by Ed Greenwood
"Mahalagris doesn't care how much noise we make or how slowly we're going," The Masked reminded her.
"Now that's a bright thought, O font of good cheer," Tantaerra told him, as they pressed on. "How damned far is this river, anyway?"
Chapter Eighteen
Telcanor Forever
Tantaerra wrinkled her nose. The sweet stink of death hung strong in the air, stronger ahead of them. Decaying humans, most likely.
A strong—phew, very strong—reminder that sooner or later, Desna would stop smiling on them.
Life had taught her that much, if not all that much of something else: good sense.
Otherwise she'd be far from here, getting her hide away from Molthune and Nirmathas both, into somewhere safe and quiet. Cheerful Nidal, perhaps. Or Razmiran, where the Living God ate babes for breakfast.
Yet a friendlier deity—the Song of the Spheres, unseen on her butterfly wings—had certainly been by their side this day.
They'd heard a Molthuni patrol coming and managed to get into the trees in time to hide. The Molthuni had thought the noise they'd made had come from the dweomercats that the soldiers promptly slew. Later, they'd fallen afoul of Nirmathi archers who seemingly couldn't hit a wagon up close, and had wasted half a dozen shafts on tree trunks not all that close to either Tantaerra or her partner, never daring to rush out into open confrontation.
So they'd simply walked away, she and Tarram, and here they were, still plodding along—staggering with exhaustion would be a fairer calling of it—at twilight, within hearing of the Inkwater at last.
Which meant there must be Nirmathi all around them. So when would the next attack come?
For the last long while, as the sun sank lower and lower, they'd been working their way along game trails. This latest one had led them to this reek. So now they were both down on their bellies crawling, and peering cautiously ahead into the gathering darkness.
Into a stinking hollow full of ripe, rotting battle corpses. It lay across their path, close enough to the river that they could clearly hear the waters flowing endlessly past, somewhere in the lowering darkness beyond the thick trees on the far side of the hollow.
A perfect spot for an ambush.
Tarram looked at The Masked. He was lying on his face, forehead pressed to the ground, eyes closed. He'd taken off the mask long ago to hide it and its glow under his clothing, and she could barely tell if he was still alive through the ragged cloth undermask he was wearing now.
"Tarram?" she murmured, edging closer to him.
Her partner rolled slowly over onto his side, letting out a faint groan. "Worn out," he muttered. "Just let me rest."
Well, thanks a lot, Holy Desna. And me with but one hand.
Tantaerra was struggling to roll her partner the rest of the way onto his back when a Molthuni voice out of the nearby gloom froze her in mid-heave.
"That you, Farthras?"
"Aye," another voice replied, from a little farther off in the other direction, along the hollow. That reply was followed by the thud of heavy boots trudging nearer. Hastily Tantaerra sank down atop The Masked and played at being a corpse.
Farthras strode right past her in his eagerness to share the latest news. "New orders! The cursed Nirmathi got most of Uldran's men back at Arthjet, so we're to join the camps at Downtree. They're mustering a really big army at last, to teach the Nirmathi a lesson! We march at first light, and they're saying the moment we reach the camps, they'll march on with us. Our feet are going to be sore tomorrow!"
"My feet are sore now," the other Molthuni growled. "Trust Uldran to be the sort of fool to fall afoul of a few half-naked Nirmathi running barefoot from behind one tree to the next. I suppose he thought they'd obligingly step out into some open field and form lines to face him! Stonehead!"
Farthras chuckled. "Your judgment of Uldran draws no argument from me, but there's more! They're saying the gods are taking a hand in this endless war, now!"
"Uh-huh. Who's the 'they' this time? Someone's always prattling about the gods doing this and that!"
"This is different. Ever heard of dweomercats?"
"No ...hoy, now, wait. Blue magical cats, in some of the old tales, yes? Never seen one, though. What about them?"
"They're streaming this way out of the heart of Nirmathas, that's what. Sent or driven by the gods, everyone's saying—not just us, but the Nirmathi, too."
"Oh? And how can we be so sure of that?"
