Faces turned to look at one of the men, a leader of the attacking warband.
Who gave Tarram a hard glare and said, "Orivin Voyvik. Yes, that Orivin Voyvik. The war hero."
Murmurs arose in the darkness, and a ring of sword points suddenly gleamed all around Tarram and Tantaerra.
"Suppose," Narandur said grimly, squinting up at them from where he sat, his own blade back in his hand, "you both tell us again your names, heritage, and business in Nirmathas-right here and now."
It was not a suggestion.
Luraumadar?
It was the first time the mask had sounded quite that uncertain.
∗ ∗ ∗
Tantaerra lay on her back and looked up at the few stars she could see through the thick leaves overhead. Certain death had been averted yet again, and with surprising ease. This time.
Not that there weren't watchful sentries between her and the open forest-sentries who looked her way from time to time and not just out into the wild night. Yet she and The Masked weren't bound or even disarmed, let alone dying in agony.
Which meant, all in all, it had gone rather well.
They'd given their names and the backstories they'd decided on, and as for right here and now, they'd claimed to be seeking Tantaerra's mother and aunt, who'd fled their homes in Graybanks-a small Nirmathi village not far from the Inkwater that they knew had been utterly destroyed in the war-to resettle in the ancestral family farm, hard by the ruins of Hurlandrun.
"Where the Shattered Tomb stands," one older Nirmathi had said grimly. "That's all monster-prowled country, that is."
"Well, that settles it," another had put in. "No Molthuni spy would be wanting to go thereabouts. Unless they want spend their last handful of days fighting monsters, that is."
"That settles it if that's where they're really headed," a third and younger Nirmathi had pointed out sharply. "We have only their word for that."
"Go with us and guide us," The Masked had snapped back, "and you'll not have to trust our word. You'll know."
That eagerness had decided Narandur, saving their necks. For now.
Three tall, strong young Nirmathi had agreed to guide The Masked and Tantaerra.
She hadn't been pleased at having hale and unfamiliar companions who just might be slayers in league with Voyvik, but saw-still saw-no real alternative but to accept their guidance.
Before lying down on the far side of the dying fire with his drawn sword in his hand, the grizzled old Nirmathi commander had handed them a sack that held a wheel of cheese, two round loaves of hardbread, and the bowl-like half of someone's recently shattered helm that could serve as a water-scoop, and gruffly told them to be on their way to Hurlandrun "by dawn on the morrow." The three guides had settled down just beyond him with their swords drawn, too.
Tantaerra wondered how long it would be before Voyvik's attacks killed one or all of them. Or if they'd join him against The Masked and herself, when the Nirmathi dreamer's next attack came.
She fell asleep wondering about that.
∗ ∗ ∗
Tantaerra winced. Again.
"Urgh!" The Masked snarled, lifting one boot out of muck that bubbled and reached to his boot tops. Its reek was almost visible, and had already set Tantaerra gagging. What sort of foul decay could make such a smell?
The three young Nirmathi were all backing away, yellow-faced and retching.
"This is not," Armistrade told them, "what I meant by 'deeper in Nirmathas,' really it wasn't!"
"Har har," Tantaerra observed, heading away from him as fast as she could.
"Don't come close to me!" the fair-haired guide-Raldon-warned, almost falling in his haste to retreat farther. "That's …that's just evil!"
He thrust his sword into the ground and used that hand to grab for his nose and pinch it shut.
Raldon was so distracted that he never saw the dagger that flashed out of the trees to slice open his throat. It bit deep, and he stumbled two choking steps and fell, his clutching fingers doing little to stop the blood spurting in all directions.
"Down!" the largest guide roared, but rather than heed his own command, he charged into the trees, heading for where the dagger had been hurled from.
"Nesker, come back!" the other guide shouted. "You'll only-"
There was a heavy crash, through a tangle of dead branches, and Nesker came staggering back, his face now more green than yellow. His skin was an ugly purple low on his neck, where blood trickled from an open gash.
"Behind you!" The Masked shouted, throwing one of his own daggers. The figure looming up just behind the wounded guide ducked down and to one side as fast as any darting night bird, and the hurled dagger missed him.
The Masked ran after the assassin. They were all running now, converging …
"Surround him!" Tantaerra cried. "Don't let him get away!"
"He's a …man in a mask," Nesker panted, lumbering along and quickly falling behind. "Just as Voyvik …warned …"
"He is Voyvik," The Masked told him sternly-just as a crash in the distance marked their quarry's heavy fall.
Voyvik came up out of another reeking, sucking bog to whirl and face them, breathing hard, his mask gone and blood on his forehead. He'd obviously stumbled in the muck and slammed into a fallen tree he'd been about to leap over-and, as the four survivors closed in warily around him, he just as obviously had no intention of surrendering. Daggers glinted in both of his hands as he looked swiftly from target to target.
"Out of poisoned daggers yet?" The Masked snapped. "Just how many Nirmathi are going to die for your dream for Nirmathas, Voyvik?"
The only reply he got was a snarl-and a dagger flashing at his face.
The Masked flung himself down and then up again instantly to sprint at Voyvik, bellowing, "Shall I use the mask on you?"
The cornered man flung a frightened look at him, then turned and threw his second dagger into Nesker's face, following right behind and slamming into the other man.
Nesker fell heavily under that trampling, rolled over, and went still. Voyvik ran on into the forest.
The last guide, Farstrel, gave chase for a few panting strides, then gave up and returned to where The Masked and Tantaerra were turning Nesker over.
"You scared Voyvik right proper," she muttered. "Just what can the mask do to him?"
Her masked companion merely shrugged.
The big Nirmathi was already dead, unseeing eyes staring. There was foam around his mouth, and his face had gone all bone-white and purple.
"Poisoned," The Masked told Farstrel grimly. "You'll find Raldon was, too. We should find those daggers and lose them in one of the bogs, before we move on. Voyvik doesn't want anyone but us to reach Hurlandrun, or alive to spread word of our journey to it."
Tantaerra met her masked companion's gaze, and knew he was thinking precisely what she was. That they'd not seen the last of Orivin Voyvik.
He'd be waiting for them in or near the Shattered Tomb. With more poisoned knives, no doubt.
They took the time to find the poisoned daggers and drop them in the bog that The Masked had blundered into. Then they took food, weapons, and belt-lanterns from the sprawled and already fly-surrounded heaps of Raldon and Nesker, and turned away.
"We leave the dead unburied here," Farstrel said bleakly. "It keeps the wolves from coming for the rest of us."
He led them north rather than west.