Balmat dove hard to the left and ripped his shoulder away from the opening. An explosion that would have otherwise done some serious damage rocked past him and blew into a tree. He was heaving, exhausted, crouched in a cluster of old ruins that were shattering and cracking with each new salvo. He grabbed a dagger, the kind he liked, and thrust it upward in an important gesture. Paradoxically, it meant “STAND DOWN.” He hoped Gallackas would see it.

Not likely. The Glass Bomb’s endless magazine of infinitesimal shrapnel continued to fountain up and out in a crystalline maze of destructive beauty. Where the hell did these things come from? Glass Bombs? All he knew was the enemy had gotten them, discovered them, conjured them, and somehow they had nearly single-handedly turned the tide in these skirmishes in the Forests of Callmatross.

A quick sputter, a spurt, a blurt, and a twurt, and the black spherical thing of death was empty at last. The forest was silent. No birds were nearby and all wildlife had fled. No wind either. “Galla?” Balmat offered tentatively.

“Yeah,” a shaken voice sounded from across the way, across the way over there where the way was blocked. “You all right? I need a hand.”

Balmat peeked gingerly through the wreckage of the ruins. Just some monument to some past glory or another, before the Forest had claimed it. The enemy would be far away by now. Glass Bombs were used as an escape vehicle. Nobody hung around to watch these things go off if you could help it, especially if you were the one setting them off. And you had no chance of pursuing your quarry when sheets of sharp glass were exploding outward in an endless waterfall. He had seen what could happen if you tried. Even Iron Knuckle were sliced to ribbons when caught in the explosive radius of a Glass Bomb. They had learned. They had learned and they had adapted. Not well, but they were adapting.

So he was fairly sure they were alone. Again. Light flitted through the broken foliage above, lighting the ground in a blinding flash as it shone down upon the pieces of small glass that covered the forest floor like a carpet.

“What’s the problem?”

“Need a hand,” repeated Gallackas unhelpfully. “I’m pinned down.”

“I have two hands. I can give you one. But not two. One or the other one. That’s how it has to be,” Balmat muttered incoherently. Gallackas didn’t answer him because Balmat had not actually said anything. He always hallucinated after a forest skirmish. In fact he couldn’t be certain he was in the forest, or if Gallackas was even real to be honest. The Glass Bombs were horrific weapons in this regard. They should not be legal. That’s how deep these things go.

“We have to find the rest of the Fifth Fleet.” Gallackas’s voice continued coming from around the corner across the way over there. “How did we get separated? Where are the Leaders?” He grunted a bit as he struggled to free himself from whatever had him fast.

Balmat did not answer. He was busy staring at the situation unfolding in front of the ruins. Not ten meters hence, nothing was happening. Balmat couldn’t take his eyes off it. He had forgotten Gallackas needed help getting out of whatever he was in. He had even forgotten how he had gotten here. This was the true peril of the Glass Bomb: not the whirling cutting shards of tempered glass, but the hypnotizing buzzing they made while flying through the air. It conjured some spell or some vision, some kind of forget-me-yes anthem. Balmat was unhurt, but he was not spared from the weapon’s alluring song.

“Balmat,” a voice blew through the clearing like a boulder on the holder.

——

Later, after dark had fallen and Balmat had come to his senses, the two Spy Soldiers huddled around a small fire. They were cooking a faceless pile of deermeat and they liked the stuff. Spy Soldiers preferred lean food. They needed energy. In general this worked for them.

“Can’t explain it,” Balmat said helplessly. “I don’t remember what happened.”

“Glass Bomb,” Gallackas grunted by way of explanation, his teeth tearing at the glistening thing of meat hanging out of his mouth. God this shit was good. “We need to find the Fifth Fleet, find Commander Whatever and give him our report. This forest is a maze,” he added as a forlorn afterthought.

“Can we just take a vacation?” whined Balmat, his ears falling down and coming to rest in a satisfying position. Spy Soldiers had different ears for different circumstances. You can read about this in the index. It will tell you to check page 45 of the Bestiary. It comes standard these days.

“You say vacation, I say vocation, it’s all a matter of perspective,” replied Gallackas philosophically, the bloodied meat flopping around in his mouth angrily.

Balmat didn’t answer because he didn’t appreciate sophistry, and it was his Spy Soldier temperament that kept him from chilling out anyway. He was irritable by nature and it made no sense. It must have been the breeding labs deep in the Underworld. Something must have happened down there. He would have to find those someday.

Instead he pulled out a map and took stock of the stocks. “Castle 5-2 is a day’s march out.”

“Which direction?” Gallackas asked needlessly.

Balmat waved his hand vaguely. “I dunno.” He continued staring at the old thing. He could get lost in maps. He liked them, especially stylized ones that had a lot of detail. This one didn’t but he imagined it did, so he still got lost in it.

“Probably have to hit the road before dark,” muttered Gallackas.

Balmat didn’t answer. He was busy looking at the map! He liked how the rivers were rendered. They had a quasi-three dimensional look. He identified the Zolallalrlionarm River immediately. The way it filtered into Lake Vuffiiivifivfivi was a dead giveaway.

“All right,” Galla huffed, and stared at the fire. Balmat didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything.