Molthuni everywhere started to curse, draw swords or daggers, or thrust at the rushing, snarling cats with spears.
Tarram spun around, already knowing what he'd see.
At the edge of the camp, buried in eagerly leaping, clawing dweomercats, was a lurching, lumbering mound topped by tentacles. As it advanced, those tentacles were rather wearily plucking cats from its body and hurling them away through the forest, to thud against trees, or dashing them to the ground. Wherever they clung most thickly, two tentacles swung a wicked blade-a curved sword that whispered ceaseless promises and taunts-in carefully aimed slices that swept squalling, slashed-open dweomercats to the ground.
More dweomercats were rushing at Tarram, leaping eagerly to try to touch or cling to his mask, which was starting to glow brightly again.
Hardreth and Elthen were both snarling curses and slashing the rushing beasts as quickly as they could, their attention increasingly on the approaching tentacled monster.
"What is that thing?" Hardreth snapped. "Never seen anything like it!"
By way of answer, Tantaerra caught Tarram's eye and dodged behind the scout's knees. Tarram managed not to smile as he thrust a knife into a dweomercat in midair and swung hard, accidentally putting his elbow into Hardreth's chest and shoulder.
The scout went over backward with a startled yell, Tantaerra slipping out from behind him like a racing wind. She was in time to duck between Elthen's legs as the Molthuni commander turned to see what had happened to Hardreth, and she did that trailing a dying dweomercat by the tail.
Elthen stepped on the moving beast, stumbled, and crashed down atop half a dozen very alive dweomercats, who spat, clawed, and bit at him.
By which time Tarram and Tantaerra had left him far behind, sprinting across the camp in the direction of distant Molthune. The clearing around them was now a battling chaos of shouting, hacking men and racing, snapping dweomercats, but a clear trail led out of it in the direction the two partners wanted to go.
Out through a thin stand of trees into open, lower ground, it seemed. Which meant less cover, but…tentacled monster or no pursuing tentacled monster, it was the way they had to go.
Tarram risked a look back, at the frantic fray. The tentacled thing was gaining on them.
He put his head down and really ran-only to dodge behind a tent as more armored Molthuni soldiers, swords in hand, came running up the trail into the clearing to meet them, drawn by the rising din. Tantaerra scampered after him.
Luraumadar, Luraumadar, Luraumadar, the mask chanted insistently.
The soldiers racing into the camp swore in astonishment as they saw what was shedding dweomercats and rising up like a wall of tentacles to meet them.
Leaving so soon? the Whispering Blade hissed in Tarram's mind. Why, the bloodletting's just begun!
Tentacles lashed out.
∗ ∗ ∗
It was Tantaerra's turn to wear the gauntlet. She was still settling it on her hand as she and The Masked crested another hill on the rutted wagon-road and-
Found themselves facing a ready line of three Molthuni, with spears.
"Stop right there!" one barked.
"Lord Investigator of Molthune, coming through!" Tantaerra announced, running full-tilt at him.
At the last moment before slamming into them, as two of the soldiers crouched together to block her and the third swept his spear up to gut The Masked, she tossed the Fearsome Gauntlet behind her, high into the air.
In the distance, the half-mental, half-audible murmurings of the Whispering Blade rose into an excited shout as the sight at the hurtling glove.
Tantaerra crashed hard into an ankle, but took the butt-end of a spear in the ribs and lost all her wind and her footing in the same painful instant.
Smashed off her feet and falling helplessly aside, she saw her partner calmly catch the Fearsome Gauntlet, slide it on, and do something that smashed the Molthuni backward as if an invisible giant's fist had crashed into them.
The grunts and shouts and wet thuddings behind them were getting closer.
The Masked rushed over to Tantaerra, swept her up, and rushed on through the rows of tents, using the gauntlet twice to punch aside any Molthuni who barred their way.
"Put me down!" Tantaerra gasped, when she had her breath back. Gods, her ribs hurt!
Her partner obliged, and she risked another look back. Many Molthuni were pursuing them now, and others were fleeing the tentacled monster. It no longer had all that many soldiers of Molthune daring to fight it, and the dweomercats were noticeably fewer, too. So just how far were they from Molthune?
Not that a little thing like a river would stop that tentacled thing …
She and Tarram ran on, past the last few tents and up the far slope of the valley, into the inevitable trees beyond. A cart track climbed the slope beside them, and there'd be a Molthuni watch post somewhere here, ahead, and-
She was on the verge of gasping a reminder to The Masked about that when they came out onto the track, as it curved across in front of them-and reached the first soldiers' bodies, sprawled in huddled heaps in the road.
"Tarram," she panted, "we might be running right into Nirmathi arrows!"
As if her words had been a cue, shafts started to zip and hurumm out of the trees right in front of her, hissing past to thud into their Molthuni pursuers.
She swerved uncertainly. Just one arrow could end her life nastily, and-
"Keep running!" a voice called from the trees. "Have they any other captives in camp?"
"No," The Masked bellowed back, "but they've used fell magic and unleashed a tentacled monster! Fill it full of arrows!"
No one shouted a reply, but more arrows flew.
The cart track curved on into the forest before them, and Tantaerra and The Masked sprinted along it.
They ran and ran until strength and wind both deserted them, then staggered to a stumbling halt to lean on trees, gasp for breath, and continue at a slow, panting walk.
"We dare not stop moving," Tantaerra gasped, "or that thing will catch us."
Her partner nodded grimly. "We have to assume it will slay everyone who dares to challenge it, and keep after us." He peered up at what little sky they could see through the leaves overhead. "It'll be dark sooner than we'll want."
Tantaerra nodded, and looked back along the track. Almost mockingly, several dweomercats padded into view, following them with golden eyes gleaming. "So, do we stay on this road and make haste, knowing we could run into Nirmathi or Molthuni-or just their arrows-at any time? Or head into the trees and risk getting lost, making more noise, and going slower?"
"Mahalagris doesn't care how much noise we make or how slowly we're going," The Masked reminded her.
"Now that's a bright thought, O font of good cheer," Tantaerra told him, as they pressed on. "How damned far is this river, anyway?"
Chapter Eighteen
Tantaerra wrinkled her nose. The sweet stink of death hung strong in the air, stronger ahead of them. Decaying humans, most likely.
A strong-phew, very strong-reminder that sooner or later, Desna would stop smiling on them.
Life had taught her that much, if not all that much of something else: good sense.
Otherwise she'd be far from here, getting her hide away from Molthune and Nirmathas both, into somewhere safe and quiet. Cheerful Nidal, perhaps. Or Razmiran, where the Living God ate babes for breakfast.