Free Bookweird by Paul Glennon

He’s a foul-looking beast.”
    By now Norman recognized each of the stoats in the party, but this voice was new—new and not at all friendly.
    â€œHe has proven himself a friend, Whiteclaw. He saved my boy,” Duncan answered.
    â€œSo I hear,” the other man muttered gruffly. “Are ye sure it were no trick? He might ’a brought the crows upon you himself, so that he could act the hero. An old spy’s trick—and I would know.”
    â€œIt’s possible,” Duncan replied, “but I think not. He has the look of no spy. Who would send a spy such as him? Strong he may be, but he’s noisy as a boar. There’s no guile to him.”
    â€œAn assassin, then,” said the new voice.
    â€œNa, I think not. I saw his face at the pass. He has no taste for killing.”
    The newcomer was skeptical. “Still…”
    â€œNever you worry,” Duncan reassured the unknown stoat. “He’s watched at all times. He does us little harm now, and he could be of good use when we come to the mine.”
    â€œAye?” grunted the other. “What use would that be, then?”
    Duncan explained. “We’ll need time to free the workers in the barracks.”
    â€œA matter of minutes. I’ve lads ready to move at the signal. It is all set up like you planned.”
    â€œYeh, but it’ll be a close thing. A diversion would give us more time.”
    â€œAnd you’ve a mind to use the beast for that?” the suspicious stranger asked, unconvinced.
    â€œAye, you’ll have heard the ruckus he makes.”
    â€œLike an army of drunken rats,” the stranger scoffed.
    Duncan chuckled. “That’s when he’s trying to be quiet.”
    The newcomer laughed disdainfully, and then both were quiet. Duncan spoke no further of the plan.
    â€œYou’ll not be forgetting the rest of the plan, will ye?” the other asked. “The ship broad enough to bear his load has never been built.”
    Duncan tutted. “I’ve not forgotten.” His voice trailed off, as if he was considering an insoluble problem he’d tried to dismiss. “Even if the thing knows how to swim, he’d never squeeze his fatself through the gap. Our paths must part after Scalded Rock. I’ve not asked him to follow us to Lochwarren. We’ve fed him long enough. He can fend for himself.”
    Norman didn’t sleep much the rest of the night. Hiking through the bush with a party of stoats was hard enough. He didn’t know if he could survive on his own. The stoats had been feeding him. Without them he would be lost. He had to do everything he could to stay with them. It was more than just being lost in the woods—it was being lost in the book. He had to stay with the book’s characters. If he was right, the only way to get out of the book was for the book to end. To have any hope of escaping, he had to stay with the plot. If he strayed away from the story, he had no idea what would happen.
    It started raining just before daybreak. The trees offered some shelter, but not enough to keep him dry. By the time the stoats were ready to leave, he was thoroughly soaked. It made the trek all the more miserable. Today, Malcolm’s continual chatter was more annoying than distracting.
    â€œI ought to be better with a sword than I am,” the little animal was saying, his cheerfulness undinted by the drizzle. The rain ran off his sleek brown fur as if he were wearing a raincoat. “I’m a dab hand with the bow, and I throw a mean dagger, but I ought to improve with the sword. I’ll get Simon Whiteclaw to duel with me when we get a break.”
    Simon Whiteclaw was the stoat who had joined them in the night. From what Norman could tell—no one bothered to inform him—Simon was one of Duncan’s chief henchmen. The mate of the Hastewind and Duncan’s spy at Scalded Rock, he also appeared to be young