Chapter 9: Proficient Hand

Perhaps a note concerning bugbear is warranted. Very well. Here are my observations concerning these vicious, snarling, sharp-fanged devils. Bugbear may weigh as much as 150 pounds but are usually less than 100. They have a highly social structure and tend to congregate into groups known as rabbles, which can be heard from quite a distance when they are not sneaking about. As they are bipedal, bugbear make great use of their hands, which means tools and weapons. Most of their materials are rudimentary, and so their weapons are often made of stone and wood. Although they are found possessing metal, it is always found or stolen. Because they are smaller than humans, bugbear are weary about direct confrontations. They prefer sneakiness, traps, and poisons.

Bugbear are cultivators. They raise dozens of noxious plants among their own rough gardens; most notably strangle vine, rot-heart sycamore, and wobble weed. By contrast, humans raise thousands of plants as food, materials, or simple ornaments—not to mention man’s capacity for husbandry. Men raise a great variety of different animals for food, work, and pets. In contrast, there is no record of any bugbear valuing creatures outside its own race, except as meat, and most immediately so. They may allow an animal to live a few days while it suffers the rot, but they do not care for them in any meaningful fashion.

Unlike the elder races which suffer estrous throughout their adult life, bugbear go into estrous only during the summer and fall. Pregnancy lasts six months and usually results in two to five live born pups, though I’ve heard of litters as large as nine. By age three, bugbear are full grown and sexually mature, thus populations can increase rather quickly.

When numbers become unsupportable, bugbear are known to maraud en masse—a phenomenon known as a war. As the population blooms, the majority of males frenzy into a murderous rage. Bugbear wars can do an astonishing amount of damage. They are known to travel hundreds of miles in pursuit of blood, plunder, and glory. Villages and towns on the edge of the wild are highly susceptible to such attacks and must take great measures to secure themselves against these beasts.

- The Elder Races of the World: Considerations, Arguments, and Refutations, by Aogostua Veribos, page 825

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 9.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Toar knew the humble pretense of a bugger trap immediately. A fine mesh of twigs and branches covered with leaves and sand stretched the width of the road. Horrified by the sight, Toar stopped in his tracks and took stock of his immediate surroundings. He put his hand on the pommel of his sword, and half expected to find something to fight—but there was nothing else about.

Toar threw several rocks at the covering of the trap and caved it in. Gently, he leaned over the edge of the slight pit to inspect its crafting. The pit was a couple feet deep. Spikes were set in the bottom of the pit and each one was tipped with a cocktail of bugger poisons. Should a victim escape the pit, they would not get far. Toar shook his head. So many bugger traps—and this one was stretched across the open road!

At the river Quick, Toar decided to take a break and think over his options. He climbed up a slight slope where an outcrop of rock overlooked a fork in the road, and a ford across the river. He sat in the freckled shade offered by a jumble of small aspens and poked at bits of a makeshift lunch as he gazed up the valley. He rolled bits of cured meat between his fingers as he considered going forward and going back. In one direction, the road ran north and west, toward the ruins of Salyst, two days away. Across the ford, the road ran south and west, in the direction of Wibbeley: a hard day’s march. Back the way he came was Ebertin, some ten days away.

Before him lay the mysteries of Salyst. He’d long heard that a good many of the people went out into the Red Desert to escape the Ministrian slavers. He wondered, did any survive? If so, he’d sure like to meet them.

As he thought of Salyst and her vanished Salystians, Toar heard grunts, curses, snorts, and murmurs carry down the road from her ruins. Aware that he would soon have company, Toar ducked out of view and pulled his supplies off the rocks. He stuffed everything back in his bag and prepared to run.

A rabble of bugbear crawled along the road, a hunting party, laden with success. They approached the ford with their trophies: raccoons, foxes, squirrels, skunks, a fawn. Four bugbear carried a massive dead boar on a rail—but not all the beasts were dead. Caught in snares and traps, there were several animals still alive. Drugged and lashed, they mewed, pleated, and stumbled with frightened eyes as the buggers pulled them along.

