Yelp! Mongrel tripped over a raised root. He looked over his shoulder, sure she would catch him, but she’d fallen behind. From a distance, he heard her lamenting a sore shoulder. Whatever charm that aided her must have been spent.
Wasting no time, he took off as fast as his wobbly legs would carry him, only slowing his pace when the dizziness set in. The scenery blurred, and the forest became unnaturally dark. His arms and legs went numb. He was also aware that he was drooling excessively. It seemed he’d been poisoned.
Frantic, he dropped to his knees in search of herbs. The elves had taught him a little about plants, though his ability to differentiate between them was not as keen, especially now as the poison clouded his mind. In surprisingly short time, he found the plant he was searching for and pulled off a handful of leaves. He paused before putting them in his mouth. These looked like the herbs he needed, but at a second glance, they could also be another plant, one that was similar but had a very different purpose. Lifesaving medicine or deadly poison? Considering he was losing consciousness, he decided to take his chances and stuffed the whole handful into his mouth before falling face-first into the dirt.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Once the dwarves understood climbing out was not a doable option, they put their heads together—quite literally—and after taking stock of their assets, they realized the obvious means of escape: digging themselves out. They were pulling the last man up when Gwyn and his men closed in around them.
“Well, it’s about time.” Gwyn laughed as they huddled together at the edge of the pit. “Took you long enough.”
“Weel, naebody said ye hud tae waite aroond,” said the beardiest of the three.
Gwyn remembered from the presentation his name was Battleaxe—as though that really qualified as a name.
“Ye hud an easy shot. Wa didne ye jist tak’ it?”
“I’m afraid that wouldn’t suit my idiom. Nor would it impress my father to see me do away with you in such an inglorious fashion. Not that you deserve better.”
“Shut yer mouth.” Battleaxe bristled. He clutched his weapon so tight his fingers turned white. “Ur I’ll cut oot yer toonge.”
Gwyn smirked. “I doubt you could even reach.”
Battleaxe raised his blade. “Caur tae fin’ oot?”
“Show me.”
“Gladly.” Battleaxe smiled haughtily and then brought his axe down. Gwyn stepped out of the way just in time.
“Men, to arms!” he shouted and drew his blades. They were too close for arrows to be effective. Anyone trying to pull off a close-range shot would be a fool, considering his arrows would have less strength behind them than tossing a twig. “Watch your backs!”
“Why don’t you watch your own?” Aerin pointed behind him.
He spun around.
The other bearded dwarf was charging him from behind. With one gesture, Gwyn brought an entire branch down upon his head. The dwarf wobbled and eventually fell, unconscious, to the ground.
Aerin rolled her eyes.
“Perhaps I was wrong,” she said. “Maybe you can watch your own back.” Then she pointed in the direction of his newest member, who was fleeing from the smallest of the dwarves. “But can you watch his and yours at the same time?”
Damn that idiot, Gwyn thought as he summoned another branch to aid his comrade. This one he used to unarm the dwarf, sending her hammer flying. Now she was chasing after it instead of Laerilas, who offered Gwyn a grateful smile.
“Don’t just stand there you fool—”
A garbled cry from one of his own brought Gwyn back to attention. One of his men fell to the ground, cut down by an axe. He arrived to the man’s side too late. He was gone, and there would be no reclaiming his uniform.
Someone was laughing. Who would dare laugh?
Battleaxe stood only a foot or so away, one hand holding a bloody axe blade, the other clutched his heaving side. That wretched little—
“How dare you!” Gwyn stood and faced the dwarf. “You will pay in blood!”
“Jist as long as it’s nae in gold!” The other brother laughed. Apparently, he’d regained consciousness and had rejoined the fight. So had the sister. Having retrieved her hammer, she was back after Laerilas, who proved quite incapable of defending himself even against one measly dwarf. Victory, it seemed, would not be so easily won; the fight had only just begun.
Mongrel was dying. Or at least he thought he was by the gripping pain in his stomach and the hot fever that spread throughout his entire body. If he wasn’t dying, he almost wished he was. The poison was strong. Even if he’d taken the healing herbs, there was no guarantee they’d save him.
Then, out of the darkness, a light appeared, blue and blinding. A familiar voice spoke from within.
