The Machinations of a Goddess

by Arallion

Phinneas was comfortable in his relationship with the Gods. He didn't bother them much, and they didn't bother him much. But Phinneas has an adventure, and suddenly things begin to change...

2. A Bit of Leverage

Disclaimers: 

The Forgotten Realms, their lands, cities, cultures, races and Gods, are property of TSR/WotC (and I suppose, now, Hasbro) and the wonderful talents of the setting's original creators.  I am making no profit from my use of this setting in a story.

 The Shieldmaster's Guild of Everlund and its leaders are property of my dear friend Graboz, an evil DM who's been torturing my little group for years now.  I have received profit from my use of his characters—if you call XP profit.  ;)  Everything else is mine, including storyline, main and secondary characters.

If you would like to use Graboz' or my own little inventions, please request permission.

~~S. Arallion

The Machinations of a Goddess:  A Bit of Leverage

The North: Twenty miles north-west of Everlund

Later that night, Phinneas stretched out on his cot trying to convince himself that it was all right to fall asleep.  Both he and Tala had stayed awake far later than they normally would have, working until their eyes were dry and red and their skills were suffering.  Tala set aside her stitchery with frustration and went up to bed as the depths of night settled in.  Phinneas had finally given up on his own work as the candle burned down to its lowest point, dragging himself unwillingly up the steep steps to the upper level of the wagon. 

Now he lay in the darkness, the small round window next to him open and unshuttered so that he could look outside.  The camp was still except for the night guards.   He wondered if others were having as much trouble sleeping as he was.

It seemed like hours passed as he watched the guards flickering in and out of the firelight as they walked their rounds between the wagons.  Their movement seemed to blend into a sort of silent, metered dance—slow, because there were often minutes between the times the guards passed by, but very regular.  The guards would appear to the left, pass over to the right by the campfire, then another would appear from closer left, walking to the right, and so on.  So when something appeared from the right, in the shadow of a wagon, and did not immediately walk on, Phinneas' sense of order rang a warning bell in his mind. 

He sat up with a start, peering out into the camp, but nothing was there.  It was quiet as ever.  Realizing that he must have actually managed to doze off for a moment, he lay back, grumbling softly to himself.

The entire wagon shook as something huge slammed into it from the left side.  He heard Tala's shriek as she woke up, and then the caravan's warning horns began blowing, and the tame campfire in the center of their circle roared into a huge bonfire as their resident sorcerer enhanced it.  Seeing Tala's wide eyes looking at him expectantly in the reflected firelight shocked the gnome into movement, and he grabbed her hand to pull her downstairs. 

Another crash, and the wagon lurched violently to the side, throwing both of them against the wall.  Phinneas would have skidded all the way down the stairs were it not for Tala's sturdy grip on his hand and the steps above her holding him in place.  Taking a cue from her stance, he crawled down the stairs backwards as if descending a steep ladder, and then helped steady her as she followed.

"That doesn't sound good," Tala yelped as a third crash was followed by the sound of splintering wood.  "I think we'd better get out of here."

"I agree," Phinneas shuddered, wondering if he should look to see what it was before they tried to go out the door.

"No, not that way." The halfling grabbed his arm as he looked towards the door.  "This way, if we're quick."  She threw open the window on the other side and gave a quick glance out.  There was nothing dangerous to be seen on this side.  "Come on!"

As she leaped out the round window, they both saw another wagon across the camp shake and scoot sideways with an impact similar to those they were experiencing.  The strong oaken spokes on the wheels which had withstood the harsh roads of Faerun for so long crumpled under the new, twisting strain, and the wagon toppled over onto its side, giving them a clear view of what had accomplished the deed.

With one look, Phinneas had added yet another item to his list of "Things Not to Do"—being involved in an orc raid.  Unfortunately, it was a bit too late, and he was right in the middle of it despite himself.  Three enormous Orcs raised their heavy axes in triumph as they stood astride the fallen wagon, bellowing something in a strange tongue that sounded like a cross between goblin and Dwarven to the gnome's ears.  The enormous ropy muscles of their arms and legs shone green in the firelight, and the great fanged jaws gaped with a distinct underbite.  Their ragged leathers bore a crudely dyed insignia, implying that they were part of some sort of organized force, but the rabid enjoyment they seemed to be taking in destroying everything they saw belied any appearance of civilization.