There were some twenty bugbear in the rabble, all mature and well armed. They brandished swords, axes, spears, clubs, and knives aplenty. Some of these were genuine bugbear weapons made of chipped rock with wood handles. Others were metal, rusted and heavily dinged, taken from men in wars long past. The native weapons were not as straight or as hardy, but they were certainly in better condition.

The rabble stopped at the ford of the river and prepared to take a lunch of its own. Toar realized he was cut off. The way down from his ledge was visible to the bugger rabble. He could try and climb up from where he was, but the slope was steep. He felt such a route was folly at best. He wouldn’t attempt going up unless the buggers forced him. Instead, he sat back in the dappled shade, content to watch the beasts and wait them out. They picked among their small winnings and devoured some of their plunder. A dozen duck eggs and a good number of lizards were consumed whole. Several of the bugbear started a fire as one cleaned some poor dead beast at the river’s edge. Toar never saw the creature, but he certainly smelled the well rotted corpse.

Several of the beasts arranged a series of traps on the bank of the river Quick. Toar rolled his eyes. So many traps!

The wind shifted and something clicked in the distance. Something clacked. The hollow sound of a distant laugh followed. Men approached from Wibbeley. Toar felt the bugbear must flee, and then he’d watch Ministrians suffer and curse the bugger traps as they came out of the water! He grinned with anticipation. Maybe the men would spot the little devils and give ‘em hell. Maybe he’d get to see a battle where each casualty was a blessing and he could hoot and holler over each of the dead.

The clomp of hooves grew as the horses approached. A snippet of conversation carried on the breeze. A raucous laugh rolled through the trees. Finally, the bugbear caught the sound of men over the rush of the river and the tumult of their own activities. The buggers became very quiet. At the next sound, the bugbear scattered. Several kicked out the fire. A half dozen bugbear took the living animals up the road with all possible haste. The remaining bugbear hid in the thick undergrowth at the edge of the river and shook with anticipation. There was a lot of vegetation and the beasts were well hidden. Even knowing they were there, Toar had a hard time spotting them.

Eventually, the men appeared. They laughed and conversed easily, unaware of the lurking danger as they moved along the road. It wasn’t a caravan. Indeed, there were only three of ‘em iwht six horses. One of them had skin as dark as night. The bugbear squirmed and glared at the men, unconcerned by their color. There were at least a dozen bugbear on the bank. Not only did they have numbers, they had the element of surprise!

Although he was fairly sure these were not Ministrian, Toar did not want to get involved. There were few people in this part of the world that weren’t slaves or slavers, and these three looked decidedly more like the latter. He stayed safely out of view and decided to let the ambush shake out.

The hairs on the back of Toar’s neck stood on edge. The three strangers stepped into the river. The waters climbed over their ankles, past their knees, and up their stomachs. The deeper the stranger’s went, the more the sinking feeling caught in Toar’s chest.

Then a strange thing happened. As Toar watched the oblivious approach of the strangers, one of the bugbear turned and looked directly at him. Somehow, despite the camouflage of the ledge, he was spotted. Toar locked eyes with the beast. It showed long fangs and silently snapped at him.

Once more, Toar looked up the steep slope, and thought it impassible. He looked down the way he came and wondered if he moved first, might he outrun the buggers?

The men in the river Quick were across the deepest part of the channel. They climbed into shallow water, down to their thighs, the tops of their shins. They were almost across the wide, slow ford. If Toar was going to act, he had to act now.

Without another thought, Toar picked a stone off the ground and chucked it at the bugbear that glared at him. Committed, Toar didn’t wait for the stone to hit or miss. He simply lobbed stone after stone into the brush where the bugbear hid.

The first rock caused the men in the river to jump back and pull weapons. After the third, the youngest of the men swore. “Balls...” he said as he noted the stream of rocks that fell from the sky. Sure of trouble, he pulled his weapons from the dry saddle of his horse.

Although the rain of rocks ruined the ambush, the bugbear still attacked. A couple ran for Toar, and tried to scramble up the hill. Toar continued to throw rocks, though he shifted his aim. His right hand glanced the pommel of his sword, aware that he may need it yet.

