Read The Lore Anthology: Lore of the Underlings: Episodes 1 - 5 for Free Online

Sound familiar? The notion of negotiating a temporary truce or treaty to attend to some ever-more-pressing private business? Ring a bell?”
    Syar-ull drew from his planted pikeshaft a long well-honed impaling lance, one hewn smooth and sharp by an old cold hand to mock the mark of an oddcat’s fang. “Prey die!” he sang, inspecting it. Then he stabbed at the stranger to finish him off. But Morio popped up just in time and flew afoot with his coat torn in two and a nick on his neck from the tip of the point.
    “Sorry!” he sang back, “Business first!” And he flew, straight as a stingle wing and fleet as his wee feet could flee, drawn to the darkness and the black mass of the Liar’s Tree.
    The great Guard growled and leveled his lance as all eyes followed the fugitive’s flight.
    “He must be mad.”
    “Is this a full moon?”
    “Farewell, you fool!”
    “Toodles!”
    “Good night loon.”
    Holding the grip of the lanc e in both hands, a riled Syar-ull snapped off the butt to reveal a length of wrapture rope knotted at one end. He yanked the knot hard and it popped like a cork, spilling a spool of fine vine down Sovereign’s meaty, sinewed side. Then he heaved the new-made harpoon up upon his padded shoulder and gave it a mighty hurl.
    Morio turned in time to see the weapon sail right overhead. And then the vine unfurled behind. It speared the soil mere feet away and blocked the route he had been on — straight to the foot of the armored arbor. The tail of it lashed his back and latched on tight to rope his every limb, wrapping his trunk in a knotty embrace.
    “Mark! Mark!” he cried out loud, signaling back to his small stand of friends.
    Boxbo kicked Ixit. “Who’ s Mark?” he asked. Ixit kicked him right back. “Mark of the dead, I guess!” He laughed.
    Now everyone anticipated the endgame of the Guard.
    “ We’re taking wagers, gentlemen! Don’t be late. No bet, no win!”
    “A basket of sand beans says he’ll start by splitting the man in half.”
    “I’m in!”
    “Who’ll bet on a skinning?”
    “Alive?”
    “Five sticks.”
    “Six if it takes two peels.”
    “Hmmm…”
    “That is a porkling one… ”
    “Indeed, but the Guard is very good…”
    “Tell you what — because we’re kin — I’ll throw in a head of pepper salts too.”
    “You’re making an offer I can’ t refuse.”
    “Are we on?”
    “Sure.”
    “Easy treasure!”
    But away from the bloodsport, there in the secret space behind the young woman and man, another game began. The og hide that hid Jixy safe inside suddenly fell slack and slipped from her back to the sweetgrass about her kneeling knees. It rolled up tight to a twisted tube then turned and turned again… right before her amber eyes remade as a leg-long boney blade. At that it lay flat on the given ground, still until it went all white, a deathly pure from pommel to point.
    The young woman called softly to the child but with urgency in her voice. “Go girl, run. Seek safe haven. Your time is to come. We will need you then.”
    Jixy nodded her tangled mane. Though sleepy-eyed she underst ood and her muscles mindlessly knew what to do, what had kept her alive this long. She plunged her hands into the rich, black mud that bubbled between the leaves of grass and smeared it thick like warpaint over every inch of innocent skin — face, arms, legs — all concealed. Then, as if guided by an ancient instinct never learned, she fled for the darkest corner of the Guard-filled field. Eastward she went and away from the walls of the Keep.
    No one saw as the soily creature scurried toward the near ring of riders, slipping quick and low through the tallest tufts. In a stroke of luck she caught them off guard while the war men, by order of a bull-mad Syar-ull, lit from their mounts to converge afoot upon the alien three. The little mud maid pounced at her chance. She snuck to flank the first chevox she found, the brown cow Clarion, and ducked under the