"We took some captives today, and didn't leave them in much state to think up clever lies. They think it's the gods, too."
"Has anyone checked to see if there aren't Nirmathi warriors clinging to some dweomercat bellies, or if there's a wizard somewhere behind all this? I grant that spellcasters are blamed more than seen—but even a wizard is a sight more likely to be mixed up in a run of beasts than a god!"
"That I don't know." There was a crackling of crushed twigs as Farthras joined his unseen fellow Molthuni, and his voice sank to a more conspiratorial mutter. "But word is, we're mustering to take care of the Nirmathi, but are under strict orders to leave the dweomercats alone. Just in case."
"Fine. The fewer beasts I'm supposed to fight, the longer I'll stay alive. So if we're marching at first light, I'm for bed right now. Gods-cursed stupid war."
Tantaerra listened intently as the two Molthuni moved off. When she was sure they were gone, she shook The Masked, hard.
His groan this time was more of an irritated grunt than a sound of pain, so she hissed at him, "Come on. We need to get just a little way on, before morning. Across the river."
"Across the river to where?" he growled. "The midst of some army camp full of soldiers eager to stick spears into us?"
"We'll find a place that isn't an army camp—even if we have to drift downriver all night."
"Upriver would be a better bet."
"If I could drift upriver, I would," Tantaerra told him patiently, "but rivers don't work that way."
"I'm worn down, right down to my bones," The Masked said wearily. "Can't you scout the far bank before we get cold and wet and swept downstream? I—"
Tantaerra thrust the stump of her handless arm into his face. "Tarram Armistrade, you still have two hands! I don't give that tentacle-beast's hind haunch if you're tired, you'll get up right now, like the curse-ridden, pigheaded man you are, and swim the river with me!"
Cringing away from her fury, The Masked muttered, "Sorry." Then he staggered to his feet and started across the hollow, stumbling amid the rotting battle-dead.
As they picked their way up out of the hollow into the last band of trees, and the gurgling of the rushing Inkwater grew louder, there was a crashing and crackling behind them, no doubt loud enough to bring Nirmathi with ready weapons.
Looking back, Tantaerra saw fearless golden eyes. The foremost dweomercats were padding out of the trees. Stalking them.
∗ ∗ ∗
The Inkwater was icy cold, of course. Tantaerra couldn't suppress a gasp, but needn't have bothered worrying about the noise she made. The Masked, beside her, sounded like a startled horse.
At least he hadn't gone in with a mighty splash. No, they'd both slipped rather gingerly into the water, and hopefully—
Hope died abruptly, as a rather rough male voice from very close by muttered, "Someone ...no, two people. Two people in the river. Permission to feather them, sir?"
The Masked gave her an urgent look and pushed off from the bank, more sideways than out into the river, across her path. He was eyeball-deep in the water, and glaring at her. Tantaerra swam to the right to keep out of his way, and abandoned all worry about splashings. They had to get out and away from the bank, fast, or—
"No. You heard the orders as well as I did. We leave the dweomercats alone."
"But sir, these aren't dweomercats, they're—"
"The one that just almost stepped on me has fangs like a row of short swords, is larger than my horse, and smells like it's spent its life rolling in mud and rotting
dead things and never bathing. You can argue what they are with me all you like, but do not use your bow!"
"But—"
"If someone's leading this herd of beasts—see? Half a dozen now, and still more on the way—they're probably some priest or other, and I'm not risking the anger of the gods by killing holy men. So neither are you, Willum!"
"But—"
"Even if they are Nirmathi, and a-bristle with bright blades from haunch to chittlins, just two of them aren't going to do much against the army we have camped within horn-hail, lad! There're sentries posted that side of the river too, y'know!"
"But—urrreeeagh!"
"Willum? Willum? Hah! So, a dweomercat found you, did it? Idiot! Didn't believe me, hey? Well—"
Then the fast-running Inkwater carried Tantaerra and her masked companion out of earshot, past gurglings coming from half-submerged fallen trees standing like stones against the strong flow. No crossbow bolts had come, but Tantaerra couldn't help but be swept against The Masked's shoulder. He was fighting hard to get across the river before it took them a long way downstream—or its numbing cold robbed them of their strength, and they became helpless, exhausted floating things.