At the river’s edge, a bugbear stepped from the brush and shot the eldest of the three strangers with its blowgun. In retaliation, the dark man leaped forward with his spear and struck the offending bugbear before it could dodge back into the brush. The bugger shrieked and dropped into the waters of the Quick.

Several more buggers jumped from the bushes and confronted the dark man. The metal tip the dark man’s spear flicked and whistled as he used it to keep the buggers at bay. He nicked another beast and the bugger howled in pain.

Several leather balls flew from the hedges. Most missed their target or scored ineffective hits, but one caught the youngest man full in the face. Blinded, he leveled his muskets in the general direction of the offense. A puff of smoke appeared, and a split second later the force of the blast ripped at his ears. It’d been years since he last heard a musket. Blood exploded from a bugbear’s arm and the beast howled in pain. The afflicted beast turned, stepped from the river, and ran up the road as it gripped its injured arm and cried with impotent fury.

The oldest of the strangers also had a musket. He pointed and fired at the buggers that slowly pushed the dark man back. Another clap of thunder roared through the air. Unaccustomed to the racket, Toar and the buggers flinched again. One of the buggers flopped back in the water as if smashed in the chest with a hammer. Blood swirled about as the lifeless body was caught in the current, and slowly rolled out into the deepest channel of the river.

With another member dead, the resilience of the bugbear was shattered. The vermin panicked, broke, and ran. They squawked and snorted and huffed in their strange language as they retreated up the road to Salyst. Toar’s heart sank to see them headed for the old city. He was beginning to think he’d never see it.

Even if he should, he was convinced he’d find nothing there but bugbear among her ruins. He’d be forced to continue across the Red Desert if he hoped to find the exiled—and the Red Desert promised to be no picnic. There was rumor of giants in the desert, especially near the Red Hills that bordered on Minist. Toar frowned and wondered where he might go next.

With the enemy fled, the three men in the river waved and beckoned to Toar. He watched the men, confused by their strange Saot tongue. He only hoped they would also go away. They did not. Instead the old man switched to Ministrian, and though he despised the language, Toar knew it well. “Come down here, that we may talk,” the old man said. “My name is Dandifrod, and these are my men; Carr and Baetolamew! We are far from home and care for your council!”

Since Toar could talk to them, he decided he must. “Stay in the river!” he yelled back. “There are traps!” He had not saved them from the ambush only to have them all poisoned. The three men waited at the edge of the water. Toar grabbed his pack and hurried down the slope. He approached the river and searched for the trip lines, which were easy to find since he knew where to look. He gently cut the bugbear string and the first trap fell apart.

“Thank you for your warning. Twice you have saved us. We are increasingly in your debt,” Dandifrod smiled.

Toar huffed. He ignored the man as he gently cut another line. The fiber separated—but he put too much pressure into the cut, and the trap activated. A dart flew through the air and just missed his face. Toar breathed a sigh of relief. A face infected with rot was not a pleasant thought. Safe from bugger traps, he stood and addressed the three men with a sour expression. “Are you slavers?”

“No,” Dandifrod answered with his hands up and helpless. “We’re simply passing through.”

“You do not belong here,” Toar replied.

“Are these not the Freelands?” Dandifrod asked.

Toar snorted, “in name alone.”

“Are you not a Trohl?”

“I am an exception,” Toar stated. “We are a good week from the nearest Trohl settlement. Between here and there its nothing but bugbear and Ministrian shock troops.”

Dandifrod frowned to hear that. “We make for Hearthstone,” he began.

“Then you should go another way.”

“Is it safe now?” Dandifrod asked as he pointed to the bank of the river, undeterred. “This water is cold, and we would be out of it.”

Toar shrugged. The men climbed from the river.

“Thank you for breaking the ambush,” Carr, the dark man said, and shook Toar’s hand. “We are lucky you were around.”

Dandifrod approached the man with a small dart resting in his palm. “I fear I am poisoned,” he said to the young man. “Do you know what those devils use?”

Toar took the dart and examined it. He saw what he expected. “The oily substance is rot root, or sweet rot as the Ministrians know it. You can smell it,” he wrinkled his nose.

