The squirrels came again, and the defenders repulsed them. Then the rodents came for the third time and killed one of the drivers and wounded two others before the rest of the coachmen drove them off.

But the droves of the bloodthirsty critters were thinning out too. Rhodarr would have bet that he and the other ten desperate survivors had killed thrice as many blood-squirrels than the whole caravan put together in the first battle when the convoy was ambushed.

That’s what a little preparation and proper leadership can accomplish, thought the Alderman in Rhodarr’s head with pride. It’s time to prepare for the wolves then, answered Ferdin sourly.

The great black beast that has shown himself to the actor was nowhere to be seen now, but it could be heard. And its pack was near too, at least going by their howls.

“How many wolves do you think are there?” asked Max, trying to feign nonchalance, but his teeth jittering nonetheless. “Do you think there are less than fifty?”

Rhodarr felt that going by the voices, there might have been even more wolves than fifty, but it would have not been wise to say so. He was still contemplating what to say when Rigoor saved him.

“Fifty?” he laughed in disbelief. “No, there are five wolves at most. The hunters in my village often asked us to help them drive out the game from the forest, so I know it. They sure can make a big noise, wolves. I think even five is too much. There are probably only three.”

“Really?!” asked Mordred in disbelief.

“Really,” nodded the other coachman. “If there were fifty, you can bet the druids would have sent them and not the squirrels. We would be all dead by now. If that little ring of fire doesn’t stop the squirrels entirely, you could bet it won’t stop the wolves at all.”

“They are coming again,” announced their guard, a man standing atop of Trueanvil’s books heaped on one of the wagons. The man’s voice was tired. They were all tired to their bones.

But the squirrels did not care about that.

The beasts had grown wise about their weapons and their traps. They did not bunch up anymore, so the defenders abandoned their primitive catapult – they were short on pebbles anyway.

The previous waves of squirrels that have impaled themselves on the traps provided clean entry points for the rodents, where they didn’t have to worry about the nails and stakes anymore. Our pre-made traps won’t be of much help this time.

Just as the guard shouted his warning, first of the furry perils was already through the ring of fire and shrieked victoriously. Its maliciously glinting eyes were already searching for a victim to tear into.

One of the men lunged forward to squash the furry little monster, but he stumbled, and his club missed its target, leaving the driver wide open. The coachmen’s eyes widened with fear, the squirrel leapt with a victorious shriek, but then Mordred stepped forward, swung his club, and the wood connected with the tiny body midair. A wet scrunch could be heard, and the beast’s broken corpse flew away out of the ring of fire.

But this was only one squirrel, and by the time they dealt with it, others crossed the flames.

It is time.

Ferdin the Blue has thought up one last trick in the lull of the fights, and Rhodarr had a pot of boiling oil in his hand now.

“Back!” shouted the authoritative voice of the Alderman, and the drivers pulled back, giving him room. By that time, five rodents have leapt over the fire at the point that Rhodarr had his eyes on, and before they could disperse, the pot splattering sizzling oil chucked into them.

The squirrels screamed in agony, and the nearby flames even set the oil on fire. In a moment, all five attackers were living torches, and the sixth beast following in their wake caught fire too.

Similar shrieks cut into the air from the left and behind Rhodarr. It is working! he thought jubilantly. But instead of shouting with the joy of victory, he stepped back to the boiling cauldron, filled another pot with scalding liquid, and searched for the next opportunity.

There was none. The squirrels didn’t come. The remaining ones stayed on their side of the fire and gave way to a human walking among them. It was a tall woman with long, raven hair, wrapped into jet-black furs.

“Enough!” she shouted. Her voice was trembling with fury. “Insolent intruders! You will not kill more of my little brothers! I won’t let you!”

Rhodarr froze, but then he remembered that he was playing Alderman Chagall now. And Alderman Chagall knew what to do, of course.

“That is easily arranged, Madame,” the statesman bowed respectfully. “Stop sending you ‘brothers’ against us, and we will happily stop killing them.”

“Your presence is an affront to the spirits of the Forest!” shrieked the woman. “You have to all die!”

Now, now little miss, this no way to endear yourself to your negotiating partners.

“Madame, I am happy to inform you that your desire to see us gone from your forest coincides with our desire to leave it. On the other hand, dying is not something my comrades or I would like to experience, at least not for a while. Thus, your second wish remains a point of contention.”

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

The woman’s face was a mask of barely restrained fury. The muscles wiggled and twitched under her skin like earthworms.

“Surrender yourselves! If you surrender now, we will sacrifice only half of you! The rest can go free!”

“Madame, your impression, namely that you are dealing with a bunch of fools, is mistaken. Your brethren attacked our convoy without warning or provocation, and you hadn’t tried to negotiate with us before we resoundingly defeated your minions. The very fact that you are here, talking to us proves that we are in a position of power now. Thus, we don’t need to sacrifice half of our number.” Also, we have no reason to trust a word that leaves your mouth.

“Don’t get too cocky, intruder!” the woman gritted the words through her teeth. “I will cut your belly wide open yet, and bath the roots of our holy tree in your entrails!”

Rhodarr didn’t answer this time. He wanted the let the druid stew in her own juice for a little. And he also needed some time to think.

