Trust

Ryal and Sabiyn

            “Thank you for coming,” Denmother Ulrica said with a smile. “It is a rare outsider who braves the wilds of Felwood, especially in the aid of strangers.”

            Ryal returned the smile, one hand extended to shake Ulrica’s, the other tightly restraining the brown squirrel squirming in the sling he had made of his belt. “I’m researching some of the old elvish ruins,” he said. “It seemed sensible to aid in cleaning up the area since I was going to be out there anyway.” He stepped back, resettling the squirrel more comfortably in the circle of both his hands. The squirrel squeaked a protest.

            Ulrica frowned. “Why on earth would you keep a live squirrel in your belt?” she asked, a touch worriedly. “You do know that most of the small creatures found around here still carry some form of demonic taint…”

            “Yes, that is precisely why he is in my belt,” Ryal said. “I found this nut some time ago, back when I was in Darkshore. He was dying of a festering wound, which I took it upon myself to heal. The more fool, me,” he added ruefully. “He’s a terrible wretch, and he’s been following me around ever since. I can’t seem to get rid of him. He bites; he throws acorns at passersby. Or at me, if there’s no one else around. I figured that since I’m stuck with a vicious squirrel, I’d better do everything in my power to make sure that he doesn’t become demonic in fact as well as in nature.”

            Ulrica laughed. “Very well, then. Perhaps you have learned your lesson about rescuing small creatures.” He grinned. She nodded, adding, once again, “Thank you, for all your help.”

            He nodded in return, then turned to go, sighing. “I will miss this though,” he murmured, more to himself than to Ulrica. “The feeling of pack beneath the boughs of a tree that comes from home…”

            Ulrica’s eyes grew soft. “You are certainly welcome back, at any time. Fare well in your studies. Oh, and Ryal?”

            He looked back. She sighed. “I don’t care what those druids say. If the goblins are here in force, others of the Horde may roam our woods as well. Watch yourself.”

            “I will. Thank you for the warning.”

            Finally, Ryal made his way out of Talonbranch Glade, only a little regretfully. While they would have been happy to recruit him to their pack full time, he knew he could not be happy here. There were no libraries, for a start. And Felwood stunk. Even the areas that had supposedly been cleansed still carried traces of the stench of demon rot. And Ryal had had a sensitive nose before he’s been Cursed. The sooner he could satisfy his scholar’s curiosity, the sooner he could move north into the much cleaner, fresher snowscapes of Winterspring. But first, he turned back south. He wanted one last, quick dig around those seemingly nameless ruins by the partially drained lake in the Irontree Woods.

            The road south, however, curved straight through the chaotic, burning remains of the goblins’ operation at the mine. As he was the one who had been instrumental in sabotaging the place, he had no desire to pass back through it. With a heavy sigh, Ryal decided to avoid any goblin salvage crews who might recognize him, and turned off the road. After securing the squirrel more carefully in his belt-sling, the worgen began his descent of the tumbled cliffs that fell away south into what was left of the woods. As he paused to resettle the restless squirrel, he thought he heard a shout away to the east. He frowned. The fighting, and the still burning mine, was over to the west. There were only impassable mountains to the east. But there was that cry again, quite distinct, if muted by foliage and distance, definitely from the east.

            “Help!”

            Ryal, curious, began to climb again, angling himself now in the direction of the voice, which obligingly kept up a string of shouts that became increasingly clearer. The voice, as he grew closer, proved to be high-pitched, irate, and feminine, and surprisingly easy to follow.

            “Help! Hello! Someone! Anyone? Hey! I know you’re out there. Well, you were. I can smell your fire. I bet someone else will too! And you know what? When they do, I’m going to crush you! Hey! A little help here! A little…”

            Through a gap in the trees, Ryal could now see a small hollow, protected by a rough ring of boulders. The remains of a campfire guttered in a dirt pit over to one side of the ring so that the smoke would get lost in the overhanging tangle of tree branches. A few crates, similar to those he had seen at the goblin mine, were arranged as seating around the fire pit. There were no packs, and no people. The hollow appeared deserted, though only quite recently, Ryal realized as he cautiously edged within the ring of boulders. His nose told him that the smoking ashes in the fire were still wet, and over to the other side of the hollow nearly fresh kodo dung littered the grass. Ryal wrinkled his nose.

            And still the voice shouted. “Hey! Help! I’m trapped up here!”

            Up? Ryal glanced around the hollow, this time scanning the tops of the boulders and the overhanging branches, expecting to find some unfortunate stuck up a tree or wedged in a crevice. Perhaps someone had climbed up to spy on the Horde soldiers that had clearly camped here and had accidentally… Ryal blinked. Okay, he thought. That was no accident.

            The voice, now shouting vain threats of retribution, was issuing from the north end of the hollow, above and to the side of the fire pit, where, quite clearly out of the way and half-hidden in shadow, a leather sack was suspended from a large branch by a thick rope. The sack, which had been tightly tied shut, but also carefully pricked with several small holes, was wriggling on the end of the rope. There was, obviously, something, or more likely someone, jumping up and down inside the sack and screaming for freedom.