A pebble hit Phinneas in the hand.  Yelping, he looked down to see Tala glaring at him fiercely. 
"Get out here," she hissed, darting a glance behind her.  "Ours is going to do that too, any moment now!"

Without a second thought, the gnome slithered out the window, and not a moment too soon.  Another crash rocked the sturdy vehicle, making it lurch sideways.  He and Tala dashed away from the range of the wagon as its wheels also snapped, causing it to crash to one side, leaning precariously but not quite tipping over.  Outside, they could hear the caravan's horses screaming in fear, the growling of beasts, and the clash of weapons from within the camp. 

They headed for the shelter of another wagon closer to the campfire, and scooted under it to hide and get their bearings.  Every direction they looked, orcs and caravaners appeared to be fighting, and the battle was not turning in the caravan's favor.

"What can we possibly do to these horrible creatures?"  Tala muttered, pulling off her soft leather belt and wringing it in her hands.  "They look as hard as rock."

"Did you bring the weapon they gave you?" Phinneas asked worriedly.

"No, but that thing was more dangerous to me and my friends than it would have been to my enemies.  I'm better off with this," she stated, holding up the belt, which was now recognizable as a soft leather sling.  "Not that it will do much against these beasts."

"Well, we were told to keep out of the way if fighting started, so I suppose this is as good of a place as any unless the orcs tip it over."  The gnome pulled an odd looking metal cylinder out of one of his deep pockets and begin pouring a black powdery substance into it that made Tala wrinkle her nose.

"What is that?"

"Gunpowder," the gnome replied abstractedly, concentrating on his work.

"Which is….?"

Slipping a metal slug into the chamber and closing it carefully, Phinneas showed her the pistol—a strange contraption that his grandfather had put together after returning from a trip to the Southlands.  "Like a sling without needing to move your arm.  It's a lot noisier, but it hits harder too."

The halfling touched the cold metal and shivered.  "Ugh.  I think I prefer my sling."

Phinneas shot her a quick grin before returning his attention to the limited area they could see from under the wagon.  It appeared that the caravan's spellcasters were finally getting organized, as explosions resounded from around the camp, followed by a shower of sparks that fell to the earth like a strange snowstorm around them.  Orcish yells and cries of pain could be heard, and cheers came from the merchants.  But the tide didn't seem to turn for long, as the orcs redoubled their efforts to destroy the things that had hurt them.

"Look, over there in the trees," Tala pointed out in a whisper.  "Is that Saamish?"

The gnome squinted through the wisps of smoke that floated along the ground.  Whatever was perched in the tree was too small to be an orc or human.  It could very well be Scrounge.  "I can't tell for certain," he replied softly.  "Not without giving away our position."

"I'll try," the halfling woman warned.  "If it is Saamish he'll recognize the signal."  She pursed her lips and gave a strange, creaking sort of whistle that pierced the din of battle but sounded like the call of some startled bird or insect.

The figure in the tree shifted position, possibly to look their direction, but didn't come down.  A moment later it was obvious why, as a pack of three orcs trundled into the center of camp, looking for more things to break.  Despite Phinneas' prayers that they continue on, they stopped near an adjacent wagon and began growling at each other in Orcish, as if undecided as to where to go next.  They were so engrossed in their argument that they failed to notice two humanoid shapes detach themselves from the shadows and approach from around the wagon.

With a sickeningly wet ripping sound, one of the orcs fell to the shining blade of an elf merchant.  The other two prepared to fight, but the axe of one of the caravan guards laid open a huge gash across one's ribcage and it dropped its weapon with a bellow.  Howling in fury, the last orc batted futilely at the combined attacks of axe and sword as the two fighters began methodically shredding it to pieces.