Dandifrod sniffed the dart and cringed. “How bad is it?”

“Bad,” Toar admitted. “Without treatment, you will get sick and die. May I see the wound?”

Dandifrod lifted his shirt. There was an angry red pock mark low on his right side. “It is very delicate,” Dandifrod noted.

“If it can be infected, it’s dinner,” Toar shrugged. “It is a good thing they use the rot when they hunt. They have quicker poisons for when they go to war,” he spit.

“You said there is a treatment?” Dandifrod asked.

“Normally, the rot kills in a day or two—three if you’re lucky. I can give you a week or so, depending on your strength,” he searched in his bag. “I know a witch. She lives eight days from here—six if we hurry. She can heal you if you live that long,” he shrugged. “It’s good odds.”

“If you shall take us, we will be forever in your debt,” Dandifrod bowed.

Toar frowned. “Let it not be forever,” he handed a slight jar of ointment to Dandifrod. “Rub this on the wound.”

The man took the jar and applied a thin ribbon. “It bites,” he complained.

“Add more,” Toar told him. “You do not look well. How do you feel?”

“To speak the truth, I feel weak and nauseous,” Dandifrod confessed.

Toar nodded. “Wobble weed, quick and disorienting. It makes it easier for the bugbear to catch their prey.”

“It is not lethal?” Dandifrod asked.

“Kill the quarry and you stop the spread of the rot. If the point is to get a meat that is thoroughly marbled, the victim must die of the infection itself. Wobble weed tries your balance and makes you tired,” Toar said as he searched among his bag. He grinned as he pulled out a pouch and offered a small spoon of green powder to Dandifrod. “Try this.”

Cautiously, Dandifrod ate the powder. He ground it against the roof of his mouth. Toar could tell it was working before the man swallowed. Dandifrod’s eyes went wide and he stood up straight. “This is marvelous!” he smiled at Toar. “What is it you give me?”

“Fio,” Toar said in a bit of a whisper. He took a spoonful for himself as he imagined it would be a long day among these strangers, and wanted the extra strength and centering.

Dandifrod was taken aback, “But fio is white. You give me a green powder.”

Toar shook his head. “What you know is the fio of Minist, and their attempts to isolate the drug’s euphoric and energetic effects. The Ministrians would addle your brain and make you an addict.”

“Yours is not addictive?” Dandifrod asked.

“Not as addictive,” Toar corrected.

The old man smiled. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome,” Toar offered a spoon of the powder to Carr and Baetolamew. Carr declined immediately. Baetolamew thought on it before he finally shook his head. With a shrug, Toar returned the pouch to his bag. “If there is nothing else that needs our attention, I suggest we go. The buggers are just as likely to come back as they are to stay away. I’d prefer not to be here in case they return.”

“I have a question,” Baetolamew pointed at his watery eyes. “That devil hit me with something. It stings,” he explained.

“That is not a question,” Toar noted.

Baetolamew glared at the Trohl. “What is it?” he snapped.

Toar leaned close to the man. He could see remnants of the dust caught in the man’s lashes and brows. He pulled several long, thin spines from Baetolamew’s face. He showed them to the man. “Moon thistle. They use it to blind and get birds.”

“I can see mostly...” Baet said unconvincingly.

“You are lucky. There are no spines stuck in your eyes. You will be okay,” Toar assured. “Wash your face in the river. Be careful to pull any spines you find and not push them into your skin. If they get too deep, they will irritate, and may get infected.”

Baet gulped, turned to the river, and washed his face.

“It is lucky you know Mininstrian,” Dandifrod said.

Toar shrugged. “Half the world knows Ministrian—or so I am told.”

“I have heard this. You speak it quite well.”

“I was raised in the courts, a servant if you will. It was a difficult upbringing, but it afforded an excellent education.”

“Why are there Ministrians in these mountains?” Dandifrod asked. “I thought these were Trohl lands.”

Toar shrugged. “Kezodel.”

“Who is Kezodel?”

Toar eyed the men suspiciously. “Kezodel is the Muaha of the Bouge. He is supreme leader and final judge in the courts of Ebertin.”

