Page 5 of X'nath

“Right, and we’ll get there after we become lunch for a giant toad or some twisted swamp monster,” Greag grumbled, glancing nervously at the shadows that danced between the trees. “You know, I’m starting to think we should have just raided a nice, cozy human tavern instead.”

“Who needs taverns when you’ve got the thrill of a good heist?” I replied, trying to muster some confidence, but my bravado felt thin in the face of the encroaching darkness.

Just then, the ground beneath us shifted, squelching ominously. I glanced down and froze. “Uh, guys…”

Before I could finish, a thick, tangled mass of roots erupted from the ground, snaring my legs and pulling me down. “What in the ancestors’ name—!” I shouted as I fell, struggling against the grip tightening around me.

“X’nath!” Greag yelled, reaching out, but before he could grab me, roots lunged for him too, wrapping around his waist and dragging him toward the muck.

“A little help here!” came Karg’s panicked voice as he tried to dodge the encroaching vines, but they lunged at him like a pack of ravenous beasts, snaring his ankles and pulling him down.

“Not like this! Not like this!” he squealed. “I didn’t even get to see the females!”

The older warriors weren’t spared either. Korrin, usually so steady, cursed as he struggled to free himself, his hand gripping his battle axe just in time to fend off the roots trying to drag him under. Gorruk fared no better, his battle-hardened frame sinking slowly as vines wrapped around his legs, pulling him into the swamp’s depths.

“Bolg! Yargol!” I shouted for our furry companions, desperate as the roots began to pull me under.

Yargol had been darting around, wide-eyed and confused. But in the chaos, he suddenly froze, his instincts kicking in. With a screech, he launched himself at the nearest tendril, gnashing his teeth. His sharp bite tore through the vine, giving me a moment of reprieve. I tugged against the roots with all my strength, but more kept coming, tightening their grip like an iron vice.

“Get them, Yargol!” I yelled, my voice nearly drowned out by Karg’s whimpers. “You’ve got this! Show those roots who’s boss!”

Our giant weasels lunged, both their small frames almost comical against the mass of writhing roots. They bit down on the tendrils with fierce determination, and I could see the horror and absurdity of the moment collide—our furry companions fighting a living nightmare while my comrades flailed like fish out of water.

“Come on, Yargol!” I urged, my voice strained. “You can do it! Just pretend it’s a rat!”

With impressive agility, Bolg darted in and out of the tendrils, biting and clawing as though performing a grand spectacle. Meanwhile, Yargol leapt over him, his eyes locked on the roots as he followed them, determined to find their source.

“This is gonna make for a great campfire story,” Greag grunted, still struggling against the roots. “If we live to tell it!”

“Weasels, the heroes we didn’t know we needed,” I added, my heart pounding as I felt the roots pull tighter, threatening to pull me down into the swamp. “We’ll have Karg write them a ballad.”

Karg’s eyes were wide with terror. “If we survive this, I’m going to need a lot of ale—and a month’s worth of sleep!”

Just as the roots began to pull me deeper, Yargol found the origin, sinking his teeth in. The root shuddered, releasing a screech that sent chills down my spine. It recoiled as if struck, loosening its grip just enough for me to gasp for air.

“That’s it!” I yelled, heart racing with hope.

My furry red companion darted, urging Greag’s to do the same, gnawing at the roots with the ferocity of a beast possessed. One by one, the tendrils began to loosen their grip, releasing the men, who stumbled free, gasping and sputtering.

“Never thought I’d be this happy to see your weasel get into the middle of things,” Greag gasped, rubbing at the marks left onhis waist. “Next time we’re doing a heist, we’ll do it on the other side of the mountain.”

“Ha! Take that, you leafy abominations!” I shouted triumphantly, clapping Yargol on the back as he scampered onto my shoulders, panting but proud.

Karg blinked in disbelief, shaking his head. “I can’t believe that actually worked. Did we just get saved by weasels?”

“Not just any weasel—our weasel!” I grinned, giving Yargol a scratch behind the ears. “The bravest of the bunch!”

It wasn’t lost on me that not every orc in our clan had a weasel by their side. The bond wasn’t something you could force—it had to be mutual. Weasels didn’t just choose anyone. They picked their partners, often those who proved themselves worthy. It was a strange, unspoken pact between the creatures and the orcs, a bond built on respect and shared survival. Yargol had chosen me long ago, and I trusted him as much as any of the clan’s fiercest warriors.

“Lucky bastard,” Karg muttered, watching Yargol scamper up my arm. “Some of us have to rely on actual weapons.”

“True,” I said, glancing at the others. “But there’s no weapon like a weasel with a death wish.”

The older orcs chuckled, though their eyes still darted warily at the swamp around us. "Yeah, yeah," Korrin grumbled. "Just don’t expect your furry friend to pull us out next time."

I shrugged, offering a wry smile. "If we end up needing saving, I’ll take all the help I can get. Even from a little furball."

“Let’s not make this a habit,” Greag muttered, glancing nervously around at the still-ominous fog. “Next time, let’s stick to plundering in daylight, preferably on the other side of the mountain, and far away from this wretched swamp.”

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