by Ed Greenwood
Which was good, because rain would have made her misery complete.
They were riding right into a messy, long-drawn-out war, and a land ravaged by it. On a mission that looked to be, to put it gently, suicidal, if not utterly impossible. With a companion she trusted not at all.
All day long she'd been keeping a close eye on the man who was calling himself Ahrkholm, and although he wasn't as obvious about it, she could tell The Masked was, too. Ahrkholm had shown no signs of tossing any knives their way, but it was hard to forget that sudden, casual, and entirely unannounced volley of daggers the self-proclaimed High Investigator had hurled at Zreem. He'd recovered at least three of them-who knew how many more he had hidden on his person? If she herself were anything to go by …
She couldn't stay awake forever, and neither could The Masked. Just one of those knives could end their lives in an instant-this very night, perhaps, long before they got anywhere near the killing traps and fell magics that undoubtedly guarded a wizard's tomb.
She rode nearer to The Masked. "I fear knives in the dark," she told him, nodding in the direction of Ahrkholm, who was riding off to their right, smiling his easy smile. "What'll we do?"
"Take turns staying awake and keeping watch," he replied.
Tantaerra yawned suddenly. Gods, where had that come from? It must have been hearing the word "awake."
"Stay awake how?" she asked sharply.
"We find a stream. The one keeping watch stands with one foot in it. The water will be cold, believe me. When that foot goes numb, go and step on a stone we've warmed by our fire-which we'll let burn out, but the stone'll stay hot a long time. Then take your burned foot back to the cold water. When you get bored, change feet. But make sure the wet one is unshod."
"Great," Tantaerra told him. "Well, at least footwear isn't going to get overly damaged in all of this to-do."
"Neither," The Masked reminded her, "is your throat."
∗ ∗ ∗
That evening and the next, The Masked and Tantaerra were quietly hostile toward Ahrkholm. He fell into smiling silence, and rode away from them as each dusk deepened to camp off by himself, somewhere out of sight.
Though they stood watch, neither he nor anything larger than very small prowling things came anywhere near where they slept.
The dawns were shiveringly cold, but the saddlebags of the Telcanor horses supplied kindling as well as frymeat and little three-legged cauldrons for broth.
On their second morning, Tantaerra looked up from the broth she was tending as the first wisps of steam started to rise from it, saw that Ahrkholm was still nowhere to be seen, and asked suddenly, "So …the mask that cursed you …they took it, yes? You're free of it?"
He laughed sharply. "No such luck, I'm afraid. When they removed the mundane mask, I managed to activate the temporary illusion trinket I carry, just in case I need to go unmasked. By the time they got to my crotch, where the real mask was stuffed down my breeches, it had already moved to my face, where the illusion hid it as well.
Tantaerra winced. "Moved? So it's alive?"
The Masked nodded grimly. "I think so."
Tantaerra paused, considering, then set the matter aside. "So how come you don't use illusion spells all the time?"
The Masked shook his head. "Do you have any idea how much an illusion spell like that costs, princess?"
Tantaerra sighed, wrapped her hands around the cauldron to warm them. "Fair enough. So what of this Ahrkholm? What do you think he's really after?"
The Masked shook his head. "Unbridled speculation can be more dangerous than not knowing, little one. Bide, watch, and listen, and perhaps he'll let something slip."
His gaze lifted to look over her. "And here he comes now."
So by day they rode as three, deeper into a deserted Molthune of burned barns and neglected fields, closer to Nirmathas.
The Masked and Tantaerra always moved their camp after Ahrkholm left them, suspecting he'd direct Molthune's patrols to find and capture or kill them-but no matter where they went or what detours they tried the next day, Ahrkholm found them before daylight failed, to silently ride beside them.
As they muttered to each other forehead to forehead in the deepening night, reaching agreement that it was now too risky to light a fire, Tantaerra whispered, "You think he has magical powers?"
The Masked shrugged. "Some magical means of tracing us, perhaps. Competent spellhurlers are rarer than all the tales will have you think."
"So what then?"
The Masked shrugged. "Await his treachery or some revelation of what he's up to. What else can we do?"
