, or not. He cursed, thinking ahead to the inevitable battle. “Wormbreath! Why did I lose my axe?[33] I liked my axe. It chopped well.”
Dothie and Arrant raised their eyebrows. They couldn’t believe they were taking tracking advice from this—moron. He didn’t seem to be able to keep a straight thoug
ht in his head.
After another hour of walking, interspersed with Fergus turning over stones and peering into mud and scat, Fergus motioned to his companions. “We are close now,” he whispered quietly—surprisingly quietly given his size. “Very close. We should wait until the creature attacks them.”
“Here?” Arrant asked, incredulously. “Shouldn’t we hide or something? How can you be sure it’s not tracking us?”
“It is not.” Fergus assured them with more confidence than he felt. “See—the tracks are leading away from us. Second, I have instincts which tell me. Third, no hunter comes at its prey from upwind—or leaves obvious tracks like these to show exactly where he is. So, stop worrying and make camp.”
“This far back?” Dothie asked, not really wanting to get any closer, but not wanting to fall too far behind, either. Toots, on his shoulder, flicked its tongue in and out, before hiding under his cloak.
Fergus nodded. “If we get too close, it will smell us.”
“So be it.” Arrant answered, showing off his leadership skills. Others might know more, they might be more capable, faster, stronger and more learned—but in his heart, Arrant knew he was the boss.
Sticks and Stones and Large Pointy Weapons
There is a time in every story when something goes CRUNCH. In this case, it was the gravel beneath the Sylvalla’s feet.
The whole party was weary. Despite travelling through the piebald morpholag’s territory for hours, there had been little sign of it. “Old sign,” Jonathan had said, and Sylvalla had to agree with him, if for no other reason than she knew nothing about tracking. But the few footprints she could discern seemed to be old and hard and baked in the sun.
Ahead was sparse scrubland—flat, open terrain. Why would any creature be trying to hide in that, when they had plenty of opportunity for a rear attack under better cover? The morpholag wouldn’t. It wasn’t known for its stupidity. Two large pointy incisors that dripped blood—yes. The cute, fluffy white tail—perhaps. Stupidity—no.
“Time to set up camp, folks,” the old man suggested, waving his arm toward a good spot with dry ground, on a slight hillock. “I like the look of this scrub, nothing big enough for a creature the size of the morpholag to hide in.”
“There’s plenty of day left, old man,” Jonathan replied truthfully. Sadly, the truth is not always called for.
“Yes, boy, but I know what we’re hunting. We need not tire ourselves out …”
Mr Goodfellow Senior paused. “I can smell him. I tell you all, we are close. Too close. Let us camp tonight with all care. Or better yet; devise our strategy while the sun is still up. The moon is a friend for ambush, not good ideas.”
Dirk bowed and smiled. He wasn’t a man for pretty speeches, but the old wizard spoke sense, much as he, like Jonathan, had been planning to squeeze a few more miles out of the day.
“I’ll get firewood,” Sylvalla offered, not looking forward to a cold night. The sun would fall all too soon. A polar wind was already on the rise. It would have little mercy tonight.
“We’ll all go. I sense … something also,” Dirk muttered in his best approximation of fear.
Our heroes, watchful to the point of paranoia, eventually dined on something that could loosely be described as food before talking tactics well into the night. Hours later, the best plan they could devise was—we’ll try to surprise it and hit it with our swords. Lots.
That settled, it took another half-hour to decide Dirk and Francis should take the first watch, followed by Sylvalla and Jonathan. Dirk and the old man would cover the final hours before dawn. That was because Dirk had been so keen he’d insisted on two watchers at all times, so he got two watches. It was only fair.
Sylvalla kipped down early, determined to get plenty of sleep, only to watch listlessly as the stars came out one by one. Her excitement about her great Quest warred with the anxiety that time was slipping away, and she wasn’t managing to get any sleep.
At last she closed her eyes. Seemingly, moments later, Dirk was rudely shaking her awake.
Sylvalla’s watch passed, along with various states of consciousness and unconsciousness. Was something moving in the underbrush? She blinked her eyes furiously, wondering if and when the ambush would come. That Jonathan was also on watch did not inspire much confidence.
Heart thudding against her chest, she clutched her sword. Still nothing happened. At the end of her watch, she roused Dirk, and pointed to where she thought she’d seen something move.
He shrugged. “It’s not unusual to see something moving in the night.”
Sylvalla tried to go back to sleep, only to watch the night sky, until, one by one, the stars began to disappear.
