art though . . . He shrugged and moved on. Crossbows . . . slings . . . What are these little cases?
The cases in question, about his own nose-to-rump length of five inches square, were packed along with slings and slugthrowers, which used little round bullets of lead or other heavy, hard material. These are locked too . . . but I’m another alcove down from the guards, and they’re busy with their game . . .
He examined the box carefully, and finally—almost holding his breath—slid the sharp point of his blade in where he thought the latching mechanism was, and twisted.
Toads can be quite strong for their size, and Duckweed was experienced in using what he had to the utmost. The latch resisted, but he managed to slide the blade in a little farther, braced his feet on the sides of the big chest the box was sitting in, and heaved as he twisted with both hands on the hilt.
The latch gave with an audible pop that surprised him; he paused and listened, but there was no sign that any of the guards, even the sharp-eared Lassish, had heard.
Inside the case were blackberry-sized spheres that mirrored in miniature the much larger ones in the first chest he’d examined, packed in soft cloth. More fire essence in bullet-sizes now. This is bad.
And he was running out of time. Yes, a summoning ritual like that took time, but no telling how long it had already been going on. He had to do something. He gazed around in growing desperation.
And then his golden gaze alighted on the Zachass again.
He paused. And then he smiled, a slight upturn of the almost-immobile lips. If I can have just ten more minutes . . . He gave the same hop-and-bob that everyone gave when they entered the Temple, and imagined the immense obsidian statue that loomed behind the altar. Blackwart, give me just ten more minutes, please, ten more minutes to work in.
Because if they didn’t finish their ritual in ten minutes, the little Toad was pretty sure he could make sure they never would.
6
Duckweed lowered himself slowly down the cord. Ritual’s still going on . . . Maybe, just maybe . . .
It wasn’t easy. Two bags were now tied onto him with some of the same string he’d gotten from the fourth alcove, bulky bags that were fairly light but almost as big as his own body. His sword was in a hastily wrapped semi-scabbard on his back. Rigging everything in the alcoves had taken him ten minutes, but it had taken another five minutes to figure out how he was getting out of there past the guards. Fortunately, the rooms had been cut out of natural cavern and he’d finally noticed in the upper corner of one a small crack which he and the bags had just been able to squeeze through; apparently no one thought it was worth the trouble to block up. He’d set things going and then gotten out of there.
Getting very tight on the timing I think . . . Gotta get to the ground before everything starts happening. Normally he’d just drop—it was a long way down, but he’d also long since found out that someone as small as he was could fall a lot farther than the big people without getting hurt.
But that was, of course, not a good idea right now.
The ritual was clearly reaching a crescendo. Three ranks of monstrous figures were circling the great pentagonal array, the inner moving to the right, the middle to the left, the outer to the right again, all repeating invocations in lockstep rhythm in a language that made Duckweed’s skin prickle. And the rhythm was speeding up. It wouldn’t be long now at all.
Only good thing is that means most of them are completely focused on their nasty ritual. He was still worried about the few guards inside the room who weren’t part of the ritual. He was descending from the same little passageway he’d been in before, and it was in a shadowed part of the room . . . but mazakh had good eyes in the dark, some said they could see heat. Not much heat in a little Toad, but all they needed to do was notice movement . . .
Only
The cases in question, about his own nose-to-rump length of five inches square, were packed along with slings and slugthrowers, which used little round bullets of lead or other heavy, hard material. These are locked too . . . but I’m another alcove down from the guards, and they’re busy with their game . . .
He examined the box carefully, and finally—almost holding his breath—slid the sharp point of his blade in where he thought the latching mechanism was, and twisted.
Toads can be quite strong for their size, and Duckweed was experienced in using what he had to the utmost. The latch resisted, but he managed to slide the blade in a little farther, braced his feet on the sides of the big chest the box was sitting in, and heaved as he twisted with both hands on the hilt.
The latch gave with an audible pop that surprised him; he paused and listened, but there was no sign that any of the guards, even the sharp-eared Lassish, had heard.
Inside the case were blackberry-sized spheres that mirrored in miniature the much larger ones in the first chest he’d examined, packed in soft cloth. More fire essence in bullet-sizes now. This is bad.
And he was running out of time. Yes, a summoning ritual like that took time, but no telling how long it had already been going on. He had to do something. He gazed around in growing desperation.
And then his golden gaze alighted on the Zachass again.
He paused. And then he smiled, a slight upturn of the almost-immobile lips. If I can have just ten more minutes . . . He gave the same hop-and-bob that everyone gave when they entered the Temple, and imagined the immense obsidian statue that loomed behind the altar. Blackwart, give me just ten more minutes, please, ten more minutes to work in.
Because if they didn’t finish their ritual in ten minutes, the little Toad was pretty sure he could make sure they never would.
6
Duckweed lowered himself slowly down the cord. Ritual’s still going on . . . Maybe, just maybe . . .
It wasn’t easy. Two bags were now tied onto him with some of the same string he’d gotten from the fourth alcove, bulky bags that were fairly light but almost as big as his own body. His sword was in a hastily wrapped semi-scabbard on his back. Rigging everything in the alcoves had taken him ten minutes, but it had taken another five minutes to figure out how he was getting out of there past the guards. Fortunately, the rooms had been cut out of natural cavern and he’d finally noticed in the upper corner of one a small crack which he and the bags had just been able to squeeze through; apparently no one thought it was worth the trouble to block up. He’d set things going and then gotten out of there.
Getting very tight on the timing I think . . . Gotta get to the ground before everything starts happening. Normally he’d just drop—it was a long way down, but he’d also long since found out that someone as small as he was could fall a lot farther than the big people without getting hurt.
But that was, of course, not a good idea right now.
The ritual was clearly reaching a crescendo. Three ranks of monstrous figures were circling the great pentagonal array, the inner moving to the right, the middle to the left, the outer to the right again, all repeating invocations in lockstep rhythm in a language that made Duckweed’s skin prickle. And the rhythm was speeding up. It wouldn’t be long now at all.
Only good thing is that means most of them are completely focused on their nasty ritual. He was still worried about the few guards inside the room who weren’t part of the ritual. He was descending from the same little passageway he’d been in before, and it was in a shadowed part of the room . . . but mazakh had good eyes in the dark, some said they could see heat. Not much heat in a little Toad, but all they needed to do was notice movement . . .
Only
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