Chapter 13

13.

         “Bad luck shouldn’t stop anyone,” Prescotte said to himself quite firmly, feeling very convinced of that fact. Thinking he heard more voices he crouched tighter against the tree for cover, sliding his head around cautiously, ready to duck behind again at any moment. Leaves tickled the side of his face and sunlight made a patchwork pattern on his forehead.
         “People get a few setbacks and just give up . . .” he continued quietly, standing up slowly and slipping around the tree, his back to the trunk, feeling rough bark scraping against his clothing. “. . . and that’s the problem right there with people, that’s why nothing gets done. A low tolerance for failure.” He fell silent for a second, head cocked to the side, listening. His eyes narrowed as he strained to listen but nothing unnatural exposed itself to his hearing. “You can’t be afraid to fail and you can’t be afraid to try. Otherwise it’s just . . . just . . .” he paused again, moving back around to the other side of the tree. Making a face, he asked, “I haven’t heard anyone in a while, Tritan. Think they finally gave up?”
         The clump of foliage next to Prescotte rustled noisily and large humanoid shape rose out of it, bits of leaves and twigs clinging to its hardened red and blue skin. A small crown of branches rested neatly on its head, quite by accident. With large blue eyes set on either side of a pointed face, the Slashtir looked down on Prescotte, its expression unreadable but oddly passive.
         “Perhaps they are putting out the small fire in the opposite direction,” Tritan said clearly, his diction apparently not suffering from his alien physiology. “You did swear to burn down the entire forest.”
         Prescotte laughed quietly, nodding. “I did sound pretty convincing, didn’t I?” His smile faded as his lips turned downward. “So where exactly did we go wrong?”
         “Perhaps we weren’t ready for twenty people to show up at once,” was the laconic reply.
         Prescotte thought for a second, then shook his head. “Nah, I had hoped for a crowd, honestly.”
         “A crowd with swords?”
         “Not all of them had swords,” Prescotte argued.
         “No, two got stuck in the wall when you ducked.”
         “Right, right,” Prescotte said. “See it’s wasn’t-“
         ”And three just jumped on you with their fists . . .”
         “Mm, true,” Prescotte agreed, running his hand along a sore spot on his jaw. “Bastard got a good shot in, too,” he muttered, wincing as his fingers probed the small lump. “At least he won’t be using that hand anytime soon.”
         “And I believe a couple of the children were throwing rocks through the window as well,” Tritan added helpfully.
         “Parents don’t teach their kids respect anymore,” Prescotte fumed. Spinning on Tritan he said, “Whenever you have kids, if you people even have kids . . . or whatever it is you call them, take the time to teach them some decent manners . . . or you get those little monsters you saw today.”
         “I will try,” Tritan replied modestly. “Is that what you were doing when I found you on the ground with them?”
         “Just roughhousing with the tykes,” Prescotte said quickly. “You know, show them I meant no harm.”
         “They didn’t pull you down? But I thought you said-“
         ”Just bringing the fight down to their level,” Prescotte interrupted in an irritated tone. “And what about you?” he asked sharply, pointing at Tritan. “I thought the plan was to scare the crap out of them so they wouldn’t attack?”
         “I said what you wanted me to say,” Tritan noted. “And they were too scared to attack.”
         “Yeah, of you. They had no problem coming after me.” Frowning, the man said, “See, Tritan, the goal was to scare the hell out of them so we could find out what we needed to know with a minimum of fuss. It used to work all the time. Intimidation is so much more preferable to actual bloodshed. You bring some soldiers in, look menacing and soon enough people are telling you things you don’t even want to know.” He sighed, leaning against the tree. “It used to work so well . . . these people just don’t grasp the concept I suppose.”
         “Perhaps they just felt safe in their large numbers.”
         “Yeah, so much for fear being contagious. Damn,” Prescotte swore, lightly banging his fist against the tree trunk. “Looks like we’re not going to be able to do this the easy way, Tritan. I mean, they clearly want to help us, all we have to do is convince them of that. Just a change of tactics, that’s all.”
         “Several of them said they wanted to help you put those swords in-“
         ”Yes, I heard them,” Prescotte broke in. “I got the message. You did throw the chair at them, right?”
         “Which was the chair?”
         “The things people sit on,” Prescotte explained. “Although I’ve learned they make handy projectiles in a pinch.”
         “Ah yes, I believe so. It was fairly light. But weren’t you sitting on the larger wooden object as well, the one with four legs?”
         “You mean the table? No, I jumped on that to, ah, attain the higher ground. It’s a common military maneuver. Why, did you throw that, too?”
         “Yes, because I wasn’t sure. Was that wrong?”
         “Well that explains why it got suddenly dark overhead,” Prescotte murmured, finding a splinter embedded in his sleeve, tossing it away with a flick of his hand. “No, no that was good, Tritan. You were adapting to the situation. That’s a crucial skill in encounters like that. I’ve seen more experienced men than you go all to pieces when the battle starts to go wrong.”
