Yet a friendlier deity-the Song of the Spheres, unseen on her butterfly wings-had certainly been by their side this day.
They'd heard a Molthuni patrol coming and managed to get into the trees in time to hide. The Molthuni had thought the noise they'd made had come from the dweomercats that the soldiers promptly slew. Later, they'd fallen afoul of Nirmathi archers who seemingly couldn't hit a wagon up close, and had wasted half a dozen shafts on tree trunks not all that close to either Tantaerra or her partner, never daring to rush out into open confrontation.
So they'd simply walked away, she and Tarram, and here they were, still plodding along-staggering with exhaustion would be a fairer calling of it-at twilight, within hearing of the Inkwater at last.
Which meant there must be Nirmathi all around them. So when would the next attack come?
For the last long while, as the sun sank lower and lower, they'd been working their way along game trails. This latest one had led them to this reek. So now they were both down on their bellies crawling, and peering cautiously ahead into the gathering darkness.
Into a stinking hollow full of ripe, rotting battle corpses. It lay across their path, close enough to the river that they could clearly hear the waters flowing endlessly past, somewhere in the lowering darkness beyond the thick trees on the far side of the hollow.
A perfect spot for an ambush.
Tarram looked at The Masked. He was lying on his face, forehead pressed to the ground, eyes closed. He'd taken off the mask long ago to hide it and its glow under his clothing, and she could barely tell if he was still alive through the ragged cloth undermask he was wearing now.
"Tarram?" she murmured, edging closer to him.
Her partner rolled slowly over onto his side, letting out a faint groan. "Worn out," he muttered. "Just let me rest."
Well, thanks a lot, Holy Desna. And me with but one hand.
Tantaerra was struggling to roll her partner the rest of the way onto his back when a Molthuni voice out of the nearby gloom froze her in mid-heave.
"That you, Farthras?"
"Aye," another voice replied, from a little farther off in the other direction, along the hollow. That reply was followed by the thud of heavy boots trudging nearer. Hastily Tantaerra sank down atop The Masked and played at being a corpse.
Farthras strode right past her in his eagerness to share the latest news. "New orders! The cursed Nirmathi got most of Uldran's men back at Arthjet, so we're to join the camps at Downtree. They're mustering a really big army at last, to teach the Nirmathi a lesson! We march at first light, and they're saying the moment we reach the camps, they'll march on with us. Our feet are going to be sore tomorrow!"
"My feet are sore now," the other Molthuni growled. "Trust Uldran to be the sort of fool to fall afoul of a few half-naked Nirmathi running barefoot from behind one tree to the next. I suppose he thought they'd obligingly step out into some open field and form lines to face him! Stonehead!"
Farthras chuckled. "Your judgment of Uldran draws no argument from me, but there's more! They're saying the gods are taking a hand in this endless war, now!"
"Uh-huh. Who's the 'they' this time? Someone's always prattling about the gods doing this and that!"
"This is different. Ever heard of dweomercats?"
"No …hoy, now, wait. Blue magical cats, in some of the old tales, yes? Never seen one, though. What about them?"
"They're streaming this way out of the heart of Nirmathas, that's what. Sent or driven by the gods, everyone's saying-not just us, but the Nirmathi, too."
"Oh? And how can we be so sure of that?"
"We took some captives today, and didn't leave them in much state to think up clever lies. They think it's the gods, too."
"Has anyone checked to see if there aren't Nirmathi warriors clinging to some dweomercat bellies, or if there's a wizard somewhere behind all this? I grant that spellcasters are blamed more than seen-but even a wizard is a sight more likely to be mixed up in a run of beasts than a god!"
"That I don't know." There was a crackling of crushed twigs as Farthras joined his unseen fellow Molthuni, and his voice sank to a more conspiratorial mutter. "But word is, we're mustering to take care of the Nirmathi, but are under strict orders to leave the dweomercats alone. Just in case."
"Fine. The fewer beasts I'm supposed to fight, the longer I'll stay alive. So if we're marching at first light, I'm for bed right now. Gods-cursed stupid war."
Tantaerra listened intently as the two Molthuni moved off. When she was sure they were gone, she shook The Masked, hard.
His groan this time was more of an irritated grunt than a sound of pain, so she hissed at him, "Come on. We need to get just a little way on, before morning. Across the river."
"Across the river to where?" he growled. "The midst of some army camp full of soldiers eager to stick spears into us?"
"We'll find a place that isn't an army camp-even if we have to drift downriver all night."
"Upriver would be a better bet."
"If I could drift upriver, I would," Tantaerra told him patiently, "but rivers don't work that way."
"I'm worn down, right down to my bones," The Masked said wearily. "Can't you scout the far bank before we get cold and wet and swept downstream? I-"
Tantaerra thrust the stump of her handless arm into his face. "Tarram Armistrade, you still have two hands! I don't give that tentacle-beast's hind haunch if you're tired, you'll get up right now, like the curse-ridden, pigheaded man you are, and swim the river with me!"
Cringing away from her fury, The Masked muttered, "Sorry." Then he staggered to his feet and started across the hollow, stumbling amid the rotting battle-dead.
As they picked their way up out of the hollow into the last band of trees, and the gurgling of the rushing Inkwater grew louder, there was a crashing and crackling behind them, no doubt loud enough to bring Nirmathi with ready weapons.
Looking back, Tantaerra saw fearless golden eyes. The foremost dweomercats were padding out of the trees. Stalking them.
∗ ∗ ∗
The Inkwater was icy cold, of course. Tantaerra couldn't suppress a gasp, but needn't have bothered worrying about the noise she made. The Masked, beside her, sounded like a startled horse.
At least he hadn't gone in with a mighty splash. No, they'd both slipped rather gingerly into the water, and hopefully-
Hope died abruptly, as a rather rough male voice from very close by muttered, "Someone …no, two people. Two people in the river. Permission to feather them, sir?"
The Masked gave her an urgent look and pushed off from the bank, more sideways than out into the river, across her path. He was eyeball-deep in the water, and glaring at her. Tantaerra swam to the right to keep out of his way, and abandoned all worry about splashings. They had to get out and away from the bank, fast, or-
"No. You heard the orders as well as I did. We leave the dweomercats alone."
"But sir, these aren't dweomercats, they're-"
"The one that just almost stepped on me has fangs like a row of short swords, is larger than my horse, and smells like it's spent its life rolling in mud and rotting dead things and never bathing. You can argue what they are with me all you like, but do not use your bow!"
"But-"
"If someone's leading this herd of beasts-see? Half a dozen now, and still more on the way-they're probably some priest or other, and I'm not risking the anger of the gods by killing holy men. So neither are you, Willum!"
"But-"
"Even if they are Nirmathi, and a-bristle with bright blades from haunch to chittlins, just two of them aren't going to do much against the army we have camped within horn-hail, lad! There're sentries posted that side of the river too, y'know!"