by Chad Corrie
Cadrissa screamed.
Still in fright’s grip, she only barely registered Dugan rapidly wading her way, the others fast on his heels. Only Vinder and Gilban remained behind.
“What is it?” asked Dugan.
She said nothing, only pointed at the hand attached to a floating corpse, which was joined by two more bodies that had bobbed to the surface.
Dugan stepped closer for an examination.
“They’re elves!” Rowan declared in disbelief.
“Elves?” Vinder was equally surprised and dismounted before carefully sloshing through the thigh-high water.
“They died in fear.” Dugan prodded the bodies with his sword. “Look at their faces.”
Cadrissa gave in to the suggestion and then quickly wished she hadn’t. The flesh that remained was discolored and full of rot, worms, and insects—all of which had taken their grisly toll. She quickly sought something more pleasant lest she lose the meager meal she’d taken that morning.
“They look like soldiers,” said Rowan.
“They are,” Dugan added. “I’ve seen enough to know.”
“Elven soldiers?” Cadrissa intently considered the others, avoiding the corpses between them. “If they’ve made it this far then they’ve probably beaten us to the ruins.”
“No.” Gilban’s voice arose from behind them. “Not yet.”
Alara neared the bodies, falchion in hand. “But if they’re ahead of us we have some catching up to do.”
“Not if this is what’s left of most of their force.” She yielded to her curiosity once more just in time to see Dugan move one of the corpses with the tip of his gladius. The whole bottom portion of the elf had been ripped away like parchment. Jagged edges of flesh and broken bone were covered in slime and maggots busying themselves inside the torn flesh. She snapped away from the sight before her stomach could fully turn over.
“Are those bite marks?” Rowan leaned in for a closer look.
“Looks like it, and big ones too.” Vinder stroked some more half-dried mud from his beard as he joined them.
“My reading did speak of drakes that lived here,” Cadrissa meekly offered.
“Drakes . . .” the dwarf pondered. “They’re almost as bad as dragons.” While Cadrissa had never seen an actual drake in person, nor a dragon for that matter, she didn’t really think there was any comparison between the two. Drakes and dragons were both large and reptilian, yes, and might have shared some aspects in their build, but drakes were more bestial in a way—more a common animal. Dragons, however, were quite another thing altogether, with stories having some of them even capable of not only understanding speech but able to speak themselves.
“Do you think it is from a lizard?” Alara sloshed closer to Dugan.
“If it was, then he carried a club.” Cadrissa peeked just enough to see Dugan point with his sword at a partially decayed skull on one of the bodies. Its bone structure looked normal enough except for a large indentation in the back where it had shattered inward at the force of some impact.
“I’ll get Gilban.” Alara started his way, but her arm was caught in Dugan’s strong grip.
“A blind man can’t help us here.”
“He can help us by divining their fate.” She pulled free from his grip.
“So they were beaten and bitten to death?” Cadrissa glanced nervously about, being sure her eyes never again fell on the bodies. Now open to the air, their rising stench added a whole new dimension to the marsh’s putridity.
“Sort of looks familiar.” Dugan’s attention remained focused on the corpses.
“Familiar how?” asked Vinder.
“There were these big ugly things we fought in the arena that looked like a cross between a lizard and a man. Everyone just called them lizardmen.”
“That’s original,” said the dwarf.
Rowan drew his sword. “How often do they attack?”
“Don’t know. Whenever they’re hungry, I guess. In the arena they often ate whatever—or whoever—they killed. But these elves are only half eaten.”
“So what are you implying?” Cadrissa didn’t like the conclusions being drawn. “That they didn’t finish their meal and are letting these marinate or some such thing for later?”
“Maybe.”
“Either that, or they didn’t like the taste of elf.” Rowan swept the surrounding terrain with cautious eyes.
“You think they’re coming back?” Cadrissa started slowly making her way away from the bodies and the dark picture taking shape in her mind.
“Don’t know.” Dugan joined Rowan in his survey. “But they fight like men possessed.”
“Dugan’s correct in his assessment,” Gilban informed them as Alara guided him to the bodies. His eyes were closed and his face was a wrinkled mask of concentration as his voice dropped to a monotone rhythm. “They were here several weeks ago. Lizardmen hid in the mud, laying traps for their victims. They designed a sinkhole . . . It captured these elves . . . The elves were not aware of the attack . . . They were set upon by the beasts and torn asunder . . .
“Blessed Saredhel!” Gilban suddenly exclaimed. “They used these dead bodies as a lure! They’re here and waiting for us! We’ve stepped into a trap!”
Cadrissa cringed while the others readied their weapons and wills.
“I don’t see anything.” Rowan kept scanning the marsh.
“They’re out there,” Alara replied grimly. “I’d stake my life on it.”
“You just might do that!” Vinder idly smacked the butt of his axe in the palm of his hand.
“I should have just the spell—ouch!” Cadrissa felt a pinch on her neck, not unlike the mosquitoes that had been plaguing her throughout the trip. This time, however, there was a burning tingling to the bite.