§
The morpholag sulked. He did not like the spot the adventurers had chosen. It was too open for his planned ambush. Tomorrow, sometime when they least expected it, he would strike.
§
The next day, the party rose early with Dirk egging them all on. “Early to bed, early to rise,” he chanted in a sing-song voice.
Francis and Jonathan groaned weakly, more from a sense of drama than any real discomfort. Jonathan threw a handful of dirt at Dirk and begged him not to make such an awful racket.
Dirk dodged and grinned infuriatingly. “I had a whole three hours’ sleep. It was bliss. You slugabeds had twice that.”
Sylvalla, her body having only decided that now it would sleep, took even more coaxing than Jonathan. In the end, it was only Dirk’s overly persistent boot that convinced her to abandon sleep.
Dirk knew he was being impertinent, daring to nudge a princess, however gently, with his boot. But she had said she wanted adventure, and like it or not, adventure was what she was going to get. He was not going to coddle her, well … maybe a little bit. “Come on, breakfast is in the pot,” he coaxed cheerily.
§
I’m quite hungry too, thought Christopher the Morpholag. How long am I going to have to wait ’til my break-fast?
Caution said—not here, not now. There will be a better time later. A better place.
§
Sylvalla, half-awake, was contemplating skewering the overly persistent and cheerful Dirk with her sword as she sloughed off her blankets and scrabbled her kit together.
The smell of breakfast encouraged her to hurry. She walked over to where Dirk was dishing out grey ooze masquerading as food, while simultaneously attempting to buckle on her scabbard, and enquiring, not so politely, as to whether the stuff Dirk was dishing up was edible or not. In her clumsy morning daze, Sylvalla couldn’t quite manage to do all these things, and watch where she was going. She tripped over a stray piece of kindling and plummeted toward the fire.
Dirk’s arm shot out and caught her. Most likely, he’d just saved her from third degree burns, although she’d never thank him for it.
§
Christopher, hungry and overconfident, took her stumble as a sign of weakness in his intended victims. Even better, she’d managed to distract the other warrior.
So, Christopher followed his first instinct of attack.
Faster than thought, he crashed into the clearing.
The party’s horses whinnied and panicked, breaking their tethers and galloping away for dear life.
So much for caution.
So much for thought.
Now, instinct ruled. This wasn’t the plan, Christopher reflected briefly. Not that she was very worried. She hadn’t lost a fight yet. In her lifetime, she’d not always been prudent, and yet she’d always lived to tell the tale. This battle would be epic. Nevertheless, she expected to win.
§
For Dirk, the sudden appearance of the piebald morpholag was a waking nightmare. It was as if all his most primal fears had coalesced into one beast, one supremely hideous creature. In his shock, he almost dropped Sylvalla into the fire she’d so recently been rescued from. In fact, he did drop her.
This time, though, it was not Dirk’s reflexes that would save the princess, but
her own. The fall and the morpholag crashing into the clearing was more than enough to wake Sylvalla. Holding tight to the hilt of her sword, she twisted away from the fire, to land on her feet with a feline grace—ready to face this new danger.
In a surreal moment, she watched her empty scabbard clatter safely to the ground.
Their breakfast disrupted, the rest of the humans tossed their porridge plates, and drew their weapons.
Francis fumbled his bow twice, dropping half his arrows into a puddle of warm porridge.
Mr Goodfellow Senior slipped his favourite rock into a pocket of his robe and picked up another. He whispered a few words to it, and stood poised like a statue, well back from actual danger.
Dirk, too petrified to move, or even think, kept watching as the rat-like monster crashed into the clearing and headed straight for him—scattering sleeping gear and camp equipment.
Sylvalla stepped closer.
Someone screamed a warning as the monster brushed off Sylvalla’s first clumsy thrust, snapping his jaws from side to side, and then leaping toward the still motionless Dirk.
Raising a paw, the piebald morpholag swiped at Dirk’s head.
Instinctively, Dirk ducked the blow. And then, just as instinctively, he thrust his sword at the creature’s chest. Hours of training had kept him alive, but as his head cleared into fighting mode, he knew he’d need more than training. He’d need all his wits, and all his luck.
Dirk dodged another swipe of the creature’s paw. Howling furiously, he sliced through the air with his sword—and missed by what appeared to be less than a hair’s breadth.
The creature growled, displaying rows of very un-bunny-like teeth, before slashing at Dirk with both paws.
Francis clasped his bow with shaking hands, let out a breath to steady his nerves, and aimed at the creature’s most vulnerable spot, its eye. Somehow, his arrow sailed through where the creature’s head should have been and disappeared into the foliage.
