In an instant, it was buried under an ecstatic mountain of dweomercat bodies.
"Run!" The Masked bellowed, as the sun started to set. "Run for yon hill!"
"Way ahead of you!" Tantaerra called back, daring-for the very first time-to hope that they'd make it out of these ruins alive.
Chapter Seventeen
Tarram Armistrade was out of breath, but this was no time to pause or even slow. There was the hill, ahead, though his lungs were searing and his aching legs starting to stumble-and right behind him, some of them nipping at his heels and shins, were dweomercats beyond counting, a gods-be-damned herd of them, and-
He risked a look over at Tantaerra, to make sure she was still ahead of him. At that moment something blue and supple sprang into view between them.
It was a dweomercat, but this one was as big as an ox, not counting its tail, with jaws on it that-
It roared and sprang over the herd of smaller dweomercats, charging right at him.
Tarram flung himself sideways, but one huge paw, sharp claws extended, raked at his shoulder, slicing his clothing like a row of daggers and sending him staggering.
He spun around, heedless of the squalling dweomercats he was trampling-and they were springing at him again now, seemingly emboldened by the presence of their gigantic kin.
The pack leader-for surely this beast must be their king-came at him again just as swiftly, snarling horribly.
Protect the face. Protect the throat. Protect-
He brought the hand that wore the Fearsome Gauntlet up in front of his face. He knew all about its-whenever he gave any thought to it, it tried to tell him all about them. He knew full well he needn't do anything overt to it, nor move his hand or arm, to awaken its lesser powers. One of which was the invisible battering ram power he'd used before, a smashing punch of air. Yet if the smaller cats were any indication, targeting them with the gauntlet's magic only made them teleport closer, somehow riding the magic back to its source. And the last thing he wanted was this thing getting closer.
Or did he?
It might work. He'd have to get himself in just the right place to-
The cat pounced.
He'd been hit by a rushing wagon, once, and this was worse. It was like the blow of the proverbial giant's fist. All the wind was smashed out of him, and Tarram was flung through the air with musky cat blotting out the sky above him. He had his gauntleted hand wedged firmly in the creature's mouth, wedging the long fangs apart, only magical steel keeping his hand from being crushed or severed as the creature bit down with the strength of a blacksmith's hammer.
Clinging for all he was worth, bracing for the crash that might well break bones when he landed with this great stinking thing on top of him, Tarram called on the gauntlet to deliver one of its force-punches-right down the creature's throat.
He felt the blow, and so did the cat. Right in its lungs or stomach or whatever was first in line down its gullet.
And then they landed, thankfully on squirming, shrieking smaller dweomercats. They broke apart-literally, Tarram still clutching a chunk of shattered fang-to the tune of a howl of dweomercat pain and Tantaerra's shriek of, "Tarram?!"
She sounded close. The giant dweomercat was closer.
Gods, she'd be one gulp for it; he had to keep this thing's attention on him, and-
Well, that wasn't going to be hard. Wild-eyed and roaring in pain, the giant dweomercat was charging again, its paws churning up dirt, smaller dweomercats, and moss-cloaked stones alike in its frantic haste to get at him.
Tarram sent another gauntlet-punch down its maw, pulling the beast toward him even as it shuddered and faltered. It recoiled, then came at him again, shaking its head like a man gulping down something bitter. Blood spewed from its jaws with every shake.
He planted himself to be ready to dodge, not wanting to taste another teeth-numbing slam into the ground, but this time the huge feline came in low, trying to duck under his dagger and his gauntlet and hamstring him, going for the back of his knee.
Which made things almost too easy.
He staggered it with another force punch-its internal organs must be more than ruptured, by now-then flung his legs aside as it appeared next to him, falling on its head as he drove his dagger hilt-deep into one eye. He hung on grimly through the screaming chaos that followed.
By the time his dagger stopped being a handle and he was flung free, the dying dweomercat had clawed and flung itself-and him, along with it-in rolling agony across dozens of smaller dweomercats.
Tarram watched the beast tumble off the hillside they'd been flattening, and crash down across the broken-off base of a stone pillar, flopping bonelessly. Smaller dweomercats were fleeing in all directions, keening in fear, and he was drenched in the gore of the giant one.
Yet he still had his dagger, he still wore the gauntlet, and he seemed to be whole, more or less. Nothing broken, at least …
He drew in a deep breath. He was on his hands and knees, blinking blearily on a steep wooded hillside in Nirmathas, with the musk of countless dweomercats strong around him. As a bright blue glow spilled up out of his clothes, to light his chin from below.
He peered all around, quickly. Many baleful golden eyes looked back. And again their owners started prowling toward him.
Tarram Armistrade scrambled to his feet, still panting.
"And so the masked man prevails, but magic hands him fresh troubles," he gasped aloud. "As it always does."
As he ran, the mask he'd put down his front slid lower and lower down under his clothes, becoming increasingly uncomfortable, until sharp edges jabbed at him with every stride.
Enough.
Tarram dug it out and put it on, trying to ignore the bright blue glow. The Fearsome Gauntlet seemed to be…awakening it.
"Well," he gasped, "all we have to do now is fight our way through Nirmathas and into Molthune, get to Braganza without enthusiastic Molthuni patrols mistaking us for invading Nirmathi rebels, and somehow acquire allies and might enough to get out of Lord Telcanor's clutches alive. That'll require an army. Now, just where might I find one?" He looked at the dweomercats around him, and the moving trail of them that led back to a surging mound that must be the tentacled monster, and sarcastically added, "Oh wait-never mind."
"All right, I won't," Tantaerra put in sourly, from beside him, startling him with how close she now was. "I'm beginning to think you're crazed."
"I am crazed," he told her ruefully. "And damned. And plagued by a smart-tongued halfling princess."
"For the undoubtedly-NOT-last time, I am NOT a prin-oh, never mind!"
∗ ∗ ∗
It was too dark to travel safely, but halting would probably mean their deaths, too. If there hadn't been countless dweomercats, and that tentacled thing had been a mindless monster, and if it hadn't been wielding the Whispering Blade …but there were, and it wasn't, and it was.
It was still patiently trailing them, struggling along through an ever-present swarm of dweomercats that it was killing steadily as it came, yet not seeming to make a dent in their numbers.
By the snarls and occasional thrashings, other forest prowlers were trying to kill and devour the cats, too-and once, Nirmathi arrows had come out of the night to feather many of the cats, then stopped as abruptly as they'd started.
The moon was rising. Tantaerra risked getting a branch in the eye to look at it, then ducked her head again, still trudging along.