         “Is that what happened to us?”
         “What . . . no, no, it didn’t go wrong,” Prescotte tried to explain, “it’s just that, in all the . . . when you come down to it . . . the fact is . . . ah, things went, ah . . . things went slightly . . . awry . . .” he finished in a small voice.
         Running both his hands through his dark hair, Prescotte paced back and forth in front of the tree, while Tritan looked on calmly. “Honestly, Tritan, I thought your presence would be enough to paralyze them with fear. Guess they’re more open minded than I figured. Heh,” he stopped and adjusted the sword lashed diagonally across his back, face tensed in thought. “You don’t think we could recruit like . . . five more of your people to help us out, could we?”
         Tritan appeared to consider this. “Alas, we would require warriors and unless on the orders of a lord, they give their aid on very rare occasions and even then, only after certain rituals.”
         “Such as?” Prescotte asked, curious. He suspected he wasn’t going to like the answer.
         “A fight to the death.”
         “Oh,” he said, looking down briefly. Should’ve known. Then, glancing back up at Tritan, he added, confused, “But if I defeat the warrior, then he’s dead. What good is that?”
         “The warrior would be resurrected to complete the mission. Afterwards, of course, he would be executed, since being defeated in combat is a disgrace in itself.”
         “And what about me? What if I lose? Do I get resurrected?”
         “Not likely, no.”
         “Figures,” Prescotte sighed. Rubbing his face with a quick motion, he said, “And what about others like you? You know, scholars? They’d do. I’m not looking for a fight. It’s all about threats.”
         “Scholars are not allowed to leave our dimension. Only warriors accompanied by a priest can cross the barriers.”
         “But you left. How did you get permission?”
         “I didn’t. They don’t know.” There was a trace of amusement in the Slashtir’s otherwise oddly modulated voice.
         “Oh,” Prescotte said again. “I see.” He idly kicked at an immovable stone buried in the ground with his boot for a moment, forehead creased in thought. Then, his head snapped up and he appeared to come to a decision. “All right, we’re going to have to try something different. A change of tactics, like I said. Come on . . .” with a twitch of his head he indicated for Tritan to follow, before heading off into the trees. A constant rustling and snapping from behind told him that the Slashtir was close by.
         “What’s our problem here, Tritan?” Prescotte asked over his shoulder, trying to stick to a relatively wide path so Tritan wasn’t forced to demolish his way through. The Slashtir wasn’t particularly destructive, but not above breaking some things in order to keep up. “What exactly are we trying to accomplish?”
         “I believe we’re here to retrieve Commander Brown, Kara, and the other soldiers from whatever has befallen them.”
         “Okay,” Prescotte replied, frowning as he came to a rather knotted set of bushes. Unsheathing his sword, he began to chop his way through, relishing the physical activity and glad it wasn’t something that would try to hit him back. Though the way his luck was going today, the damn plants here were probably alive as well. “But we don’t know where they are, or even what happened to them, correct?”
         “As of now, no.”
         “So I had hoped that we could question some of the villagers, get some idea if they had seen anything bizarre recently. However,” Prescotte grunted as he took a second swing at a stubborn branch, “if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that people talk. And if they’ll talk to you, they’ll talk to everyone else. And the last thing we needed was some fool running and telling someone in charge that we’re around and about.”
         “So they’re to go and tell everyone that we are fast runners?”
         Prescotte opened his mouth to say something, stopped, turned and looked at the Slashtir, who regarded him as unreadably calm as always, and turned back to slashing through the forest, wondering if Tritan had finally learned sarcasm.
         “No,” he replied after a minute, staring straight ahead, “if they were frightened out of their wits, they aren’t going to tell anyone. At least . . . that’s the theory. We happened to walk into a close-knit community, as it turns out.”
          The Slashtir grabbed a large handful of branches in a huge fist and casually tore them out and tossed them casually over his shoulder. Prescotte watched the debris fall with a lazy arc and made a mental note to ensure that in any fight Tritan was within reach of material capable of attaining flight. “If we are here to merely rescue, perhaps we should adopt Tristian and Ranos’ methods and simply use a more direct approach.”
         “Nah, we’re no good for that,” Prescotte said, swearing as his sword slipping and lodged itself into the trunk of a tree, jarring his arm painfully. “Those two, they’re powerhouses, that’s how they work best, just barreling through everything. They’ve been doing this stuff for a while, so they have a system worked out.” He smirked, an expression that turned into a grimace as he braced his foot against the tree, pulling at the sword with a jerk. “If we’re lucky they’ll attract all the attention and we can slip in and do what we need to do-“
         The sword came loose almost with a pop, sending Prescotte staggering backwards a step. Instantly Tritan’s arm shot out to steady him. Slamming into the Slashtir rigid arm hurt almost as much as actually hitting the ground but Prescotte merely stabilized himself and said, “Thanks,” before turning back to the forest and forging a path.