The orcs' cries brought attention to the fight, however, and help came in the form of a long, black-shafted arrow that buried itself in the elf's side.  He fell to the ground, and the orc that had shot came forward to finish him off.  The human was left to fend off the other orc's attacks alone, and the orc's greater strength was taking its toll.

A buzzing sound like an angry wasp shot from the trees on the far side of the campsite, and the orc standing over his elven prey sprouted a short arrow from one of its eyesockets.  It let out a confused whimper and fell forward, narrowly missing the elf that had managed to squirm out of the way.  The other orc hesitated for a moment, and the human managed to clobber it with his axe hard enough to drop the creature to the ground.

"Nice shot, Scrounge," the human called, as the shadowy form slipped out of the tree it had been concealed in.

"How goes the battle?" Scrounge trotted over.

"Not well," the guard admitted, limping over to check on his elven comrade.  "Elhuandil, are you all right?"

The elf grimaced, holding the end of the arrow still as he looked up.  "I would be better without this extra appendage," he replied lightly.  "Do you think you could remove it for me?"

"Hmm… not a good idea," the guard muttered, examining the wound.  "I could break off the shaft, though, for now."

"Better than nothing," the elf winced, preparing for an unpleasant experience.

Under the wagon, Phinneas grabbed Tala's arm, hard.  "Is that thing still moving, or is it just me?" he hissed, directing her attention to the second fallen orc.  At this point it was obvious—the creature was getting up, despite the fact that part of its guts were still left on the ground.  With a burbling growl and a bloody glare, it struck down the human with terrifying speed, throwing him several feet away from the elf and causing the arrow wound to split wide. 

"No!  Saamish!" Tala shrieked as the orc turned its malevolent attention to the only creature left moving. 

"Tala--!" Phinneas tried to grab her foot as she slipped out from underneath the wagon, but missed.  "Damn it…" Scrounge would kill him if she got hurt.  He scrambled after her, not knowing what he could possibly do, but determined to do something.

The orc took one of Scrounge's barbed arrows in the face and howled in annoyance, trying to beat down the dancing halfling who was just barely avoiding the heavy blows.  Its annoyance was compounded when Tala set herself a few feet out of range and began pelting it with sturdily slung rocks—every time it moved towards one or the other of the halflings, it was stung from the opposite side.  It lurched back and forth, stomping and hitting awkwardly at the irritating creatures, but they simply dodged and came back.

Finally the orc gave an infuriated howl and started swiping back and forth with its heavy mitts.  A mistimed leap, and Scrounge hit the ground hard and stopped moving.  A small trickle of blood began to widen into a pool under his head.

Tala's horrified scream drew the orc's attention, as she dashed beneath the creature's swing and fell to her knees at Scrounge's side.  Instead, it kicked at them both, sending the two tiny forms flying.  Dazed, blood darkening her sun-gold hair, Tala continued to crawl back towards the motionless Scrounge, whimpering unconsciously in pain.  The orc watched for a moment, then heaved its arm into the air to deliver a killing swat to the vermin that tormented it—and howled in pain as its paw slammed full-force down the length of the elf's longsword.

The impact of the orc's swing drove the hilt of the sword into the ground, which was where Phinneas had wanted to put it in the first place, although he'd not quite managed it.  He let go quickly as the orc flinched backward, pulling the sword along as it was lodged tightly among the bones of the orc's hand. 

The orc stared at its impaled hand in disbelief for a moment, then pulled the sword free.  When it turned back to its prey, it opened its jaws wide in a roar of anger, but instead of an orc roar, an explosion came.  The orc looked faintly surprised as it dropped to its knees, then fell backwards with a thud, twitching.

"Nice shot," the human's voice came weakly from a few feet away. 

Phinneas glanced over to see the guard watching him, his leg bent at an impossible angle underneath his body.  "As if I could miss at that angle," he growled bitterly.  Tala's whimpering sobs were still painfully clear, and Scrounge remained ominously silent.

The guard didn't take offense.  "I think it's over."  The sounds of battle had faded.

"Where is everyone, then?"

"Don't worry, they'll be coming," the guard replied soothingly.  "There are probably many as hurt as your little friends, here.  You're very lucky."