Tantaerra nodded-and then froze.
By all the gods! For the first time in years, I'm trusting a man. She looked at him, a dark shape in the gloom, lying down with his cloak wrapped around himself, preparing to sleep while she stood first watch. Trusting her.
He was only one man. Yet would this trust be as foolishly misplaced as every earlier instance?
The night gave her back no answer.
∗ ∗ ∗
Tantaerra reined her tired mount to a halt. "Is that what I think it is?"
The Masked nodded. "The Inkwater," he confirmed. "The border."
"There's no bridge, is there?"
"None. And the water's fast and cold."
"Then we can't take the horses across."
"Your tactical brilliance continues unabated."
Tantaerra made a rude sound, and gave him a rude gesture to go with it. "Suppose you demonstrate your tactical brilliance by telling me what we do now."
"Dismount. We're too close to the river as it is. Both Molthune and Nirmathas loose a lot of arrows and bolts across the Inkwater-and riders are nice tall targets."
"Back to that hollow we just rode through?"
The Masked nodded approvingly. "As good a place as any. Better than most."
"Any sign of Ahrkholm?"
"Yes. He's two hills that way. Right-there."
Tantaerra peered along the masked man's pointing arm, but could see only rolling hills, a hedge along a long-abandoned farm fence line of old stumps and boulders, and long grass swaying in the breeze. A lot of long grass, swaying in the breeze.
She waved in exasperated dismissal at the view, and turned away.
"He ducked down when I pointed," The Masked told her. "I think he's afraid of you."
"Very amusing," she muttered. "So, clevertongue, how're we going to get into Nirmathas without wearing a few dozen arrows each? Wait until dark?"
"Wait until dark. After using what remains of the day to find the best place to cross."
"And that would be?"
"A good thick stand of trees on the Nirmathi side, or better yet a forest. A forest downstream of a swamp, so we can cross level with the swamp, where Nirmathi bowmen can't wait in a tidy line to send arrows down our throats, and drift with the river flow down to where we can go ashore under cover of bushes and trees, somewhere a little drier than the sucking mud of full swamp."
"Sounds hoof-thuddingly sensible to me. I'd be happier if I didn't think every last Molthuni commander has reasoned just as you have, and sought the same things-giving the Nirmathi good training in knowing where crossings will be tried, and waiting there in force, with traps to deal with anyone seeking a way across the Inkwater from Molthune."
The Masked nodded. "So we give them a diversion."
"Such as?"
"A fire. Something on fire that's trying to cross the river, or at least floating down it. While we cross where they aren't looking because of that fire."
Tantaerra nodded. "I just knew I'd end up getting wet again. So what do we set on fire? I'm guessing any boats around here are going to be very well guarded-and I doubt that horse's hind end of a Telcanor lord has bothered to even let the soldiers of Molthune know we're coming, let alone ordered them to help us or stay out of our way."
"I share both that guess and that doubt," The Masked replied calmly. "So we'll go looking for a log, and so
mething eye-catching to prop up on it."
"Such as?"
"Such as a screaming, thrashing, on-fire Ahrkholm-or failing that, any handy Molthuni warrior who gives us grief."
"That," a deep voice said out of the darkness very close by, "sounds almost like a cue."
Tantaerra froze, then turned reluctantly to see who'd spoken.
A dozen Molthuni warriors with mud-covered faces and tufts of grass covering their helms and shoulders were rising with menacing slowness out of the tall grass around the hollow, cocked and loaded crossbows aimed at the mounted man and halfling.
"So," The Masked greeted him calmly, "did you hear it all, or must I explain it to you?"
"I'd appreciate knowing just which horse's hind end of a Telcanor lord has sent you two doomed idiots here, and on what task," the deep-voiced Molthuni officer replied. "Oh, and draw no weapons and make no sudden moves, if you don't mind."
"There's another man nearby, somewhere yonder," The Masked said, moving his arm very slowly to point, "who was sent out on the same mission."
"And who you don't trust," the officer replied, smiling thinly. "I'm waiting."
