And when Kalgalath winged west the morning after, the Prince was by then some thirty miles gone.
Five more days did Thork see Kalgalath winging to harass Kachar, flying toward the Châkkaholt in the dawn, and returning eastward in early morn. But on the sixth day and thereafter, he saw the Drake no more.
Day after day, easterly he fared, quartering with farmers and hunters, staying in occasional villages, living off the land when necessary: foraging, hunting with crossbow, trapping with snare, fishing. And always, whenever chance afforded, Thork would replenish his supplies from the folk he met and ask the way to Xian, receiving little more than vague gestures eastward.
Leagues passed beneath Digger’s hooves: grassy plains for the most part, with an occasional thicket moving slowly up over the eastern horizon to eventually disappear in the west; too, at times there were uplands, hills, woodlands, rivers, and streams standing across the way.
Slowly summer marched across the land and Thork and Digger did likewise, and the days grew long while the nights became short. Yet always the goal of Black Mountain seemed no nearer than it was the day previous. Yet the Prince and the pony fared on.
And at last there came a night when Thork camped upon the edge of the Khalian Mire, the easternmost place noted upon the maps within Kachar, maps studied by Thork ere he set forth. About the Mire, nothing was noted, except a cryptic reference to hidden danger or bogs, it was uncertain which. Thork had noted that the Mire lay along the planned route, and it was shorter across than it was around. And as he set up camp that evening, caring for Digger, seeing to his own needs, Thork speculated upon the fact that after the morrow, after he had passed beyond the swamp, he would be moving through territory unmapped by the folk of Kachar, out into the unknown, out where there be nought but white space upon the charts.
And as he settled down for the evening, in the distance to the south, perhaps a league or so away, Thork could see the flicker of a distant campfire, and he wondered what could bring another traveller unto fringes of this great bogland.
The next morning Thork rode Digger in among the dark, twisted trees thrusting up through an oozing mist seeping over the slime-laden muck squishing underfoot. Grey clinging moss hung downward from dead limbs, thick tendrils brushing across Thork’s face, clutching at his eyes and mouth and nose as if to smother him. Green-scummed water swirled with unseen shapes, and snakes with dead black eyes and flicking tongues slithered along rotted logs and among clotted reeds clumped in stagnant pools. Things plopped unseen into the water, and great clouds of gnats and mosquitoes and biting flies swarmed over Châk and pony alike, and swearing and slapping, Thork dismounted and smeared jinsoil over his hands and face, and upon Digger as well.
Through a tortuous entanglement of moss and trees, reeds and water, mire and land, rode Thork; it was as if he were caught in a labyrinth: forward he would move, only to have to backtrack, seeming always to ride into impassable dead ends and traps. And the very land sucked at Digger’s hooves, clutching, grasping, reluctantly yielding as the pony withdrew each foot-ssluk! — from the grasp of the morass, the mud slurking as if in protest. Through leech-laden scummy water they passed, emerging with Digger’s legs coated with the hideous parasites, creatures driven by gluttonous lust, mouthing blindly, sucking, swelling with blood. And Thork would dismount and scrape the slimy bloated bodies from Digger’s shanks, treating the oozing wounds left behind.
The Sun rode up and over, the sweltering swamp belching and heaving with gases of rot. Air became thick and hard to breathe, and a stillness descended as if nothing were alive but Thork and Digger and the cloud of buzzing insects swarming about them.
Slowly the Sun sank, and dusk drew nigh, and with it came a return of sound from the dwellers of the mire: peeping and breeking and brawking as well as slitherings and ploppings and splashings of unseen creatures, of hidden movement.
Thork did not know how far he was from the edge of the Khalian Mire, but he did know that he could not spend the night within its clutches. And now the Sun fell unto the horizon, and began to sink below. Long shadows seeped among the trees and moss. Reeds fell into shadow.
And without warning, Digger screamed and bolted, and Thork could not stay the pony’s panic, for it was as if the little steed had sensed some evil lurking, waiting for the dark to fall.
Blindly, Digger crashed through the reeds, running in stark fear, Thork haling back upon the reins to no avail, for the horseling had seized the bit and was not to be headed. But in that moment, Digger hurled through a reed wall, and suddenly Châk and pony were floundering in a slough, Thork losing his seat and pitching headlong into the mire.
Weltering, Thork got his head above the quaking bog, and managed to struggle upright. Digger flopped and wallowed an arm’s length away, the quavering muck sucking at them both, threatening to draw them under. And a gagging stench, like rotten eggs, rose up about them.
Again Digger screamed in panic, the pony’s eyes rolling white with terror, the steed plunging and floundering, sinking deeper.
“Kruk! Dök, praug, dök! [Excrement! Stop, pony, stop!]” raged Thork, now up to his chest in the mire, while the panic-stricken steed flopped and struggled, grunting and squealing.
Thork strove to reach Digger’s side, to calm the animal, but just as suddenly the pony stopped its frantic thrashing.
And Thork looked up through the gathering dusk, and in the shadows his eyes locked with those of a tall, green-eyed, copper-haired Woman mounted upon a grey steed. And from all appearances, she was one of the thieving Riders.
The turning wheels of Fate had spun full round, and neither the warrior on the shore nor the one in the bog could know what the future held. The only thing of import at that very moment was that each one saw in the other the face of a hated foe.
CHAPTER 34
Early Winter, 3E1602
[This Year]
Again the etheric self of Black Kalgalath watched as the dark shape of Andrak crossed the heaving magma deep within the fiery caldera of the Fire-drake’s volcanic domain. And molten stone spumed and lava fountains burst forth to drench the approaching form, to no avail, for onward came the figure through the shimmering blast. At last the dark visitant stood at the foot of the flaming dais, and the Dragon waited for the Mage to speak.
“Two who sought the Kammerling are dead, Drake,” whispered the voice of the Wizard, “storm-slain. Once more by my hand you are safe; the Rage Hammer remains untouched by any would-be heroes.”
Black Kalgalath inclined his head, acknowledging Andrak’s words but saying nought, divining the Mage’s real purpose in coming, waiting, silent laughter mocking.