Ranger of Path

4. Hunting Or Hunted

Between morning and noon,

When clouds and sun are confused,

Bless the earth with painted skin

And your druidic life begins.

—Lupanne Elkrun

Seventeen mystic-armor pieces lie spread across a log. The small hilltop overlooks the stone-ringed safespot and rocky road. Naked, Ishkur stands over his gear. The sun shines down, drying gremlin phlegm on the metal and a gentle breeze blows the dusty flakes away.

His skin greens. His elvish heritage works to soak up the light, a blessing when not judged for it.

Perfect spot.

He spins and breathes in the fresh air. All around, lush forest and grasslands mix into something serene, scenic, and very green. Crouching, he sticks his fingers into the ground and then paints himself with swirls and squiggles of dirt—anointing his body as demanded by his mother's second druidic lesson, connecting with Gardener.

"I'm communing with our overgod and summoning you, Lord Icarus." He stabs down with a finger and pinches. "With grace, let us become Gardener's avatar."

Everything blurs, and he leans against a wet reflective softness.

Not quite water or air.

NON-PLAYER PATH CONNECTION ERROR.

He gulps and coughs awake, sticking out a green-glowing tongue that fades in a blink.

Divine power?

Always before, summoning worked or failed; his demigod claimed him or ignored him. Never was there this ambiguous middle, a teasing of divinity leaking from an incomplete connection to the realm of ascension.

Ishkur checks the note in his tunic's pocket and skims the mission from Lord Icarus. "Unchanged. Unaltered."

He picks a pie bar from his pack. His stomach gurgles, and he puts it back.

"Lord, I am too curious," says Ishkur. "I'll dare ask Haden's divine lady to pester you into explaining your absence."

If only Haden's demigoddess wasn't even more twisted than Hildr's genocidal Lady Darla.

He sighs, brushes off some dirt, and the hairs on his neck stand on end.

Too quiet.

Leaving the mud paint to stain his skin, he yanks on his undergarments. A rustle freezes him Something big moves in the man-high grass.

Uh-oh.

He snags his padded linens, and a crossbow bolt thunks into the wood by his hand. Blood pumps into his ears, and his eyes dart about. His polearm lies at the other end of the log with his pack. Only his pouch-laden belt is in reach.

But my survey's in my pack.

He grabs the belt, and from all sides burly humans with spears charge out of the grass.

"Dance for your life, druid!" says the largest of the men.

If a fool ...

Spear tips force him away from the log. He shoulders his belt and wraps linens around his arm. The men smack their shafts against armored chests as they spread around him. Striking skull-and-crossed-bones embossed on boiled-leather breastplates, they stomp to their beat and grunt like beasts.

Then armor is comedy.

"I deserve dessert." Ishkur dodges a spear thrust, and his scrotum tingles. "Not deserters in ragged uniforms."