“I am confused,” Dandifrod noted. “What is a Bouge, and when do we enter Trohl lands?”

Toar stared at the strangers. These men had no knowledge of bugbear, Kezodel, or even the Bouge! They knew nothing of the land in which they traveled! What chased them into this country so unprepared? “When shall we enter Trohl lands?” Toar repeated the question. “That depends on who you ask. Many including Kezodel say this is Bouge land—a tribe of Trohl, as you say. I should think this is properly Ministrian territory if it belongs to anyone. They patrol it and keep it in the order they care to maintain, which seems to be none at all. Instead, they allow bugbear to proliferate,” Toar continued. “As for Trohls, there are nine Trohl tribes. There are the Bouge, Pulbouge, Jindleyak, Gopi, Untu, Gramgoar, Melmore, Mormosse, and the Indrah,” he informed. “The Salystians used to be among this number, but they are all gone; dead, enslaved, or disappeared beyond the Red Desert,” he answered.

“Nine tribes? How big are they?” Baetolamew asked.

“Millions strong. The Gramgoar are the most numerous and the Untu are the fewest, now that the Salystians have vanished.”

“How many men does this Kezodel command?” Dandifrod continued.

Toar thought on it. “Twenty maybe fifty thousand among the watch? They answer to the office of the Muaha—but many are decent men and hope only to keep the peace. His house guard is five, maybe ten thousand strong and they are all fanatics. They will do anything the Muaha commands, and peace is not in their nature. They occupy all the top offices of the watch. Lastly, there are the militias, maybe half a million strong.”

Carr gave a whistle. “Now that’s an army,” he said.

Toar shrugged. “The militias are filled with men and women of all ages, boys and girls from ten to sixty, seventy, or even eighty years of age. If you can carry a weapon and are willing to defend your home, you are welcome in one or another of the militias,” Toar shrugged. “Nobody really knows how many troops the militias can muster. They all fudge their numbers, and while some are filled with brave warriors and dangerous men indeed, others are ranked with cowards and utter incompetents,” Toar shook his head. “Of the militias, some side with the Muaha and carry out his various corruptions, while others are openly critical. A few have been so incensed, they’ve moved east and joined with the Pulbouge. Most are simply neutral and content to let the others struggle.”

“Ebertin must be quite the city,” Dandifrod noted.

“It is the largest Trohl city, or so I am told,” Toar noted. He turned on the three men and eyed them critically. “What of you? Where are you from?”

“Ewile, far to the south,” Dandifrod answered. “It borders the Sea of Danya and the west bank of the Wanderwater. It is a land of rolling hills, green and fecund.”

“Are you not Saot? Subject to King Gred duReb?” Toar asked.

“It seems that all of our histories are a little more complicated,” Dandifrod noted. “The Saot is made up of several duchies. There is Danyan, Ewile, Kelm, the Noeth, Gaurring, Pagladoria...”

“Pags,” Baetolamew snorted.

“Don’t be rude,” Dandifrod chided.

“I see,” Toar turned to Carr. “What of you? Are you a Saot too?”

“Yes.”

“And what of your color?”

“Although there are many of my dark brothers in Ewile, my native home is Borzia, to the south, and across the Sea of Danya,” Carr said. “Borzia is a bloody and troubled land. I much prefer my adopted home.”

“They say blood and money flow free in Borzia,” Dandifrod added.

Carr nodded his head. “Blood for the natives, and money for the foreigners.”

“Is that a joke?” Toar asked.

“Of a sort,” Carr noted. “Though it is not very funny.”

Toar thought it sounded like the jokes told among Kezodel and his henchmen. He nodded his agreement.

As the four men proceeded east, they continued to speak of their peoples. With the setting of the sun, the company made camp. They built a fire against the side of a large boulder, in hopes that it would not be seen. Toar scavenged wild vegetables and heated them over the fire. They enjoyed these fresh foods with hard tack and preserved meats provided by Dandifrod and his men. As they ate, Toar inspected Dandifrod’s wound once more.

“It is growing,” Dandifrod worried.

“It is still smaller than the palm of my hand,” Toar noted. “Today was a good day for you. You may yet live.”

