A Deceit of Lions

A short bout of general coughing ensued. The wemic joined in, trying not to let it be obvious, but he moved away with as much haste as the rest of us. We climbed back up to the trail and continued toward the eastern foothills, leaving behind the poplar copse with its shattered tree and the smoking remains of a mountain troll.

Oornoe’e and Warban sighed and began simultaneously, “Well, that could have gone much — ” They looked at each other for an instant before finishing:
Warban: “ — better.”
Oornoe’e: “ — worse.”

“If you had been paying attention,” Warban said, and was cut off.

“I was foli’ir paying attention,” Oornoe’e snapped. “Perhaps I should have paid more attention, fearless leader, but how in do’ola es seffin was I supposed to flig’ know just when the wolgek thing was going to come to!”

“Even I didn’t see it coming,” I admitted.

“You shut your ho’ol.”

Wondering what I had done to make her mad at me, I raised my hands placatingly. “Yes ma’am.” She shot me a pained look. I suddenly understood she was plenty mad at herself and was trying to keep from mouthing off at us (and, for that instant, failing). I tried to return her look to let her know I sympathized, but she had continued to fume.

Throwing caution to the winds, I spoke again. “Look, all of us are alive and uh, no permanent damage done. I don’t disagree with Warban’s assessment, given an ideal situation, but on the whole I will side with Oornoe’e.”

“‘Ideal situation?’ With a troll involved??” The wemic was incredulous.

I grimaced. “The defense rests.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Warban said. “If I may ask our guest troll tactician his opinion?”

It took the wemic a moment to realize he was being referred to. “Oh. Ah. I, it seems we did as best we could, quite well, under the circumstances.”

“See,” I grinned at Warban. Oornoe’e hit me. “Ow.”

“Don’t gloat,” she admonished.

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Well, of course.”

“But I mustn’t?”

“No.”

“That’s not fair!”

“It doesn’t suit you.”

“Ehh … point taken.” Oornoe’e hit me again. “Aiyh! That’s a bruise you’ll have to cure later … ow —”

An hour or so later the wemic suddenly stopped a bit past halfway down a long leftward curve in the trail. I though he had paused to take in the view, since this was the place where the trail broke out into sight of the foothills flanking the Hoarmoss Ridge, but then I saw he was staring at something wide-eyed, mouth slightly agape.

“My pride,” he whispered. I couldn’t tell if his tone was joy or despair. “My pride, they are still there!”

Ah! I crowded up to look. The view was magnificent: the mountains tumbled down to a broad swath of rolling green hills dotted with rock outcroppings, beyond which green hills met brassy yellow veldt grass in an abrupt line. On the plain, some distance to the north, a few tawny dots, perhaps a dozen, were just visible against the expanse of brass. I was about to comment that there seemed to be awfully few of them when the wemic sighed, “A-h-h-h! but not all there, almost all gone, who was left behind?” This time I did hear a deep pain in that sigh.

“Let us hurry,” Warban said urgently, and we set off down the trail at a considerably faster pace.

The trailhead was visible now, perhaps half a mile down and south of us. Without asking or needing to tell, Warban led the way off the trail proper and directly down the remaining distance to the foothills. The ground was rocky and loose, footing treacherous, but all of us made it down safely (no small thanks to Amaranz, Warban and the wemic, who several times caught one of us smaller ones when we stumbled or slipped). Once we were on the foothills the wemic grew even more anxious, almost frantic with wanting to reach his pride but having to wait for us to keep up. At one point Warban spoke briefly to the wemic — I didn’t hear what was said, we were too spread out — and they and Amaranz stopped to wait for us three. As soon as we caught up, Warban lifted Luth onto the wemic’s back (oh, his expression was priceless!), who immediately took off at a sprint, Luth once again clinging tightly to his neck. Warban then swooped an indignant Oornoe’e up onto his shoulders, Amaranz did the same to me, and they ran after the wemic, their long legs eating ground much faster than she or I could have managed.

Still, the wemic ran far faster, speeding far ahead with his tremendous quadruped pace. We heard him belt out another thunderous roar, muted not at all by distance, as he neared the nearest of the small tawny blobs. As we approached, I noticed that said tawny blobs looked rather odd: none of them were moving, and none of them seemed to be upright.

The wemic noticed this also and slowed down. Luth slid off his back. They trotted side by side to the wemic lying on the grass. Csim’Yabil fell to his knees, sort of, next to the leonine body, howling in anguish. But Luth took a few moments to examine the wemic more thoroughly, reaching up to get Csim’Yabil’s attention. We were close enough that I could see him make simple signs for “NOT-DEAD-SHE. SLEEP-SHE.”

Csim’Yabil’s relief and puzzlement mirrored my own. Why, if she, or they, were merely asleep, had they not awakened at our approach? On the other hand, they could be in a magical sleep, which meant that trying to shake them awake, as Csim’Yabil was now doing, would prove fruitless. Just then we caught up to the pair, Warban and Amaranz wheezing like bellows. They set us down upon the ground, then stood there panting, hands on knees, while Oornoe’e and I joined Luth to examine the wemic ourselves.

Oornoe’e took Luth’s place by the she-wemic, asking Csim’Yabil, “What is her name?”

“Wele’Rinab,” he replied.

Oornoe’e nodded. Settling herself on the grass beside Wele’Rinab, she said a short prayer in Adessil that ended in a low, long hummed note. She started, her eyes wide open. “I cannot feel her essence,” she gasped. “It’s as though she were being … hidden from me. What sort of devilry is this?” she demanded of Luth.

Her addressee obligingly created the motions of a spell, spreading out his hands over Wele’Rinab’s lithe body for several moments. He emerged from his own wide-eyed trance looking troubled.

“STRONG-STRONG-STRONG-MAGIC,” he signed. “LAYERS-DEEP-ROCK-STRONG. LAYERS-DEEP-SLEEP …” His slim hands tumbled about vaguely; he was confused. “POISON-NOT-POISON, SLEEP-NOT-SLEEP.” Now I was as confused as he was.

“Like poison, eh?” Oornoe’e murmured. “Suppose I give that a try.” She wasn’t asking for permission. Once more she chanted a prayer, gathering sunlight in her hands. She placed her hands together on Wele’Rinab’s head, saying, “Wel —”

A tremendous crackling bang sent her flying several paces away, knocked Luth flat on his back, and ripped a savage roar from Csim’Yabil’s throat. The heretofore inert body of the wemic called Wele’Rinab now stirred; in one motion she sprang to her feet and, roaring, pounced on Csim’Yabil. That roar was echoed almost a dozen times around us — the other wemics left on the veldt had also awoken from their magical slumber and were bounding in our direction, murder in their eyes.