         “See, the thing is, Tritan,” Prescotte told his friend, attacking the foliage with renewed vigor, “what you want to avoid is redundant tactics. If we can do just what Tristian and Ranos can do, then there’s no need for us here, is there?” He thought he could see the road not far beyond. Sweat was already coating his face and his arms were feeling the strain of the exertion. Only a little further, though. He could make it. “Plus, if someone figures out a way to counter you, then both teams are screwed, you know? Because they can take them both out then.”
         “I see,” Tritan observed, uprooting a small bush and casting it aside in a shower of dirt and very surprised bugs. “Though, it occurs to me that, if both teams could develop tactics that might complement each other, then they could perhaps be even more effective. Is that a correct assumption?”
         “Ah, it has its uses . . . it’s hard to coordinate sometimes,” Prescotte noted, kicking at a reluctant set of branches before chopping at them again, this time severing the wood. “You need good communication.”
         “Should we have worked out something like that with Tristian and Ranos, then? So we could be more efficient?”
         “Possibly, but you know how those two are, they like to do their own thing. I’m sure they’d feel we were slowing them down, you know? Besides, did you ask them before we left?”
         “No, I thought they left ahead of us . . .”
         “Yeah, you see, we all left in such a hurry that there wasn’t time. I mean, Kara’s out there, you think Tristian is going to want to listen to us on how to rescue his own kid?” The branches here were noticeably thinner and more spread out. Motes of dust danced in the gauzily lit air. “That’s the first thing you’ll learn, Tritan. There are no such things as ideal conditions.”
         “Experience is quickly bearing out that observation out, friend Prescotte,” the Slashtir replied jovially. He reached past Prescotte and snapped off a set of branches at the level of his head, keeping the man from ducking under them. “Though do you think Tristian would like our help?”
         Prescotte halted in mid-swing. For a moment he stared at the Slashtir in disbelief. “Are you kidding, Tritan? Seriously? After all we’ve been through, do you think we should just sit back and let those guys do all the heavy lifting, risk their butts for the Commander and the kid, while we kick up our heels at Legoflas and play cards until they get back? Tritan, Tritan, Tritan . . .” the man shook his head, taking a deep breath and aiming a brutal slice at the few remaining branches. Somehow the wood held its ground, causing Prescotte to bite his lip and ready for another swing. “Have you learned nothing from those guys? Tristian, Ranos, the Commander, they didn’t get where they were because they sat around and said oh let’s have these people do it because they’re better at it . . . no they threw themselves . . .” he swung again, breaking a few of the branches but leaving a couple intact, “. . . into what needed to be done, they put their necks on the line and did the work and saved the day. That’s how you do it. And hell, Tritan, we might be pros now at this saving the Universe stuff, but that’s only a small part of it.” He swung again, the sword a gleaming, deadly blur. “Our friends might be in danger.” Another branch snapped. “We can’t just sit around and do nothing.” A crack and one more was left. He gritted his teeth and swung one last time. “That’s the rule, Tritan, that’s how you do it. If you can help, you get in there and you help . . .”
         The last branch gave way, Prescotte lunged forward, momentum driving him. He stumbled out into the brighter light, taking a few steps to regain his footing. Shielding his eyes he turned to Tritan, who was working his way out to the road, and said, “It’s as simple as that, Tritan. It really is.”
         “So how do we help now?” the Slashtir asked. “Would you like me to scare more people? Perhaps a repeated exposure would heighten their fear?”
         “I doubt it,” Prescotte replied, frowning. “They’d probably just get flaming arrows this time.” Putting a hand to his chin, he paced around for a few seconds, “I think our problem is that we thought too big. We definitely need an in to the village, Tritan, and so maybe instead of a lot of people . . .”
         “Prescotte,” the Slashtir said suddenly, pointing down the road. “Someone is coming.”
         Prescotte spun on his heel, peering down the road. Sure enough there was a rising cloud of dust and a distant figure coming rapidly their way, although the details were indistinct. Damn he has good eyes, Prescotte thought admiringly.
         The man smiled slowly, an idea forming in his mind. “Instead of many . . .” he said quietly.
         Whirling toward Tritan he said, “Get back away from the road, he’ll be here any minute. Here’s what I want you to do . . .”
         “Are we changing our tactics now?” the Slashtir asked innocently as he let Prescotte lead him back toward the trees.
         “Not quite,” Prescotte said, glancing hurriedly toward the road, where the man, now clearly running, was advancing quickly toward them. Now we’re getting somewhere, he thought, grinning broadly. “Like I told you, Tritan, good warriors don’t change, they adapt.
         “And now, on my cue . . . this is what we’re going to do . . .”