            “Hello? Blast it, can’t anyone hear me?”

            Ryal cleared his throat. “Aren’t you worried that all that shouting will attract the wrong sort of attention?”

            The owner of the voice scoffed. “I can handle any sort of attention, so long as I’m on the ground.”

            Ryal raised his eyebrows. “Clearly not.”

            “Hey!” her voice yelped in indignation. “I was analyzing the growth of demon flowers, and got jumped from behind. There must have been four or five of them! Before I noticed I was surrounded.”

            “But you could have taken them, had you noticed,” Ryal said, a touch sarcastically.

            “Of course!” Her voice was highly affronted that he had suggested she might have lost anyway. And then, deeply suspicious, she added, “Hey, what sort of attention are you?”

            Ryal smiled to himself. “That depends on who you are.”

            “Ah.” There was a pause. “And why should I trust you? You could be one of them, trying to get me to talk.”

            “I could,” Ryal agreed amiably. “But I’m not.”

            “Or, or—” she began again. “You could be a rival of theirs, coming to pick up their leavings. I didn’t hear a fight…”

            “The hollow was empty when I got here,” Ryal said.

            “Oh, we’re in a hollow,” she grumbled. “I must have been out for longer than I thought…” The voice trailed off uncertainly.

            “We are south of Talonbranch Glade and east of the mine, very near the mountains proper,” Ryal informed the captive.

            There was a small sigh. “Anyone Horde would have named the mine first, right? Would have called Talonbranch, ‘that worgen tree,’ or something… Unless you’re a druid. I thought I saw one of the Whisperwind druids with those orcs. Maybe some of the tauren are still closely tied to the Horde, and you could be one of them…”

            Ryal suppressed a smile. “I’m a priest,” he offered. If she was worried about him being Horde, she was probably Alliance. Unless she was bluffing...maybe she’d been deliberately left as bait. He grimaced, glancing around, feeling suddenly exposed.

            “Oh.” Her voice sounded disappointed. Then it cheered slightly. “I’m a monk.”

            Well, that was fairly unhelpful. But Ryal had never heard of a goblin monk (they probably hadn’t found a way to capitalize on it yet), and he couldn’t see what other sort of enemy would fit into the sack. Unless it was a warlock’s imp, having been instructed to create a clever impression… Ryal shook his head. He glanced at the squirrel, which had been surprisingly quiet in its sling this whole time. “Ryal,” he grumbled to himself, “you are the expert on being the bitten hand…”

            He swallowed, and, against his better judgment, said, “My name is Ryal. I am a worgen priest, and a professor of archeology affiliated with the Explorer’s League of Ironforge. And until I know what you are, I have no intention of letting you out of that bag.”

            “Why should I believe you?” came the sharp reply.

            “Well—” Ryal whirled as a laugh fractured the still afternoon beyond the hollow. Four large, burly orcs and one even larger tauren were slipping into the hollow, spreading out to prevent Ryal’s escape. The tauren, whom Ryal vaguely recognized from the druid enclave at Whisperwind, said something in orcish. One of the four orcs, all of whom were dressed in standard issue Horde army mail, chuckled darkly and responded. Ryal backed up carefully, closer to the captive in the bag, his staff drawn protectively across his chest. His vicious squirrel took the opportunity to escape, running up the tree in search of something to eat. Ryal didn’t spare him a glance. He was too busy cursing his language deficiency. (Deficiency: his archaeological studies had given him a working knowledge of old Dwarvish, old Elvish, and a rough idea of ancient Zandali.) A small voice just above his head and to the right hissed, “What are they saying?”

            “I don’t know,” Ryal murmured. “I don’t speak orcish.”

            “The one thing the ‘professor’ cannot do,” the tauren said, a touch of sarcasm on the title. “So nice of you to declare yourself, by the way. It saves us the guesswork, when we try to collect our reward for your hide.”

            Ryal swallowed. “Reward?”

            “For the Alliance dog who destroyed the mine. That was you, wasn’t it?” The tauren gestured behind him, to a badly burned goblin Ryal hadn’t noticed. The goblin flashed a white grin through his bandages. “We brought him,” the tauren added, “to identify our little cat in the bag,” he snickered. “But this is so much better.”

            One of the orcs interjected, his meaning quite plain.

            “Ooh,” said the voice above Ryal’s head. “That was definitely ‘enough talking, let’s take this priest.’ You are going to be mincemeat.”

            “Well, don’t sound so…happy…about…” Ryal frowned, swallowing his indignant exclamation about not being helpless simply because he was a priest. The orcs and the tauren paused in their conversation as well.

            “What is that sound?” the tauren asked.

