They are right behind me! he thought, panicked.

But nothing jumped onto his shoulders to tear his throat out. Nothing bit into his legs to trip him. No blood-squirrels skulked in the high grass before him. He ran and ran, unobstructed, till pain, exhaustion, and anguish caught up with him. Then he doubled over and threw up. He knelt in the soiled grass for a while, moaned and cried silently.

What has gone wrong? he repeated the question again and again. How could this happen?

Rhodarr has committed a great deal of mistakes already in his twenty-five or so years. More mistakes than he could care to count, and he paid dearly for every single one of them.

But the leaders of the caravan were no drunken fools like him. They should have been above catastrophic mistakes. They were seasoned merchants with many thousands of miles behind them, and there were scouts with the caravans, and mercenaries too.

Yet they were all massacred like sheep driven to the slaughterhouse.

And he, the drunken fool, slept the carnage through unharmed.

The world didn’t make sense. The world didn’t make any sense.

The actor didn’t know how long he kneeled among the remains of his previous night, and if any blood-squirrel had followed him, he would have died there and then because he had no will or strength to flee further. But the squirrels didn’t come, and he knelt there, wallowing in self-pity until thirst got the better of him.

When he ran out of the forest, he veered away sharply from the column of wagons or what remained of it, reasoning that squirrels still might lurk among the carcasses and the overturned carts. The glade was large, about three miles long, and four miles wide, so he could run far enough before he collapsed.

He had to go back to the wagons now. Not to the ones in the forest, that would be certain death. But the ones on the glade could provide drink, food and fuel.

He decided to impersonate Matti, the mercurial goose-heard again. That boy was sly as a fox; he never lost his wits and accomplished many impossible deeds. Rhodarr figured that he would survive this ordeal too, despite all odds if he got into the role properly.

So he stood straight, cleaned his face, then let the blue sky, the shining sun and the mild breeze fill his heart with a smile. When that was done, he started towards what remained from the caravan.

His long strides ate the distance fast. Soon he saw that human shapes were moving between the wagons. Internally, he almost screamed with happiness and relief, but to get better into the role, he kept a cocky, uncaring smile on his face, and even whistled. He was only a hundred yards away or so when the people finally noticed him. After a short discussion, they sent out one of their own, presumably to greet Rhodarr and determine his intentions.

The man who came to meet the actor was Mordred, the driver of Rhodarr’s employers.

“You survived?” these were the coachman’s first words once they came close enough to talk without shouting. “You were ahead with the spirit-wagons! We all thought you died!”

We? thought the actor, suddenly filled with hope. So Beldrak might be still alive? Maybe Jim and Arnold too? The mercenaries that contracted him to teach Draconic were tough folks, and if anyone could find a way out of this desperate situation, they would.

But, wanting to preserve the façade of aloofness, Rhodarr only said:

“Of course, I am alive. The rodent that will put Rhodarr Vinhorn under hasn’t been born yet.”

“Where have you been? Were there other survivors with you? How did you come through the forest?”

“Calm down, man! I can only answer one question at a time. So, where have I been? I was taking a nap if you must know, and I had a most rude awakening. There were no other survivors there, or at least I haven’t seen any, and I came through the forest on my feet. Now I answered all of your questions, and if you don’t mind, I would like to have your waterskin. I am parched.”

“Of course,” mumbled Mordred and unbuckled his waterskin hanging down from his belt. “Here!”

Rhodarr then drank, finally. He drank like never before in his life, not just with his mouth, but with his soul too, and that lukewarm, stale water felt him better than the finest wine he ever tasted. It poured down through his throat, filled his stomach, and radiated strength, vigour and renewed hope over all of his body and soul.

“Thanks,” he said at last. “Where are Trueanvil and his merry company? Shouldn’t they be running to me, hopping with joy? The rumours about the demise of their favourite teacher were greatly exaggerated, after all.”

“They are not here,” said Mordred reluctantly.

“They died?” asked Rhodarr, taken aback. So it goes with hopes… observed the voice of Ferdin in his head sardonically.

“They might have,” sighed the coachman. “They have beaten back the squirrels, and then they went into the forest.”

The actor’s brow shot up.

“Did they now? What for?”

“Well, I told them about the druids living around these parts. Told them the squirrels serve those. So they went to kill the druids.”

“Three people?” asked Rhodarr nonchalantly. “Against the wrath of the forest that just massacred a whole caravan? Not what I would a sensible decision.”

“They had the best armour of all. That ought to give them an edge,” said Mordred in a voice that suggested he didn’t believe his own words.

“Well, enough of that,” declared Rhodarr. “They might die, or they might live. That doesn’t concern us right now. Are you building a fortified camp for the night?” He resumed his walk while they talked, and now they were almost at the edge of the camp.

“Something like that. Trueanvil told us to move the wagons and build a barricade of them. He said that before he left, I mean.”

Rhodarr was not impressed. Those damned critters will steal through the night, and they will swarm over the barricade like locusts before we see them. Particularly big, carnivorous locusts with sharp teeth.

“And who is in charge now?”

“No one is,” shrugged Mordred. “We just all try to do our best.”

Their best was pitifully inadequate. They have only moved five wagons till now, and all of those still had their wheels, so they must have been the easier part of the work. But even if they had done better, their plan was flawed from the beginning. A barricade would never protect the people from a horde of blood-squirrels.

This desperate situation called for a better plan and for a leader competent to execute it. For someone like… Alderman Chagall, maybe?

He started to speak in a calm, resounding voice so that the people further away could hear it too.

“We will have to make a circle of fire. The barricade is useless against the squirrels.”

“Who is this, Mordred?” demanded a man angrily.

“He is one of my passengers...” started the driver, but Rhodarr cut him off with an authoritative flick of his hand. Then he turned towards the other speaker.

“Does it matter? Discuss every idea based on its merits and flaws, not based on who came up with it. I say that barricades are a good idea against a human sized-foe, but they are useless against squirrels. Worse than useless. A barricade will give them cover. They will sneak up on us and tore our throats out before we can do anything.”

“So what do you suggest,” asked another man.

“What is your name, my dear fellow?” the actor asked.

“Max Morrington,” the other answered uncertainly.

“Now, my dear Max, squirrels can run, climb and jump, but they most definitely cannot fly. If we want to survive this night, we have to break up most of the wagons, build a circle from the parts, and comes twilight; we should set it on fire. If we make the circle thick enough, the squirrels can’t jump over it.”

The drivers looked at each other.

“That sounds reasonable,” said one of them hesitantly.

“Splendid! Then get to work. You and you – grab some axes and start breaking up that overturned wagon over there. Mordred, how many horses do we have left?”

“Twelve. Enough for two wagons.”

“Great. Take an empty wagon, and carry all the wood you can here. Since we can only move two wagons, and we have three here, everyone else left will work on braking up these vehicles and build the circle we need. I want that circle to have a ten-yard diameter, and I want every single plank soaked in oil. We do have the oil for that, right?”

“Yes, one of these carts mainly transported lamp oil. But what will you do?”

“I will be with you right away. After I ate something.”

Rhodarr looked at the meagre supplies the survivors had collected so far. He was not impressed by the selection. Hardtack with hardtack. No sausage, neither cheese. Well, if there isn’t anything else, I guess this will have to do.

The important thing is that I got a role for myself, after all.