Trueanvil and his two sidekicks ventured into the forest. The dwarf is a clever man. He must have had good reasons. What were these? Obviously, he hoped to hurt the enemy so badly that they would have no other choice than let us free.

“Answer me!” screamed the woman, spluttering saliva. “Don’t you dare to ignore me!”

The squirrels obey the druids. Probably the wolves follow their orders too. Kill the druids, and the forest becomes just a normal forest. Maybe even the squirrels will go back to do squirrely things.

Rhodarr smiled jovially at the woman.

“I offer you a counterproposal, Madame. You cross our ring of fire and become our hostage. If your brothers misbehave, we will kill you. Otherwise, we will leave in peace and set you free as soon as we left the forest. How does that sound to you?”

“Die, you despicable creature!”

Rhodarr was rather amused. While I am used to such outbursts from beautiful women, it is probably the first time in history that Alderman Chagall has heard such a response to a reasonable proposal, he thought. But his time was up anyway! Ferdin is the man we need now!

“Look, lass, if you want me to die, you will have to kill me yourself. How about it? You order back your minions, and I cross the fire to your side. No tricks, no minions, just you, me and plain old steel between us. How about that, eh?”

“Why would I send away my brothers?! They are exactly where I want them! Where they can kill you! I will never…”

She might be pretty, but she has a cabbage for brains and a dead fish for a tongue.

“Lass, we have been over that. Do whatever the hell you want. If you send away your minions and give me a fair fight, I will give you a chance to kill one of these ‘despicable intruders’. If you are too much of a coward to take my offer, then piss off. Your antics bore me.”

He turned and walked to the horses. The animals were all tightly tethered to a stake in the middle of the circle. The men – his men, or rather the Alderman’s men now – uneasily shifted. Only Mordred followed him.

“What if she takes up on your offer?!” he whispered urgently.

“Then I’ll go out and kill the wench,” shrugged Rhodarr. He was already slipping into his new role.

“But you are no warrior! You are an actor!”

“An actor and a burglar,” he grinned. “Haven’t I told you before? Theatre doesn’t pay well, so I had to look for a side-job. As long as I have my dagger, I’ll do fine.”

“She’s a druid, for Adaron’s sake! She will rip you apart!”

“I don’t think so. Now, if you would be so kind, can you hold this sack for me?”

----------------------------------------

The wench took her precious time to decide. The actor has been long ready with his preparation when she finally made her decision known.

“I have sent my little brothers away! You can come out if you want to fight!”

“I thought you will never say it out loud!” Rhodarr swooned. “I am coming, darling!”

He leapt over the fire. The druid was waiting for him, twenty yards away from the fire, unmoving, silently threatening. The actor smiled, unsheathed his dagger and started forward slowly, his eyes darting between the wench and the grass.

“I loathe to kill pretty women,” he announced cheerfully. “But you are an ugly old hag inside, so that makes it alright.”

“Your blood will nurture the woods, my brothers will consume your entrails, and your heart will make a great offering to the Spirits of the Forest.”

“What about my scales? I think they are quite pretty, silver has always been my favourite colour. It would be a shame to let them go to waste.”

The woman smiled. It was not a heart-warming sight. “I will flay you alive if you want it that much.” Then she shrieked.

It was a signal for the two blood-squirrels hiding in the grass to attack. Rhodarr must have spotted one because he cleaved the rodent in half midair, but the other got hold of his shoulder, and then…

“Nooooooo!” screamed the caravan survivors almost as one, as they saw the torrent of blood spouting from the actor’s neck. But Rhodarr did not go down alone. His dagger, still swift and powerful, pierced his killer. Only then did the dragonborn fall on his knees.

“You… you betrayed me…” he gurgled. Then he fell with a whop and didn’t say anything anymore. The blood was still pouring from his wounds, his limbs jerked, but he became stiller and stiller.

Rigoor took his club in his hand. “I will get his body. Who comes with me?!”

But Mordred caught the other driver by his hand and held him back.

“Rhodarr told me that if he dies, I have to keep you inside. If you go out, you will die too, and his body will be still desecrated.”

Rigoor shook Mordred’s hand off angrily, but he didn’t leap over the fire.

The druid, in the meantime, walked to the dying actor and nudged him with her feet.

“I can’t flay you alive wholly,” she said regretfully. “You will die too soon.” Then a malicious grin appeared on the woman’s face. “But I can get started while you are still alive.” She took out her knife, and she crouched.

Then Rhodarr stabbed her in the neck.

“I much prefer,” he growled as he pulled out his blade, “to die of old age!”

The druid was coughing up blood, gurgling, and changing. Her face elongated, her teeth grew, and black fur sprit all over her body. But it was too late. She could do nothing. Rhodarr’s blade entered her neck again, then the actor knocked her on her back and stabbed her through the heart. The druid jerked and became still.

Rhodarr absent-mindedly removed the silver-coloured blood pouch from around his neck and dropped it beside the corpse.

Poor horses, he thought. I hope I didn’t take too much blood from them.

He started to walk back towards his stunned comrades.

I think I deserve a drink.

This time, even Alderman Chagall agreed with him.