The fourth pouch… oh, hell, he couldn't even keep them straight in his mind. Time to find a high spot in the forest, so he could see if anything came creeping up on him-he hoped-and stop for a rest, to go through all this stuff.

He peered around.

Ah. There. The stream curving right around it on three sides, so I can't get lost and I'm safe. Unless there's something in that monster tree right in the middle of it.

He tried to peer up through leafy boughs-and shrugged. There could be an army of Dark Helms up there, perched on every branch, and he'd not know until they started pelting him with things. Drawn daggers, for instance.

He winced, clambered up to the high spot, and sat down, instantly creating a tangle of scabbards, sheaths, and loops of leather belt all around himself.

"Hail, conquering hero," he muttered. "Who'll trip over his own underwear next, to the wild applause of the crowd." Now, what was all this stuff?

Well, he rapidly discovered, none of it was labeled. Or particularly obvious.

There was certainly something magical about the sword-it glowed, it made no sound even when he clinked it against some of the tools, and it was far too light to be as hard and, well, made of metal, as it was-but he was darned if he could figure out anything on or about it that could unleash jets of flame, or anything else useful.

One of the daggers bore magic, too. If drawn and waved about and then released, it refused to fall to the ground, but hung motionless in the air, right where he'd let go of it, until he grasped it again.