"But-urrreeeagh!"
"Willum? Willum? Hah! So, a dweomercat found you, did it? Idiot! Didn't believe me, hey? Well-"
Then the fast-running Inkwater carried Tantaerra and her masked companion out of earshot, past gurglings coming from half-submerged fallen trees standing like stones against the strong flow. No crossbow bolts had come, but Tantaerra couldn't help but be swept against The Masked's shoulder. He was fighting hard to get across the river before it took them a long way downstream-or its numbing cold robbed them of their strength, and they became helpless, exhausted floating things.
Abruptly, there were dark things ahead of them, looming up out of the water, and a rotting reek, and shade.
Dead trees beyond counting, toppled into the river. Swept against them, The Masked caught hold of one and clawed Tantaerra out of the water and up onto it.
"H-hang on!" he snapped at her, through chattering teeth. Tantaerra tried.
They were in a little swamp on the Molthuni side of the river. Stinking muck was everywhere, foul green floating weeds and dead trees thrusting up out of the water like the dark fingers of drowned giants.
"Faugh!" Tantaerra spat, shivering.
"Don't complain," The Masked snarled up at her. "Means the water's slower ahead of us. See any trees we can crawl along, and get ashore? I'm about done…this cold …"
"T-there," Tantaerra gasped, pointing, and her partner snatched her off her slippery black-barked perch and back into the icy water without a word, struggling on through the water like a weary bull. When they got to the tree she'd chosen, it took The Masked three tries to get her up onto it. He clung to it like a man carrying a rolled carpet, clawing his way hand over hand along it.
Tantaerra got to the firm soil first, somewhere under the tangled long grass and shorethorns, but they collapsed more or less in unison, and sank down into darkness.
Sodden, shivering darkness.
∗ ∗ ∗
The pain awakened Tantaerra. She was stiff and weak and sore, the stump of her missing hand throbbing with a slow but insistent ache. The stink of the swamp was strong, and the Inkwater was still rushing endlessly past, but somehow, during the night, its sound had changed. The swamp reek was subtly different, too. More musky.
Why? How?
She opened her eyes, risked lifting her head to look around-and froze.
Golden eyes were staring solemnly back into hers. During the night, dweomercats must have swum the river and stolen up to them in velvet silence. Now the beasts were all around, crowded so thickly around the trees that branches had sagged down under the water beneath their massed weight. What had been thick green swamp water last night was now hidden under a shaggy sea of dweomercat backs.
"Tarram," she hissed, poking her partner, "wake up."
The Masked gave another of his growling groans, but didn't move or do anything more, so she poked him again.
"What?" he snapped crossly.
"Look around you," she told him softly. "No sudden moves, just look."
He gave her a less than pleased glare, then did as he'd been told.
"Dung," he remarked softly. "Any sign of-?"
"Not yet," Tantaerra told him darkly. "We'd better be moving on."
"Yes," The Masked agreed wearily. "Let me get up. I need to stretch."
"Rouse the battered body and tackle another day?" Tantaerra asked mockingly.
The reply she got was a growl that would have done credit to a wolf.
Tarram Armistrade grunted a few times, winced, then rubbed at his left shoulder and said thoughtfully, "You know, we could sprint across the backs of these dweomercats and run right out of this swamp."
"West, into Molthune. Open, rolling grasslands, as I recall," Tantaerra replied. "Run parallel to each other, so we can avoid being cat-swarmed by throwing the gauntlet back and forth, again?"
Her partner nodded. "So, let's decide on a route." He peered at the dweomercats to the west of them, where the land rose into drier Molthune. The dweomercats stared right back.
"Tarram," Tantaerra said warningly, bringing his head around to see what she was watching.
Behind them, to the east, more dweomercats were slowly swimming the Inkwater, heading for the swamp.
The dweomercats were swimming so slowly because they were keeping in a tight ring around a larger, darker bulk. One with tentacles.
Their pursuer now trailed dark blood, a stain on the water around it. Half a dozen spears and arrows were protruding from it, but it clutched the Whispering Sword on high.
"Dung," Tantaerra agreed wearily.
∗ ∗ ∗
There'd been no sign of riders from Braganza or anywhere else, but they were trudging through grass so tall now that they'd certainly feel and hear hooves before they saw anyone, mounted or afoot. They'd been trudging most of the day.
The sun was getting low in the sky, and Tantaerra was hungry and thirsty, the Fearsome Gauntlet heavy in her bodice. Not that there was anything much to eat except grass. She'd tried chewing some, as she and The Masked continued staggering deeper into Molthune.
They'd headed for any tallish or tangled trees they caught sight of, in hopes of finding places they could climb up to, to rest without being crushed or suffocated by crowding dweomercats, but time after time they found no suitable perches. The trees were too spindly, or rooted in loose ground so a swarm of dweomercats would probably topple them. Nowhere was there cover enough to hide them from passing Molthuni.
So they kept trudging onward.
They'd not seen the tentacled monster since they'd fled the swamp. It was probably moving so slowly that they'd left it far behind.
There was a slim chance that the cold river waters had finished it or swept it far downstream before it could reach the Molthuni side of the Inkwater, but she and Tarram doubted it was dead. If Mahalagris had chased them this far, he wouldn't abandon the pursuit of them so long as his host lived and could still move, however feebly.
Neither she nor Tarram were in any shape to take on any foe. Unless Holy Desna saw fit to send them some mighty priests of healing, and maybe a movable fortress to shelter in at night, it was unlikely-given all the Molthuni military marching or riding about in these grasslands-they'd make it to Braganza alive.
"If we had horses …" The Masked muttered.
"We don't," Tantaerra reminded him sharply. "Nor do we have an army dedicated to defending us. If you're going to dream, dream big, man. Or can that gauntlet make us fly?"
"It can, I think, but not to Braganza or anywhere far. Just a little hop-over a wall or up to a window, or down from one without dashing your bones to splinters. But for the wearer only."
"Which means, sooner or later," Tantaerra said glumly, "we're going to meet up with Molthuni on patrol, and there'll be a fight we can't hope to win, even blasting away with the gauntlet."
"Yes."
A few trudging steps later, he added, "Tantaerra Loroeva Klazra, I …I have enjoyed your company on this escapade. You're better than a halfling princess."
"You're not so bad yourself, masked man. For a human."
Armistrade looked down at her. After so long traveling together, she almost felt that she could read the expressions behind that mask. If so, he was smiling now. "I make few friends, and manage to keep fewer," he said. "I'm glad to call you friend."
"Likewise," Tantaerra told him.
Then she lifted the stump where her hand had been, and said grimly, "And before I die, I'll get back at Krzonstal Telcanor. Somehow."
"Somehow," The Masked agreed-and then stopped walking, held up his hand for silence, and cocked his head.