            A harsh, rapid clicking was echoing around the hollow. As everyone looked for the source of the sound, Ryal’s squirrel, in search of the seeds he knew he could smell, was gnawing at the rope holding up the bag. Ryal saw this, just as the last frayed thread snapped, and caught the wriggling bag with a thump, the vicious squirrel now attacking the knot.

            “Oh, get out of the way,” Ryal snarled, making a snap decision, brushing the squirrel away. He winced as he set the bag down, the squirrel biting his hand in protest, and somehow managed to yank the bag open.

            The next thing he knew, he was flat on his back, a tiny gnome (tiny even by gnome standards) standing on his chest with her fists clenched and ready just above his face.

            “Oh,” she said. Then she yelped as the squirrel clawed his way up to her pocket, searching for the sunflower seeds she kept stashed for snacking.

            “Sorry about him,” Ryal said a bit sheepishly.

            “No problem,” she responded, her eyes watering as squirrel claws dug into her leg.

            “A tree rat? Is this some kind of joke?” The tauren was advancing, flanked by the four orcs.

            Ryal stared up at the gnome, who stared back. After a moment, she sniffed. “You any good as a healer, priest?” she asked.

            “Yes, but I don’t see—you’re unarmed—” he sputtered.

            She grinned, wide and self-confident. “Watch and learn, friend.”

            And the squirrel flew wide as she lunged, her loose green hair trailing behind her, as she kicked the shocked tauren under the chin. He fell, hard, groping for his staff. She dodged around behind him, and dealt a second blow to the back of his head, and he was still. Ryal took his time getting to his feet, green eyes wide in awe of the unexpected force of the blows she delivered with nothing but her bare, sun-browned hands and feet. Almost as an afterthought, he threw a shield spell around her. She was easy to heal, he found, though he was grateful that heals never missed, because she lunged quite quickly, dancing between the orcs, jabbing first one and then the other, kicking them into an unconscious heap. Very quickly, the green and brown blur resolved itself into a gnome, landing lightly on her feet in front of a pile of orcs taller than she was.

            “Let’s get out of here,” he said, smiling, impressed.

            “Sounds good to me,” the gnome replied. She dropped her hand to her pocket, then frowned. “Your squirrel ate my secret snack supply,” she accused.

            “He’s not my squirrel,” Ryal protested. The evil creature chose that moment to scurry up the worgen’s cloak and settle, chittering, on his shoulder.

            “Right,” the gnome said sarcastically. Turning, she carefully kicked the tauren over. She swallowed. “Maybe we shouldn’t go back to Whisperwind. He is one of the druids there.”

            Ryal nodded, already halfway out of the hollow. He paused to look at the pack kodos the orcs had left. One was missing, clearly stolen by the goblin when the fight started. “Hey,” he called, seeing a long, iron-shod staff lying across one of the remaining kodo’s large backs. “Is any of this stuff yours?”

            The gnome came over to inspect the kodos herself. “Why, yes.” She grinned, picking out her own few bags and slinging the long staff over her shoulder. About to walk away, her stomach rumbled. Ryal grinned, and held up one of the orc’s packs. “Food!” she crowed delightedly, and the two proceeded to pilfer the Horde stores. The gnome rather indelicately gobbled several biscuits as they went, grinning unapologetically at him through the crumbs. He, much more decorously, sampled the (most definitely from some sort of pig) jerky. When they had picked over everything, and taken as much as they could carry, the gnome unfolded a creaking green mechanostrider.

            She glanced at him. “Where to?”

            He looked longingly south, then shook his head. It was too much of a risk. Other soldiers might come looking for him. “Talonbranch. I left my horse in the stable there.”

            “That’s a ways north, isn’t it?” the gnome asked.

            Ryal sighed, glancing at his claws. “I can keep up.” Then he glared at her. “Just don’t laugh.” He dropped to all fours, stretching long limbs and resettling his cloak so that it didn’t hang awkwardly in the way. The vicious squirrel promptly climbed up on his back and settled in for the ride.

            The gnome couldn’t help it. She gave a great shout of laughter. Ryal stuck his nose up in the air as best he could from all fours, and, clinging to what remained of his dignity, began to run.

            “Hey, hold up. I’m sorry, it’s just—that squirrel.” The mechanostrider creaked into a fast trot in time with his long lope. After a few minute’s silence, she said, “Ryal. It was Ryal, right?” He nodded. She took a deep breath. “Thank you for saving my life.”

            He grunted, clearing his throat, trying to find breath to talk. “What should I call you?”

            The gnome opened her mouth, then closed it again, seeming to think about the phrasing of the question. “Sabiyn,” she said, brightly, after a moment. “Call me Sabiyn.”

            “Sabiyn,” he repeated. “I hear it is lovely in Winterspring this time of year. Have you ever thought of going?”

            Her bright smile grew even brighter. “Oh, I’d love to!” She looked ahead, seeing the road flash through the trees. “Race you!”

            It was an effective end to the conversation. He had to save his breath for running.