The gnome gritted his teeth in annoyance, determined not to snap back, although he thought the guard should have known better than to turn his back on a wounded orc.  He moved wearily over to the halflings, determined to do what he could for them, although he only had a very basic knowledge of healing.

Tala didn't look up as he sat down hard across from her.  She held Scrounge's head in her lap, bent over him like a little guardian angel, her tears dripping down onto his face.  When Phinneas reached out to touch her shoulder, she looked at him, but her eyes were unevenly dilated and she couldn't seem to focus. 

"Tala, you're hurt, you should lay down."

"No!" she snapped, eyes going wild.  "I'm staying right here.  Saamish wants to leave, but I won't let him.  I won't!"  Her normally gentle voice escalated frantically.  "You hear me, Saamish?  If you go, I go!  I won't let you leave!"

Phinneas scooted over, grabbed her shaking shoulders and pulled her into a tight hug, muffling her cries.  They still couldn't be sure that more orcs weren't nearby.  "There, there," he muttered absently, patting her hair softly, taking care to avoid the spots that he knew were bruised.  "Saamish isn't going anywhere right now.  With a little care he'll be just fine."

She turned slightly to peer up at him.  "How do you know?"

Phinneas blinked again.  How did he know?  For that matter, how did he know where Tala's wounds were, hidden as they were beneath her thick blonde hair?

It is because of me that you know, a female voice spoke in his mind.  If you care to do more, there will be a cost, of course.  There is always a cost.

"I think the battle stress has gotten to me," he mumbled. 

Tala put one small hand comfortingly on his arm.  "I know you'll take care of us, Phinneas," she sighed weakly.

The gnome winced.  When she put it like that….

What must I do?

Promise to serve me, the voice came again, encouragingly, accompanied this time by an image of a golden-haired, golden-skinned woman seated on a throne of jewels.  Her form shifted between the races randomly, now elven, now human, now halfling, but obviously she was far beyond and above any one form.  She looked at him in halfling form, her head tilted curiously in a fashion reminiscent of young Tala, who was slumped in his arms. 

The gnome shivered.  But… I already serve you, Lady Goddess,  he thought carefully. 

Not like this, the voice chimed softly, bell-like.

Phinneas had a sudden image of himself preparing to make the first cut into a new gem… always the most nerve-wracking moment he had to deal with in his craft.  That one cut determined the placement of all other cuts, and thus was the basis for the quality of the final, finished jewel.   It appeared that Waukeen had just offered him a very big chisel.

A large, no-nonsense section of his mind roared with laughter at the idea that his life could possibly be considered a gem of any sort.  The fanciful notion hung on, however, pointing out that if the more logical side had any better ideas on how to deal with this dilemma, it could speak up at any time.  Unfortunately, the logical side was far too busy trying to figure out why a Goddess was bothering with him in the first place to come up with anything remotely useful.  Phinneas groaned and rubbed his head wearily.

Why me?  He figured that if he could get that question out of the way, perhaps he'd buy more time to consider.

The Goddess waggled a finger at him coyly.  Now, now, you should know that's not how it works, dear Phinneas.  I have my reasons, and I assure you they are perfectly logical.

The gnome winced.  But--

 She raised an eyebrow impatiently, her form turning faintly catlike, complete with twitching tail.  Are you saying that you don't wish to save them?  For they are dying, you can see that for yourself.

Opening his eyes, Phinneas looked quickly down at the two halflings' faces.  Tala was breathing shallowly, and Scrounge's face was beginning to take on a grey tinge.  Are you doing this to them? he thought sharply to the Goddess, not really caring if she took offense or not.

Not I, her thought tinkled like a shower of crystal.   The monstrous Orcs are to blame there, but it is time that is sealing their fate.  You must decide quickly.

Phinneas looked again at his two traveling companions and muttered a few choice curses in Draconic, that being the best language for cursing that he'd ever encountered.  He knew what his decision had to be, he just hoped that he and the Goddess wouldn't regret it later.