“Will the road be so quiet all the way east?” Dandifrod asked.

“No. It is quiet until it is not. Due to the bugbear, the Ministrians tend to travel en masse. It is usually large caravans that pass with plenty of guards,” Toar said. “As for the watchtowers and the supply stations the Ministrians run, well, there are ways around those.”

“I should not like to be stopped by Ministrians,” Dandifrod admitted.

“Nor I,” Toar smiled. “But they are easy enough to avoid, so long as we are vigilant. With so many feet, they tend to make a lot of noise.”

Although Carr, Dandifrod, and Toar ate with fervor, Baetolamew continued to poke and curse at his makeshift meal.

“Why do you not eat?” Carr asked. “What is wrong with you?”

“I can barely taste it. I can not smell it at all,” Baetolamew complained. “What did that devil do to me?”

Toar approached so he could get a better look at Baetolamew’s face. The man-at-arms was flush. His eyes watered and snot ran from his nose. “This is not moon thistle,” Toar thought out loud. “...and it is quite warm and late in the season to have such a cold...” He gently poked at Baetolamew and checked his eyes, ears, nose, and mouth as he considered other possibilities. After a few minutes, Toar realized what was familiar about the symptoms. He leaned back and eyed the stranger critically. “Did you lay with a Trohl? Maybe in the last week?”

Baetolamew looked at Dandifrod and Carr. Shame overcame his face. After a long pause Baetolamew sighed. “There was a woman, in Wibbeley. She said she was half Trohl...”

Dandifrod’s eyes went wide as he gave a long whistle.

“A bit of celebration?” Carr asked.

“Garf and several men approached on the street,” Baetolamew explained. “I hid in the first hole I could find.”

Dandifrod smirked.

“And it happened to be a brothel?” Carr asked, somewhere between consternation and amusement.

“Our enemies were not established in what I would call a fine neighborhood,” Baetolamew complained. “The streets were filled with whores and men in blue and white, with time and metal on their hands. It was vexing to stand idle, so close to those that would capture and kill me if only they knew my heart. Yet, I stood, waiting, as if I had nothing to hide—until Garf and Bence stepped down the street with a dozen men in tow! They came right at me, and I concealed myself as I could! I used the wrapping arms of a half Trohl girl to disguise myself—that is true! I did what I must, and I lived because of it!” his words trailed off weakly before he began again with gusto. “It is because of my error that I got my hands on Banifourd! Come to find out, the bordello was established by his own mother! My failure became my success!” he added defiantly.

“Whatever else happened, this girl has given you disease,” Toar stated.

“What do I have?!” Baetolamew asked as his concern crept toward hysteria.

“Many call it the drips, or the Tikatis trickle. It is an affliction Ministrians and Saot sometimes suffer when they couple with Trohl. Untreated, you will become dehydrated and weak as you continue to snot and ooze. It is a slow process, and may not subside for months. Your kidneys may fail. You may die.”

“Months!?” Baetolamew stood and backed from Toar. “Naharahna’s tits! I’m going to die!?” He pulled Gore Tongue from its sheath. “It’s just a ball-sucking cold, you scandalous liar! You tell my master he has the rot and will live a week, then you claim that I’ll die soon after!” Baetolamew ripped Haddelton’s long knife from its scabbard and spun blades in each hand. “Draw your metal! I will have blood for your lies!”

Carr stood and put a hand out toward Baetolamew. “Sit, Baet. Relax. He is here to help.”

Baetolamew wiped his face and eyed the mess on his sleeve. With a huff, he put his knives away and sat back down a good distance from Toar.

“There is a cure,” Toar said.

“Oh, there’s a cure!” Baetolamew mocked. “The witch has it, a week from here!”

Toar ignored the interruption. “There is an herb that grows in abundance. It is very effective. We will make a tea. Tonight, you will feel some bit of comfort, and tomorrow you will feel quite a bit better. In three or four days, you will forget that you were ever bothered. I will show you this herb. If the affliction should ever return, you can make this simple tea and it will clear up in short order.”

“I shall suffer these drips for a lifetime!?” Baet asked.