“Mongrel, get up. You have to get up.”
“Who are you?” He cringed. His throat was so dry.
“It’s me, Margo.”
“Margo?”
She came out of the light like an apparition, cloaked in white, her hair down past her waist. For once, it was out of her face, blowing back in a breeze that only touched her. She was angelic.
“Who else would come to your aid?” she asked him, kneeling by his side. One hand lifted his head from the ground, the other rested on his chest. Her violet eyes were large and sorrowful. “The dwarves? The elves? Not even your own kind cares if you fall in this competition,” she said. “But I do. I won’t let you fall.”
White light spilled from her fingers and flooded his entire body, washing away the hurt, chasing away the last of the poison. In no time, he was healed.
“W-why would you do this?”
“Because I love you,” she said and bent over to kiss him. Her lips touched his own, so soft and wet . . . and reeking of dead animal—he opened his eyes. There was a wolf licking his face.
Mongrel shoved it aside and sat up. His head was spinning, and his limbs were like noodles. Worse was the dryness of his tongue, like a wad of cotton. He reached for his flask only to startle. A rough, wet tongue licked his fingers. It wasn’t Margo. It was—
“Old Boy!” He opened his arms to the shaggy old wolf once known as Chubby Boy. More importantly, he knew him as a brother.
The wolf placed his paws on Mongrel’s shoulders and pushed him to the ground. Pinned under the animal’s massive weight, Mongrel couldn’t breathe. Not that he’d want to with Old Boy licking his face.
“All right, I’m happy to see you, too. Now get off!” He pushed the wolf away and wiped the excess saliva off using his sleeve. He sniffed the fabric, and all of a sudden he was craving a bucket of deep-fried giblets. Old Boy, meanwhile, gave him a good sniffing.
“Where are the others?” Mongrel asked him. “Are they nearby?”
The wolf called them over. One by one, each member appeared: first a black one, then a white one, a couple of molted ones, and a gray one. There was also a brown one that looked like a skinny version of Old Boy.
“Good for you, Old Boy,” he said, smiling down on the wolf. “What a pretty boy. Say, that’s a good name for him. Don’t you think, Pretty Boy?”
He reached out and let the new wolves sniff his fingers. Old Boy set them all in his protective stare. But Mongrel wasn’t worried. Two of the wolves already knew him, aside from Old Boy. The gray one, Shaggy Boy, and the black one, Fat Boy, were also from the litter Mongrel was raised with. They weren’t much older than pups when he’d left the den, but he knew their coats like they knew his scent.
“Did you miss me?” he asked them, even though they couldn’t talk. They replied by putting their noses on his and licking his teeth. Though a tad repulsed, Mongrel was glad to be welcomed for a change. This, minus the licking, was the kind of reunion he’d been waiting for.
Once the initial greetings were out of the way, they headed out in search of the hidden item. Mongrel didn’t have anything with the wizard’s scent, so they had little to work with. But the wolves offered him protection and showed him the way. Best of all,
they kept him company.
“So what have you been up to these past years, eh, Old Boy?” he asked the wolf, knowing he didn’t understand his new language. Still, it was better than talking to himself. “I’ll bet you’ve got some good stories to tell. Me, I’ve not been up to much. Just work mostly and spending what little time and money I have at The Moose.” He sighed. “What I wouldn’t give to have a nice girl and a place to call my own.”
The wolf cocked his head.
“Never mind.” He cleared his throat, eager to change the subject. “So where do you think Wizard White Beard hid that ring?”
Old Boy’s pup bared his teeth in a gaping yawn. Mongrel scratched him behind the ears. The pup closed his eyes and yawned again.
“Getting bored, huh, Pretty Boy?” he asked him. “How about you, Pretty Girl?” He glanced over at the pure white to his right. “How’s about a short break?”
They were just getting settled when, in an instant, the wolves were all alert, ears pricked forward, eyes wide and focused.
“What is it?” Mongrel asked them, straining to hear. In the distance, the thud of a hammer and the tink of a Pickaxe, sounds Mongrel recognized instantly. They brought back memories of home—well, of a place he once lived anyway. “Dwarves.”
