The plains were thick with destruction as the Order and the forest's forays clashed. After a week of piled corpses and devastated towns, Laquatus ached for a change. The death of drylanders was always enjoyable, but even a favorite dish might loose its appeal if sampled too often.
Turg felt the ambassador's lack of interest, and the amphibian did its best to enliven the journey. Forbidden from attacking the villagers along the way and banned from assaulting the mercenaries, it took a few days for the frog to act. Laquatus could feel his champion drawing on the merman's cunning though he lacked enough interest to interrogate his servant.
A horse's scream made the ambassador look up, wondering if they had fallen into an ambush. One of the pack-horses fell and thrashed, a caltrop sunk deep into its hoof. Laquatus could see iridescent glitter on the metal and knew it to be a deadly poison. A mercenary ran to care for the beast, stooping to draw the iron from the leg. But Turg seemed to appear, blocking the way.
"It appears to be poison," the ambassador called as the hired servant hesitated to force his way past the frog. "If you touch it, you will be too weak to walk within the hour. If you cut yourself, you might as well dig a grave." The frog nodded emphatically and turned to the downed horse. Borrowing a knife, he slit the beast's throat, moving slowly as if expressing grief. The ambassador would be ill at the mawkish sentiment if he were not sure that Turg had dropped the caltrop into a pouch.
The mercenaries patted the frog awkwardly on the back. They expressed that night their gratitude for his quick thinking. They saved him the first cuts of the dinner. The merman sneered at their stupidity. They neglected to ask how an aristocrat from the depths of the sea might recognize a poison on sight, especially one volatile enough to be deposited for contact use. Did they think him a sage to know every toxin? He knew the deadliness of the concoction because he carried a good supply of it secured in the depths of his luggage. The frog was cheered at dinner, and the ambassador wondered what else might happen.
A mental command reinforced his previous orders. He could not afford to lose any of the men, though the steeds were expendable as long as there was a surplus. Perhaps this game might keep his attention until they reached the lieutenant.
The frog did not use poison again, and the ambassador was glad. It could be an indiscriminate tool, rather like the amphibian. Instead the jack amused himself and the merman by daring the mercenaries into dangerous lapses in judgment, primarily by example. The frog took to taunting the forest animals who were gripped by the strange com' pulsion. He seemed to turn his back on them with unconcern. Laquatus knew the champion's peripheral vision was extraordinary, especially in seeing movement. But to the ignorant, and there were few air breathers who were not, he appeared oblivious.
The frog also took to helping with the horses, always quick to step in when a strap came undone or a stone was in a shoe. The animals shied away from the champion, showing better judgment than the fools riding them. However, even Laquatus was hard- pressed to see the camouflaged frog sabotaging the packs and saddles. The merman wondered at the ingenuity of the amphibian. The race was known for its savagery, not playing petty tricks and doing small injuries. It could only be the mental link, the ambassador decided. With other things to control and plots to tend to at the Cabal pits, Laquatus was the overwhelming dominant partner. But now his aggression and deceit flowed in ever-increasing amounts to the jack.
It doesn't matter, he said to himself. Joining spirits was a difficult task, but surely his control would prevent things from getting out of hand. If only they could reach the lieutenant. He forced himself to look at their prisoner. The knight smiled absently, the stench from his wound strong enough that none cared to ride close. In camp the confused man was left alone.
The knight was already broken, and it was the work of a few minutes to invade his mind, inserting new memories. Now he could only babble that the ambassador was his savior, his rescuer from forbidding odds. Occasionally he would lapse into spasms and blurt out the names of his supposed tormenters. Laquatus amused himself by inserting the names of fighters who had irritated him. Kamahl and his noxious partner Seton had prominent roles. But like a pie, the situation's humor grew more stale every day. Furthermore, he must force his temporary minions to care for the madman.
The next morning the knight was still alive, though Laquatus doubted he would last the day. A perfectly good plan ruined by the lieutenant's stubborn insistence on staying hidden. There were villagers, but the ambassador wanted a performance for the Order. A preview was performed for the cheap crowds, but he moved on before the man could say more than "He rescued me," and name a few names.
He stopped only one time at a village. The headman, seeing the poor condition of the knight, offered hospitality. The ambassador was forced to influence his mind and leave a cover story with the others.
"The messenger," he explained, "suffers from an infection of the blood. Only healing magic might offer a chance."
So they continued. The merman opened his kit of poisons and drugs. Some elixirs were deadly but in miniscule amounts could give temporary strength. The knight rallied, his eyes growing brighter. No longer did he lie strapped like a sack to the back of his mount, his arm tied to the bridle. He tried to sit up, to move with his steed. But it was a feverish energy that gripped him, and Laquatus knew they were running out of time.
Turg was free of scrutiny as the ambassador worked on his project. The malice that the merman planted in the jack took full flower and blossomed as Laquatus mixed another stimulant for the knight.
The mercenaries set up the midday camp, making a bed at Laquatus's orders for the knight. The dying man was cut from his saddle. The ropes parted to let him fall to the piled blankets.
"We must continue," the wounded warrior insisted, trying to rise, only to fall back. He attempted to push himself up with his hands, forgetting somehow that he only had one. The stump bled once more, even through the heavy cushion of bandages.
"Perhaps a sedative or a smaller dose of the stimulant," Laquatus muttered, boiling water to prepare an infusion. All that he carried was deadly, and he tired of trying to make poison give life rather than take it. Rarely had he worried his potions might be too effective. Laquatus tried to calm the knight's spirit even as he worked to rebuild the body. False memories and commands were increasingly useless as the captive's mind lost itself and could not remember the impulses he implanted. He mixed more powerful drugs, knowing that he was buying hours without sustained rest or magical healing.
The merman needed time to mix the potions properly, and he went to the perimeter of the temporary camp. He concentrated, tying a spell to the line he traced around the tent and mounts. With each step Laquatus took, a subtle cry sounded from the ground. "Look elsewhere," it seemed to say. "There is nothing here," the magic whispered. The wards were based on misdirection and would keep beasts way from the camp. The ambassador had grown piqued at being unable to command the bizarre attacks of wildlife. He could no longer command the animals by his magic, but he could mislead them.
Turg and two of the hunters made for the perimeter, watching for signs of danger. Laquatus mixed the poisons inside the tent. He wielded the mortar and pestle, selecting the herbs and sealing everything into a porous bag. Then he went to the fire; to the eyes of the ignorant he was brewing a healthy tea. He wondered how long they would survive if he invited them to share with the patient.