“It is the luck of the draw,” Toar shrugged. “Some drink the tea a few days and never see the drips again. Others must drink the tea all their lives to keep the sickness at bay.”

“It is but a tea, you say?”

Toar nodded. “This plant grows everywhere throughout the Bunderhilt. I am told it grows in the mountains about Mininst. Likely, there is much of it to the south, in your own nation, among your own mountains. It is pleasant with honey or sugar to sweeten it,” Toar stood and walked from the fire light. “I go to find the herb.”

For some time, Toar wandered. He was in no hurry to find the distinctive silversage and return to the fire. Although the older man and the dark man were amiable companions, the younger Saot was full of piss and vinegar. Toar did not like him. Still, he found a large clump of silversage and took several branches from it. When he had enough for a few days, he returned to the fire. He examined his findings and stripped the outer bark into a small pot of water. He then discarded the young leaves, slight flowers, and remaining bulk of the silversage into the fire.

“Why do you junk the bright young foliage? Why is it you break up ragged and shaggy bark, adding only the rough bits to the water?” Baetolamew asked.

“Silversage is a precarious plant. It is toxic and dangerous as it first blooms. But the toxins shift and mellow as it ages, becoming subtle medicines. Make sure you use bark that has suffered at least one winter,” Toar explained.

“He will kill us all,” Baetolamew muttered under his breath.

With a pained smile, Toar set the pot on the edge of the fire. It took several minutes to boil. When it finished, Toar pulled the tea from the fire and poured a cup. He handed the cup to Baetolamew.

Baetolamew looked to Dandifrod and Carr. Both men watched him, curious. Baetolamew lifted the liquid to his nose. “Balls, I cannot even smell it!” He fumed.

Carr waved the vapors to himself. “It does not smell too bad,” he nodded. “It has a subtle perfume that might make it enjoyable.”

“I do not trust it!” Baetolamew set the cup aside. “He would poison me and let the old man die! Then, there is only Carringten between him and all we have!” He said to Dandifrod.

“If that is so, I will kill him,” Carr stated, nonchalant.

The statement was a bit of a shock for Toar, but the words were light. Carr looked at Toar and shrugged as a way of apology. It did not seem to be a threat, only a reassurance meant to calm Baetolamew.

For several seconds, the drink sat alone. Finally, Toar took the cup. Fear shot across Baetolamew’s face as he expected the Trohl would dump it. Instead, Toar sipped at the hot tea. He made sure it was an audible sip, then gurgled to prove it was in his mouth. With a smile, he swallowed and offered the cup back to Baetolamew. “It is safe,” Toar told him. “Though it is still quite hot.”

But it was not Baetolamew that took the cup. It was Dandifrod. The old man looked to Toar. “Any reason I should not?”

Toar shook his head and gave a shrug. The tea would be safe for most.

Dandifrod sniffed the drink and took a slow, ponderous gulp. “Not bad,” the old man noted. He passed the cup to Carr.

The dark man sniffed the concoction and sampled it. With a bit of a nod, he passed the cup. “You must try it Baet. It is almost pleasant.”

Carringten and now Baet... The strangers interchanged nicknames and full names. With a suspicious look, Toar turned on the old man. “Dan?” He said as he hoped to catch the old man off guard, “Dan,” he repeated.

Dandifrod perked up. “Nobody calls me Dan,” he replied.

“Dan is a common name, is it not?” Toar asked.

“Which is why he don’t use it!” Baetolamew snapped. “Does he look like a common man to you?!” Irritated, Baetolamew turned back to the tea and finally took a sip. The others watched as he finished it without further complaint. With the initial cup down, Baetolamew turned to Toar. “Is that all, or should I drink the rest of the pot?” he asked, his temper all but faded.

Toar shrugged. “It cannot hurt to have some more.”

Baetolamew took up the pot and calmly poured another cup. He picked bits of bark from the tea, careful not to singe his fingers. “It is not terrible,” he stated as he brought the cup to his lips once more. Toar watched as the younger Saot drank the silversage tea and was happy to note the accusation and hostility was finally gone from the man’s eyes.