Old Boy pinned his ears and growled.
“What could they be up to?” He listened some more. The thunk of a hammer was followed by the zip of arrows and the ring of blades. By these sounds alone, he could easily guess what was happening.
“Oh no,” he said in quiet voice. There was no chance in his mind this encounter was a friendly one. But what could he do to stop it? His first instinct was to run, but running didn’t resolve anything. If it were anyone else, he’d just turn tail. . . but it was not anyone else; it was Littlehammer.
Casting all sound judgment aside, he followed the racket to a small clearing. It wasn’t a natural one; in fact, it had just been made a few minutes ago with a battle axe, a pick axe, and a little hammer, more specifically by one Battleaxe, one Pickaxe, and one Littlehammer.
“Stay here,” he told his wolves as best he could, using only the tone of his voice and hand gestures before moving in for a closer look.
The dwarves were seriously outnumbered but not outmatched. Even with the use of magic, the elves could not bring down the stalwart trio. Every time they sent a branch or a tree their way, the dwarves would cut it down and hack it up into kindling-sized pieces. Battleaxe alone was taking on the majority of their opponents by himself. The elves threw themselves at him, but he could not be brought down.
Littlehammer wasn’t even swinging her hammer. She was swinging an elf by his hair. Finally, she let him go—smack—into a tree. She and her brothers laughed to see him wobble and fall down.
When he regained his balance, Littlehammer brought the full weight of her weapon down upon his foot. He squalled like a peacock and tried to hop away, but she yanked him back by his hair and raised her hammer over his head. Next to the dwarf, the elf looked rather puny, though he also would have next to a sapling. He’d always been slight even for an elf, especially for an elf, and there was no way he could take on Littlehammer.
“Laerilas!” Mongrel reached for an arrow but hesitated. He couldn’t strike Littlehammer, not for Laerilas, but allowing her to kill him wasn’t an option either. There was no way he could make a choice between the two, not when it came to life and death. So he pulled an arrow from the quiver, pointed at random, and began the most deadly game of iny-meeny-miny-mo he’d ever played in his entire life. After several near-fatal rounds, he realized that the arrow was always going to point to someone in the end. There had to be another way. His mind raced, scrambling for an alternative, but all he could come up with was turning and running. But he was done running. It was time for him to intervene.
Sucking in a deep breath, Mongrel took aim on a new target and, releasing his breath, loosed the arrow. It rebounded from the hammer and hit Littlehammer’s metal breastplate before it ricocheted from rock to rock, finally ending its dangerous route in the trunk of a tree. Dwarves and elves alike paused to acknowledge the archer as he joined them in the clearing.
Battleaxe was the first to respond. “An’ jist who waur ye aimin’ fer, eh, laddie?”
“It was a loosy shot,” Littlehammer piped in. “He was aimin’ fer th’ elf’s heed. Only”—she snickered—“he missed it by at leest two feit.”
Now it was Pickaxe’s turn to have a go. “He ne’er was guid at hittin’ wee targets. Reit, Mongrel?”
“Not exactly—”
“Perhaps,” Laerilas cut in, “the target was too low to the ground.” He sneered at his captor, whose face turned bright red.
“Shut it, elf!” She gave his hair a good, hard yank. “Ah ooght tae smash yer face in. That’d teach ye tae flap yer gums.” She raised her hammer again.
“Littlehammer, stop!” Mongrel dove for her, grabbing her arm and holding it back. “Leave him alone!”
“Ye lit go ay me, Mongrel!” she shouted. “Lit me dae whit needs dain!”
“You don’t need to fight. None of you,” he told them. “Now, let’s just all put our weapons down and walk away from this with our bodies still intact.”
From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed the crumpled body of an elf. His proposition was a bit too late for that elf at least. He gestured to it. “This has gone too far, but it’s not too late to stop.”
Battleaxe shook his head. “Yoo’ve got nae business comin’ haur an’ tellin’ us whit tae dae when ye shooldnae e’en be haur in th’ first place.”
“I’m here because of you.”
“Thes fight disnae concern ye!”
“It does concern me!” Mongrel snarled. “Because I’ve got family on all sides.” He could feel Laerilas glaring at the back of his head. “You heard me,” he muttered under his breath to the ungrateful elf. Not that he ever expected any gratitude from him.