Abruptly, there were dark things ahead of them, looming up out of the water, and a rotting reek, and shade.
Dead trees beyond counting, toppled into the river. Swept against them, The Masked caught hold of one and clawed Tantaerra out of the water and up onto it.
"H-hang on!" he snapped at her, through chattering teeth. Tantaerra tried.
They were in a little swamp on the Molthuni side of the river. Stinking muck was everywhere, foul green floating weeds and dead trees thrusting up out of the water like the dark fingers of drowned giants.
"Faugh!" Tantaerra spat, shivering.
"Don't complain," The Masked snarled up at her. "Means the water's slower ahead of us. See any trees we can crawl along, and get ashore? I'm about done...this cold ..."
"T-there," Tantaerra gasped, pointing, and her partner snatched her off her slippery black-barked perch and back into the icy water without a word, struggling on through the water like a weary bull. When they got to the tree she'd chosen, it took The Masked three tries to get her up onto it. He clung to it like a man carrying a rolled carpet, clawing his way hand over hand along it.
Tantaerra got to the firm soil first, somewhere under the tangled long grass and shorethorns, but they collapsed more or less in unison, and sank down into darkness.
Sodden, shivering darkness.
∗ ∗ ∗
The pain awakened Tantaerra. She was stiff and weak and sore, the stump of her missing hand throbbing with a slow but insistent ache. The stink of the swamp was strong, and the Inkwater was still rushing endlessly past, but somehow, during the night, its sound had changed. The swamp reek was subtly different, too. More musky.
Why? How?
She opened her eyes, risked lifting her head to look around—and froze.
Golden eyes were staring solemnly back into hers. During the night, dweomercats must have swum the river and stolen up to them in velvet silence. Now the beasts were all around, crowded so thickly around the trees that branches had sagged down under the water beneath their massed weight. What had been thick green swamp water last night was now hidden under a shaggy sea of dweomercat backs.
"Tarram," she hissed, poking her partner, "wake up."
The Masked gave another of his growling groans, but didn't move or do anything more, so she poked him again.
"What?" he snapped crossly.
"Look around you," she told him softly. "No sudden moves, just look."
He gave her a less than pleased glare, then did as he'd been told.
"Dung," he remarked softly. "Any sign of—?"
"Not yet," Tantaerra told him darkly. "We'd better be moving on."
"Yes," The Masked agreed wearily. "Let me get up. I need to stretch."
"Rouse the battered body and tackle another day?" Tantaerra asked mockingly.
The reply she got was a growl that would have done credit to a wolf.
Tarram Armistrade grunted a few times, winced, then rubbed at his left shoulder and said thoughtfully, "You know, we could sprint across the backs of these dweomercats and run right out of this swamp."
"West, into Molthune. Open, rolling grasslands, as I recall," Tantaerra replied. "Run parallel to each other, so we can avoid being cat-swarmed by throwing the gauntlet back and forth, again?"
Her partner nodded. "So, let's decide on a route." He peered at the dweomercats to the west of them, where the land rose into drier Molthune. The dweomercats stared right back.
"Tarram," Tantaerra said warningly, bringing his head around to see what she was watching.
Behind them, to the east, more dweomercats were slowly swimming the Inkwater, heading for the swamp.
The dweomercats were swimming so slowly because they were keeping in a tight ring around a larger, darker bulk. One with tentacles.
Their pursuer now trailed dark blood, a stain on the water around it. Half a dozen spears and arrows were protruding from it, but it clutched the Whispering Sword on high.
"Dung," Tantaerra agreed wearily.
∗ ∗ ∗
There'd been no sign of riders from Braganza or anywhere else, but they were trudging through grass so tall now that they'd certainly feel and hear hooves before they saw anyone, mounted or afoot. They'd been trudging most of the day.
The sun was getting low in the sky, and Tantaerra was hungry and thirsty, the Fearsome Gauntlet heavy in her bodice. Not that there was anything much to eat except grass. She'd tried chewing some, as she and The Masked continued staggering deeper into Molthune.