My, such language, Waukeen chuckled, the sound a shimmer of falling coins.  I take it your decision is made?

You mean you don't know? Phinneas thought, confused.

I know, but you must say it, the Goddess' thought came, with a fond undercurrent.  Irritated, Phinneas shook off the feeling of having just been patted on the head.

I am your servant, Lady Waukeen, he thought tiredly, but it was heartfelt.  He couldn't bear to see his young friends depart the world so soon.  Now what?

The return thought came with a distinct sense of self-satisfaction.  Now place your hand on the dark one's head and sense where the skull is crushed.

Phinneas did as he was told.  A strangely cold sensation spread through his hand as it hovered over the wound.

Now lift the bones.

What?

You heard me. The voice was amused.  Hurry now.  Envision the broken bones slipping back into place.

Phinneas concentrated as hard as he could on the pieces that he knew somehow were out of place, but nothing happened.

Don't scowl so much, child, you're scaring them.

The gnome exhaled gustily in frustration, flexed his hand (which was already becoming stiff and sore) and tried again, thinking about coaxing the bones back into place rather than forcing them to return.  Like recalcitrant horses that needed a little grain to urge them back to the barn, they finally began to move and knit together under his ministrations.  First one, then the next, then the next—and underneath them, the softer tissues that needed a cooling, gentling touch to spark life into them again and avoid the dangerous swelling that would have killed the little halfling.

Phinneas drew his hand back slightly when he felt the warmth of the Goddess' power recede.  The worst of Scrounge's wounds appeared to have been healed, leaving only the flesh-wounds that could be easily cleaned and bound by the caravan's medic.  The halfling's breath came deeply and easily in the regular pattern of sleep.

You see, you do have a gift for this, the Goddess' voice chimed in his head with soft laughter.  On to the next.  She is not as sorely wounded but she needs help to awaken.

Phinneas felt as if he were going cross-eyed from the amount of internal conversation and introspection he was being forced to engage in.  He set aside his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment, stemming a headache, then touched Tala's pale face, searching for the wound she bore.  He could sense a separation in her shoulder, probably from where she had hit the ground after the orc's kick, but no damage to her skull.

Ah, you look for superficialities, the Goddess chided him, leaning forward on her throne and gazing at him intently.  Remember that there are more damaging things in the world than those forged of earth to draw blood.

It was a very odd feeling, to be stared at by a being that had taken form only in his mind, Phinneas thought.  Especially one who continued to speak in riddles that she seemed to expect him to understand.  More damaging than weapons?  Were orcs poisonous or something?

The logical part of his mind finally woke up and boxed the fanciful part around the ears for wasting time.  Of course, it wasn't physical damage that was dragging Tala into unconsciousness.  She was in shock.  For all their years of adventures together, she and Scrounge had never actually been in serious danger, or at least not enough to cost one of them their lives.  Idiot, he told himself fiercely, and used the Goddess' power to cover the halfling in a silken cocoon of warmth, touching her shoulder lightly to ease the strained tendons while she recovered. 

I didn't say it, the Goddess responded to his comment, sitting back in her throne and looking quite smug.

Tala's eyes flickered as the initial rush of warmth drained away.  She looked up in confusion, blinking blue eyes sleepily.  "Phinneas, I had the strangest dream….  I dreamed we were being attacked by orcs, and there were golden elves and cat-people… and—Saamish?"  She had realized finally that they weren't in their cozy wagon, and that part of her dream at least had been true.  But sitting up to look at her husband sleeping peacefully in her lap, it was difficult to believe any more of it.  She clutched Saamish tightly in a hug. "Saamish, you're all right!"

Scrounge mumbled something, clasping her hand, and then started to snore.

Phinneas sat back with a grin and rolled his eyes, picking up his spectacles again.  "Same old Scrounge," he quipped laconically. 

Tala looked at him sidelong.  "I don't remember much… did you actually heal us?"

"At the expense of my soul," the gnome sighed dramatically.  "You two appear to have doomed me to a life of clerical servitude."

The woman snorted mirthfully.  "I suppose I should wish Waukeen luck, then."

"Hey!"