[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

Dragonarmy, were having a bad time of it. Scouts were at their best in
clear terrain and moderate climate, but ever since their invasion force had
landed, they had been deluged by heavy rain and forced to reconnoiter
through thick, bramble-filled overgrowth. Little to see, less to smell (other
than wet hobgoblin), and nothing to report. They had been gone four days
from the main encampment and were soaked to the skin. After a brief,
heated discussion (the only heat the dozen creatures had experienced in
three days), they decided to ascend one of the hills for a better view of the
rain-damp fog.
 We shudda stayed in camp, said one particularly large hobgoblin.
 And what? growled another.  It s just as marshy there. There s a
swamp where our bivvie should be.
 At least then we don t hafta march around in wet boots, said the big
one.
 At least yah have boots, returned the sergeant, a scarred hobgoblin
with one good eye.  When I first signs up, we had to do this barefoot.
The big complainer bared his lower fangs, and the other hobgoblins
assumed that a fight was coming and drifted into normal positions, a circle
surrounding the sergeant and the big one. But the sergeant stared at the
hobgoblin with an icy ferocity, and the big one closed his mouth and at
last shook his head in agreement.
 Where we go? said the big one, finally.
 Up, replied the sergeant.
The ground grew no drier as they climbed the small tor. Indeed, it now
had the added difficulty of being steep as well as damp. The hill was
completely saturated, and the hobgoblins began to slip as they climbed.
Their trail became a broad swath of mud-stained grass, and their armor
was soon decorated with clumps of hanging sod.
 Where we going? asked the big one again.
 Up, said the sergeant.
 Down is easier, said one of the smaller hobgoblins, which earned
another icy glare from the one-eyed sergeant.
The fog-shrouded hilltop loomed above them, and a great granite cliff
suddenly reared from the tor, blocking their path.  Up, said the sergeant a
third time, pointing at the small complainer.
 It s wet and slippery, protested the small hobgoblin.
 Stone is harder than mud, said the sergeant.  Therefore it s less
slippery than mud. The other hobgoblins in the group looked around for
anyone to gainsay this bit of wisdom. There was no one.
The small hobgoblin was soon scrabbling up the granite cliff, a rope
tied around his waist. He started strong, but tired halfway up, and the
sergeant had to bellow threats to get him to finish the climb. The sergeant
made it clear it was safer to climb up than to climb down, so up the small
hobgoblin went.
He disappeared at the cliff s edge and was gone, finding some tree or
rock to secure the line. A moment later he appeared over the edge again
and gave a thumbs-up to the patrol below.
The sergeant hooked a thumb at the rope.  Up you go, he said.
The big complainer looked at the thin strand of hemp.  Don t look
safe, he said. He looked more afraid than challenging.
 Neither am I, snapped the sergeant, but the big complainer still stared
at the rope. The sergeant sighed,  I go first, but when I get to the top, you
follow, unnerstand?
The big one (and most of the others) nodded in agreement as the
sergeant began the climb. He found the stone was more slippery than the
mud after all, and he had to clutch the rope tightly in order to keep from
falling. At last he arrived at the top. The view was less than spectacular.
There was slightly less rain up this high, but the hilltop was still wrapped
in clouds. The surrounding whiteness parted slightly, allowing a brief
glimpse of the neighboring hills before wrapping the hobgoblins in
another gray, wool blanket.
They were on a gray promontory of bare rock, broken only by a single
twisted tree, its thick and ancient roots shattering the surrounding stone.
The small hobgoblin had tied the rope to one of the more prominent,
arching roots.
 Not much to see, said the small hobgoblin.  We go down now?
The sergeant scowled. He d had to scrabble up here. He d be damned if
the rest of the patrol got off scot-free. Instead he leaned over the edge and
let out an assault of obscenities, promising all manner of torture for the
last hobgoblin up.
The rest of the patrol sprang into action, fighting among themselves for
the opportunity to clamber up the rope. The big one, the complainer, was
the first up the rope, but the others followed closely, not waiting for him to
get more than a quarter of the way up before following. Soon most of the
patrol was hanging on the rope up the cliffside, their twisted paws
clutching the rope and the surrounding rocks. Some lost their grips and
slid down, bashing into others, who in turn lost their hold and slid a few
feet into the rest of the patrol.
The sergeant watched their attempts and muttered a curse, thinking of
the (relative) warmth and the (relative) dryness of their base camp. His
ruminations were broken off by a sharp snapping noise directly behind
him.
It sounded like the noise a crossbow made when sprung. He wheeled
but saw nothing else on the tor except the small hobgoblin and the gnarl-
rooted tree. The small hobgoblin was looking at the tree, his eyes round
like platters.
The sergeant scowled. Was the tree breaking under the weight of the
hobgoblins on the rope? There was another sharp snap, and he realized he
was close but not fully on the mark. The tree was holding. However, the
added weight of the patrol on the rope was enough to start uprooting it.
Large cracks began to spider through the stone as the hobgoblins
collective weight drove the tree s roots deeper into the hilltop.
It threatened to bring the cliff down on top of the hobgoblin patrol. A
human leader might have called down to his men to tell them to abandon
the rope or even to jump. The sergeant was a hobgoblin, and his first
worry was his own skin. Already the smaller hobgoblin was bounding for
the far side of the tree, and the sergeant was ready to follow.
The ground shifted as the sergeant began to run, the spidering cracks
quickly becoming large chasms, and then larger chasms, and the ground
beneath his feet started to disintegrate beneath the soles of his feet. He
heard cursing screams below him from the patrol, soon lost in a torrent of
sliding rock. Then something large passed him the ancient tree itself,
still tethered to the hobgoblin-strung rope. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]