Battleaxe scoffed. “Ye daen’t knoo whit yoo’re talkin’ abit. Yoo’re jist a stray. Yoo’ve ne’er bin wi’ anybody lang enaw tae know a damn thing abit family an’ loyalty. Noo shove aff.”
“No.”
“All reit ’en.” Battleaxe reached for a branch several inches from his feet. He picked it up and held it out for Mongrel to see. “Ye want thes?”
“That won’t work on me anymore,” said Mongrel, though his eyes followed the branch as Battleaxe moved it back and forth before throwing it far into the brush.
“Go oan, laddie. Go gie it!”
Mongrel stood firm. Sweat beaded on his forehead. With much effort, he returned his focus to Battleaxe. “I’m not leaving.”
“Aye, ye ur.”
“You’ll have to move me yourself,” said Mongrel.
“Ah will,” he said, though he made no motion to do so.
Gwyn, meanwhile, strolled toward them. “Well, if you aren’t going to do anything about the stray, I will.”
Mongrel cringed as the elf raised his blade, aiming for his chest. Sunlight caught the sharp steel where it was clean of blood. Soon not an inch of it would be clean. Mongrel closed his eyes and braced himself for the pain . . . only it never came.
Slowly, he opened his eyes.
Pickaxe stood between him and Gwyn, between his eyes, the dagger.
“No!” Mongrel called as the dwarf dropped limply to the ground. Several voices, one man and one woman, joined in with a choir of nos. In moments such as these, no is the only word to say.
Battleaxe was the first to recover. With a shout of outrage, he raised his axe to one of Gwyn’s men, chopping him down before the elf prince could respond.
“You wretched little creature.” Gwyn narrowed his eyes at the dwarf. Now he turned his bloodied blade on him. “You will regret that.”
“Come at me, Longbow!” Battleaxe egged him on, senses dull—well, duller—by grief and rage. “Ah’ll cut ye doon tae mah height!”
“I’ll cut you to pieces!”
Mongrel stoo
d frozen, just watching them fight as though from a safe distance, like none of this had anything to do with him. Littlehammer’s voice pulled him back to reality.
“Thes is yer fault, Mongrel!” She pointed an accusing finger at him. In her other hand, she still clutched the elf’s hair as he struggled to free himself from her unyielding grip. She ignored him while she berated Mongrel. “If ye hadn’t interfered, Pick would still be haur! Noo he’s gain, an’ it’s aw yer fault!”
“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” Mongrel whimpered. “I was only trying to—I just wanted to help.”
“Bat'laxe was reit,” Littlehammer sobbed. “Yoo’ve got nae business haur. An’ ye daen’t know a thing abit family.”
Mongrel stepped back, pushed by her words. “But, Littlehammer . . . I always thought . . .”
She turned away, her thick bangs hiding her expression. “Ah’ve missed ye, Mongrel, but mebbe things wood hae bin better if yoo’d ne’er come back.”
She could’ve struck him in the chest with her hammer, and it wouldn’t have hurt as much as her words. He clenched his fists and fought back tears. Dwarves didn’t cry. Neither did elves, unless a stray tear could enhance an ensemble. Come to think of it, humans didn’t cry much either—at least not the men folk anyway. Seemed the only thing the races had in common was having too much damn pride. And an unquenchable thirst for vengeance, he thought while the fight between Battleaxe and Gwyn waged on. The remaining eight of Gwyn’s men—minus Laerilas—encircled them. Their weapons were sheathed, but they cheered on their leader with fierce determination.
Littlehammer was still holding Laerilas by the hair. Her other hand gripped the handle of her hammer until her knuckles turned white. Her metal breastplate rose and fell with heavy breaths. Although she stood apart, she was still a part of the conflict.
“Look around you, Littlehammer. Look at yourself!” Mongrel snapped. The hair bristled on the back of his neck. “Then see who’s to blame for your brother’s death. You say I shouldn’t have been here—well, maybe you shouldn’t have been here either. In fact, none of us should be out here. If we would all just get along, we wouldn’t be out here in the first place, and Pick would still be alive!”
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