"Lord Krzonstal Telcanor of Braganza sent us," The Masked said quickly, "to recover a gauntlet from the Shattered Tomb, in Hurlandrun, in Nirmathas. On the orders of the General Lords."
"I see," said the officer. "You don't look like the usual sort of agent the Telcanors send to do their bloody-work."
"It's a slow month for Telcanor recruiting," The Masked replied calmly. "We're something like 'found goods.'"
The officer's thin smile grew more full. "Coerced goods, you mean."
The Masked nodded gravely, and the officer looked even more pleased.
"Well, now. It's not often we gain two such splendid horses, and I'm inclined to assist you in your little plan. Both for purposes of entertainment, and because those trees armor the Nirmathi across the river all too well, and I'd love to draw some of them out to where I can sink a few bolts home."
"You'll help us?"
"We'll help you. As it happens, we've two boats that are far too rotten to repair, and the remnants of no less than three Nirmathi rafts. Not to mention some camp refuse and the carcass of a foam-jawed wolf that tried to take down one of our oxen two nights back. I'm inclined to put them all together and give you your fiery diversion. It'll give us light to shoot by."
"Won't the river just carry the flames downstream while the Nirmathi watch? What's to make them shoot?"
The officer's smile turned cruel. "Over years of patrolling, we've made quite a trail along our riverbank. The most troublesome of our soldiers will be detailed to ride along it, with ready crossbows. I doubt the Nirmathi will be able to resist the targets, given how roused they'll be by flames coming right at them."
"Right at them?" The Masked asked, eyes narrowing.
"As close to right at them as you two can manage," the officer replied. "Swimming as hard as you can and towing our fire-barges to the far bank. If you can start a fire there, and burn off some of that cover …well, forest fire or not, I'm always happy to assist intrepid agents of Molthune."
The Masked chuckled grimly. After a moment, the officer joined in.
Tantaerra sighed. "This sort of thing is going to get me killed someday."
Some of the other Molthuni soldiers snickered at that, as they reached for the bridle of her horse.
"Masked man," she asked quickly, "do we?"
The Masked gave her a meaningful look. "Go along with this gallant, generous, and patriotic offer of aid? Of course, and with no dissembling!"
So Tantaerra let out another sigh, relaxed, and let the soldiers reach her down from her horse. They found it necessary to paw at her chest in the process, of course, but she bit back her sharp response-and caught sight of a silver ring that looked familiar on one soldier's hairy-backed hand. Where had she seen one of like design before?
In moments they were all down in the hollow, with the Molthuni going through their saddlebags, amid a ring of sentinels watching for unwanted arrivals. Two of them saw Ahrkholm even before The Masked did, and loosed bolts that hissed through the tall grasses at him, but probably didn't bite home. When several soldiers bounded hastily into that cover to look for him, drawn blades in hand, they found no one.
By then, The Masked and Tantaerra had been handed their saddlebags and invited to dine while they waited for dark.
They accepted, finding the stew and hardbread of the soldiery quite palatable as they sipped watered smallbeer and listened to the hammers and mallets of Molthuni working on the fire-rafts. During their meal, the officer politely asked them endless questions about their dealings with Lord Telcanor and their past careers, and The Masked politely supplied him with endless falsehoods as answers. And asked a few questions of his own, which is how they learned that the war had settled down into a ceaseless, fairly balanced, back-and-forth affair. Molthune mounted foray after foray into Nirmathas, seeking to slay Nirmathi warriors, burn crops, and destroy weapons and fortresses-and then withdrew, because they knew if they tarried overlong, it would mean death by guerrillas and snipers that killed and poisoned before slipping back into the trees. Still, Nirmathas had not the strength to mount any concerted invasion of Molthune, and death by death, season by season, Molthune was emptying Nirmathas of effective opposition. Someday, Nirmathas would again be part of Molthune. As it rightfully should be.