They'd headed for any tallish or tangled trees they caught sight of, in hopes of finding places they could climb up to, to rest without being crushed or suffocated by crowding dweomercats, but time after time they found no suitable perches. The trees were too spindly, or rooted in loose ground so a swarm of dweomercats would probably topple them. Nowhere was there cover enough to hide them from passing Molthuni.
So they kept trudging onward.
They'd not seen the tentacled monster since they'd fled the swamp. It was probably moving so slowly that they'd left it far behind.
There was a slim chance that the cold river waters had finished it or swept it far downstream before it could reach the Molthuni side of the Inkwater, but she and Tarram doubted it was dead. If Mahalagris had chased them this far, he wouldn't abandon the pursuit of them so long as his host lived and could still move, however feebly.
Neither she nor Tarram were in any shape to take on any foe. Unless Holy Desna saw fit to send them some mighty priests of healing, and maybe a movable fortress to shelter in at night, it was unlikely—given all the Molthuni military marching or riding about in these grasslands—they'd make it to Braganza alive.
"If we had horses ..." The Masked muttered.
"We don't," Tantaerra reminded him sharply. "Nor do we have an army dedicated to defending us. If you're going to dream, dream big, man. Or can that gauntlet make us fly?"
"It can, I think, but not to Braganza or anywhere far. Just a little hop—over a wall or up to a window, or down from one without dashing your bones to splinters. But for the wearer only."
"Which means, sooner or later," Tantaerra said glumly, "we're going to meet up with Molthuni on patrol, and there'll be a fight we can't hope to win, even blasting away with the gauntlet."
"Yes."
A few trudging steps later, he added, "Tantaerra Loroeva Klazra, I ...I have enjoyed your company on this escapade. You're better than a halfling princess."
"You're not so bad yourself, masked man. For a human."
Armistrade looked down at her. After so long traveling together, she almost felt that she could read the expressions behind that mask. If so, he was smiling now. "I make few friends, and manage to keep fewer," he said. "I'm glad to call you friend."
"Likewise," Tantaerra told him.
Then she lifted the stump where her hand had been, and said grimly, "And before I die, I'll get back at Krzonstal Telcanor. Somehow."
"Somehow," The Masked agreed—and then stopped walking, held up his hand for silence, and cocked his head.
Tantaerra felt it more than heard it: the pounding of distant hooves. Getting nearer quickly.
"I can't see the length of a spear in this grass," she snarled. "Who is it? More than one rider, it sounds like, but not much more ..."
"Well counted," Armistrade replied, sounding amused. "Two riders. Telcanors who rode with Zreem when we were taken out of Braganza to begin this little jaunt. Full plate armor, riding hard right at us."
"Here they are!" a man shouted, and the foremost Telcanor appeared over the sea of grass, as he slowed his mount and veered aside to look down at them. "It's them, all right!"
"Good," the other rider called back, reining in his horse so hard it reared, bugling in protest. As it bucked and tossed its head, he grabbed up the crossbow hooked to his saddle.
"What're you doing?" the first rider asked incredulously. "We're supposed to capture them for questioning!"
"My orders are to the contrary," the second Braganzan replied. "Dead men tell priests and their speaking-spells no lies." He aimed his crossbow at his fellow Telcanor. "Any objections?"
The other soldier shook his head frantically, face pale.
Smiling tightly, the Braganzan with the crossbow settled a bolt into his weapon.
Smiling tightly right back at him, Tantaerra yanked the Fearsome Gauntlet onto her hand.
The world exploded, leaving her staggering, moaning, and tasting blood from her bitten lip. Visions crashed into her brain and each other, overwhelming her in a deluge of vivid overlapping scenes of the wielding of this or that gauntlet power. The simple, invisible fist-like ramming ability underlay the rest, so she seized upon it, fighting through the blinding chaos—and the moment she could see the Molthuni bowman, she let fly.
The invisible blow shattered the crossbow, at least one of the hands holding it, and the bowman's jaw as it smashed him clear out of his saddle. Teeth flew.
