But within that circle of fires stood only a rickety cabin on stilts, its near wall nursing a large hole near the back corner, its roof nearly ruinous, smoke rising through its many holes. Indeed, at first I assumed the cabin was on fire. Such was not the case; perhaps the chimney suffered from a damaged flue. Whoever lived there was most unfortunate, dwelling in misery beneath the constant layers of smoke.
About the house I saw a herd of goats—at most a dozen, including the kids—trotting about within that circle of fire and wood, as though somehow the fire contained them, kept them from wandering off. It looked as though the goats were right at home in those ramshackle surroundings. They were a long-haired breed, the kind you would expect in the highlands or the mountains, but here in the marshes their long hair was streaked and clotted with mud, with vines and lichen dripping from their beards and horns. They were almost frightening to look at.
There was fire nearby, and a promised warmth. The pack mare snorted with yearning. My boots were soaked through, my trousers muddy and wet well above the knees, and despite the cold discomfort I felt, the insects still seemed to relish me.
I stepped out from the undergrowth behind which I had been hiding, and moved down into the small bowl of the swamp toward the cabin, the fires, the goats, the whole show of lights, leading the mare behind me. When I approached, the goats were as goatlike as I expected, watching me with those drowsy, stupid eyes and slowly chewing whatever nameless greenery they had grazed in the clearing. The smell was pretty much as I had figured, too, so I approached more rapidly, eager to get the strong woodsmoke between me and the only apparent residents. The pack mare snorted once and pulled back strongly against the reins, but I made a soothing sound with my tongue and led her on.
Once we stepped within the circle of fires I realized my mistake.
Suddenly the flames began to move and waver like phosfire. I turned, intent on beating a quick exit, but it was too late.
Now the kindling stood on end, began to grow and expand at a speed that was grotesque even for this swamp. Within seconds I was surrounded by a high palisade fence—a fence containing no opening, no exit I could see. Now the goats were changing, too, their long hair growing back into their bodies as quickly as the palisades had grown from the ground. They rose to their hind legs, adopting human form—or at least a form approaching human. The changed creatures—no longer goats, but satyrs—eyed me sleepily, stupidly, as if they were waking up. They walked to the fires, drew burning branches from the midst, and held them aloft like torches. Slowly and menacingly, they encircled me.
My first idea was to drop the reins, leave the mare to her own devices, and scramble into that small, smoky cabin in the center of the clearing. There, above the pack of satyrs and the confusion, I would have time to think, to invent, to patch together an escape.
But I was losing the chance to act. For while the fences and goats had risen, the cabin had changed, too, rising and reassembling in that sickly green light until it was no longer a cabin at all, but an enormous and hideous throne, standing on stilts in the midst of a fortified stronghold.
Seated upon that throne was the Scorpion.
I must admit that the whole arrangement was pretty impressive. The throne was skeletaclass="underline" thin and intricate and a nasty off-white color from base to crown. Over its surface, black on a background of bone and ivory, hundreds of scorpions danced, rose, or lifted their poisonous tails.
He sat on the throne, lean and menacing. Beneath that heavy black hood, he might have been anyone. But there was, I am certain, only one with that voice.
The same voice I remembered from the moat house—musical and honeyed and laced with ice and metal and poison. The voice of the raven.
For as soon as I recovered my balance and brought my frantically rearing pack animal under control, as soon as I had taken in the entire scene—the throne, the vermin, the man cloaked and hooded in black—then came the voice from the man, confirming my fears.
“Little Galen, your worst nightmare has returned upon you. Oh, yes, you have dreamed this and wakened with a start, or in sweat and with your small heart racing, for in your sleep you behold me and are afraid past all assurance and comfort.”
Actually, he had never been a part of my worst nightmare, which involved a huge faceless ogre wielding a huge and impossibly sharp axe. But he was nightmarish enough, and I was certainly not inclined to argue with him. I gaped and nodded my agreement. My knees began to give.
“I believe, little friend, that a part of your debt has come due?”
“It surely has, Your Grace, and I had every intention of paying it to you. Paying it to you with interest, for you were exceedingly kind to let me out of that prison of a library on such short acquaintance and in such highly unusual circumstances . . .”
He leaned from the throne, stared down on me like a predatory bird stares down upon the rodent of the day.
“But it’s more complicated than that. Of course, as Your Grace is probably well aware, I haven’t been allowed the chance to collect my thoughts, much less any good information regarding Bayard, over the last fortnight, being imprisoned and pressed into service and all.”
The Scorpion sat back and steepled his long white fingers. The circle of satyrs around me narrowed, and with it my options. I began to bargain.
“I have, of course, access to the kind of thing you were bargaining for in the first place,” I began, motioning to the back of the pack mare, where Bayard’s armor lay bundled. “A fine suit of Solamnic armor, scarcely used of late, which if your followers don’t mind a little clean-up detail—scraping off the mud and all . . .”
“Enough.” My host rested his hands quickly, lightly on the arms of the throne, scattering the scorpions.
“And what do you think I want with armor, boy? Do I look like a dealer in breastplates, satisfied by merchandise alone?”
“No, sir. Your Grace looks like my worst nightmare.”
“In that am I satisfied. And I take it that Bayard Brightblade remains somewhere in this swamp?”
“Yes, sir.” Questioning was clearing my head. “That is, as far as I can tell.
“In fact, I’m sure he is somewhere in this swamp, but I am so misplaced, so spun around and squandered by circumstance, that I won’t be able to tell you where east is until morning, much less point out for you where the Knight in question has mired himself.”
I didn’t feel so bad about betraying Bayard. After all, it wasn’t my choice to be here. I couldn’t call Bayard a friend—not really—and was I really his squire, when he had forced me into service? More like his prisoner, and the duty of a prisoner is to escape, isn’t it?
I stopped stroking myself with logic when the man on the throne continued firing questions at me.
“Do you know what a will-o-the-wisp is, boy?” he asked.
“No, sir, but I expect that I soon shall.”
“The floating light in the swamp—marsh gas, fox fire, call it what you will—that is always a step or two ahead of the traveler who follows it. Like the fire that brought you here.”
I nodded in stupid agreement, doing my best to contain the wildly trembling mare I had in tow.
“It is a light that the traveler follows at his peril, for it leads him farther and farther toward the heart of the swamp—wherein perdition lies.”
He chuckled, and the scorpions stirred beneath his hands.
“You, little weasel, are my will-o-the-wisp. For it is your job now to bring your companions here to me, to mire them in the center of this fen and keep them here through long and costly delays. A simple task, but one so worthy of my gratitude.”
“I’d love to help, sir,” I began tentatively, “but for the life of me, I’ve no idea where Sir Bayard is.”
“Don’t play the innocent with me, boy!” he spat, the scorpions rushing away from him, startled by the noise, the anger charging the air. It felt like that time in a storm before lightning begins. I stepped back and watched one of the satyrs—a small one, virtually beardless—turn and leap into the palisade wall, vanishing into the wood. A larger one followed him, and then another.