Tantaerra and The Masked nodded and mumbled assent in the right places as the officer warmed to his argument. Why did the stubborn Nirmathi refuse the good roads, better laws, and surer supplies of abundant food and wine that Molthuni citizenship would give them? No sane man would refuse such things! It must be bad leadership, bolstered by the resentment and blood-feuding of all these years of strife, it must, and…
The officer waved his hands, almost spilling his tankard, and Tantaerra saw a silver ring on his hand that matched the one worn by the soldier who'd lifted her down from her saddle. And suddenly she remembered where she'd seen it before: on the plump red finger of one of the bath women back in the Telcanor mansion.
A mark of Telcanor, then. Which meant this officer probably knew all about them, and was intended to help them across the Inkwater-indeed, had probably known it before they blundered into his stretch of riverbank. One fast rider sent out from Braganza before dawn could have forewarned him.
And Tarram had been supplying him with outrageous lies this entire meal! Oh, gods! But how to tell him, before his tongue hastened their common doom?
If she caught his eye and used one hand to rub a finger of the other-the same finger and spot on it where the officer was wearing his …
She did, and was startled to see The Masked wink at her, then-while agreeing aloud with the officer's praise of the benefits of Molthuni society-he casually waved a hand in the man's direction. Tantaerra looked where he was gesturing, and found the officer giving her a smug smile. Damned if the deep-voiced Molthuni didn't wink at her, too!
So the officer and The Masked had both known that Lord Telcanor's mission into Nirmathas was to be aided by Telcanor Molthuni on patrol. This was all a big game to them.
She felt her face flaming, and raised her almost-empty mug to cover most of it. These damned men! They were enjoying this! Both were acting like …
Like the very spies she and The Masked were pretending to be.
Or was The Masked pretending? Could he really be a Telcanor spy, or working for the Lord of Braganza? Or even the General Lords?
Tantaerra let a little of the thin, sour beer slide onto her tongue, held it there, and thought hard.
She couldn't tell. She just couldn't tell.
He was keeping secrets from her, details not from his long and colorful past, but rather having to do with this task they'd been set, this Shattered Tomb and the dead wizard and the Fearsome Gauntlet. But how to get him to spill them?
And did it matter, when they might both be dead before morning?
∗ ∗ ∗
Where was Ahrkholm? There'd been no sign of him since back in the hollow, but he was out there somewhere in the night, watching; Tantaerra could feel the cold weight of his sneering gaze.
Yes, even in the numbing cold that was leaving her gasping, too chilled to do more than feebly fight the rush of the river.
The Inkwater was even colder than she'd feared, and was sweeping them northeast at a great rate, as if impatient to leave its headwaters far behind and greet its end in Lake Encarthan.
There was bright moonlight and there were few clouds this night, of course; that was merely the mirth of the gods. So the river was shot through with silver here, there, and everywhere as it flowed, far too strong for even The Masked to pull his fire-raft much across the river. And then there were their clothes and weapons each lashed to one leg, making swimming in this rushing water like hauling along a heavy monster that had its jaws closed around your knee …
Mostly, they were swept helplessly along, and had probably left behind the stretch of river under the Telcanor officer's command long ago.
Which meant, sooner or later, and probably sooner…
"Foul Nirmathi spies!"
Sooner.
That angry shout had come from a Molthuni officer, and his next words were some sort of snarled order that urged his patrol into a gallop along the well-used road that followed the Molthuni side of the river.
Either this was a ruse to make any watching Nirmathi think she and The Masked were Nirmathi-or these particular Molthuni truly thought they were Nirmathi. Her head was starting to ache again. Damn all humans and their trickery and double-dealing.
"Die!" the officer shouted, and Tantaerra ducked down under the swirling water and started to claw her way along the lashings that held her ungainly fire-raft together. It was blazing away merrily, of course, the strong reek of rotting wolf turning to the stronger stink of cooked rotting wolf, but if she could get between the two rotting hulls, or at least put one of them between her and the Molthuni crossbows …
Bolts thudded into the wood above her with strikes she could feel, and plunged into the water around her with surprisingly loud plooshing noises. She could hear them hitting The Masked's raft, too, sharper and louder slammings like cobblers' hammers missing leather and hitting wooden lasts. She kicked and clawed frantically, starving for air now but determined to get past the first hull. They couldn't all miss …