She felt dizzy . . .
Chapter 22
Trials to a man are like fire to metal:
they reveal to him his true worth.
—Old Tralodroen proverb
Rowan watched Cadrissa drop into the mud, followed by Dugan and the others one by one, before feeling a pinch on his neck. He pulled out the object that had lodged just below the neckline of his leather armor. It was a dart. A simple, bone-tipped, down-fletched dart. His armor had kept it from poking him with the dark sap at its tip. This certainly was fortuitous—a blessing of Panthora for sure. He wasn’t about to be killed in a marsh by some creatures whose favored meal apparently was elven flesh. But he needed to see this enemy first to beat them, and that required a trap of his own.
He dropped the venomous dart into the mud, then joined it, feigning unconsciousness. After a few heartbeats, he heard the muddy wading of an approaching group of feet that seemed to stop every so often, possibly checking over each of their victims. Moments later, he heard the guttural sounds of speech, which he could only imagine were the lizardmen arguing over who got the choice kill. The splashes drew closer, and a large, scaly foot—webbed between long, sharp toes—stepped in front of his partially submerged face.
Rowan closed his eyes enough to appear asleep and yet still be able to see. In this small field of vision, he saw strong, reptilian legs and tails covered in the same thick scales as their three-toed feet. It was as if common lizards not only had become the size of men but were able to stand upright like them as well.
The horses began panicking, whinnying nervously, but the mud held them fast, making escape impossible. Distracted by the commotion of the frightened mounts, the lizardmen used their heavy clubs to shatter the horses’ skulls. He had to keep himself in check as his Nordic blood flared at the slaughter of such fine beasts. Thankfully, his training helped hold him in place.
He took advantage of the disturbance to get a better sense of his attackers. Their torsos were those of well-muscled men, but covered in dark green scales, with heads similar to what Rowan thought to be alligators—though he only had the rough drawings in old books he’d seen in his training as reference—and possessing a clawed hand wit
h three fingers and a thumb. They even had the musky odor common to so many reptiles.
He partially closed his eyes again in an effort to keep himself calm and focused while forming a plan, but all he could see was the intelligent malevolence behind their yellow eyes. Even when they began savagely ripping apart the horses and eating them, he held his ground. He needed to wait for the right opportunity. He cleared his mind and continued to pray for an answer.
After the lizardmen finished with the horses, they ransacked their goods, taking their saddlebags and packs on their shoulders while others tied up their captives with crudely made rope. They bound each of their hands and feet with the rough cord, and then trussed the unconscious captives to wooden poles about eight feet in length. Soon enough, Rowan found himself dangling between two of the lizardmen as they braced the pole on their shoulders, leaving him hanging like a freshly killed deer. He let himself be disarmed along with the others but kept careful track of his sword’s whereabouts. It fell into the hands of the one he guessed was their leader. The big scaly beast had fought off all his companions when the weapon was discovered, claiming it for himself. The others’ weapons had been distributed among the remaining lizardmen more equally.
Once their captors had the entire party hoisted onto poles, they headed deeper into the marsh. Rowan was surprised by how little the marsh hindered them. Their webbed feet allowed them to traverse the slushy ground easily. Only on one or two occasions did walking appear difficult, which he attributed to the extra weight of their prey.
As they walked, he contemplated the group’s situation and his ability to free them without a weapon. Hope dimmed as he realized he didn’t have a real plan. Even Panthora remained silent. It was impossible to take them all on, and, now that he’d let them claim his sword and bind him, his chances were even worse. His only hope was in his faith that Panthora would aid him, believing her silence would break at any moment.
Daylight faded into twilight and then night, cruel and black. The lizardmen halted upon entering a clearing with dry, short grass. Crude huts made of thatch and mud were scattered about the area. Tree limbs and vines enclosed the camp in a rough fence. Elsewhere, small fires dotted the growing darkness, their smoke curling into the canopy. In the center of this gathering was a large open pit.
The lizardmen moved to join others of their kind. Even though those of the tribe were naked save for simple hide breechcloths, Rowan couldn’t tell which were male and which female. Only a slight variance in physical size—such as height and girth—was noticeable, by which he assumed the females were the larger of the race, though he’d nothing but Nordic logic to make the claim.
He found the whole camp eerily fascinating. The lizardmen seemed a tribal people who lived under the rule of a chieftain, whom he could see standing near the lip of the pit. This chieftain wore an elaborate coat of leather, bark, and feathers, and carried a large stone axe. His body was also covered in paints and dyes, which made for an interesting collection of shapes and images as he moved about the pit’s lip, growling orders at the ones carrying the bound captives.
He and the others were brought forward while the other lizardmen chanted and paraded around their victorious comrades with wild gestures and shouts. These celebrating creatures wore crudely constructed, fiendish masks and tossed bone axes in the air, juggling them like street entertainers. There were also torch jugglers, who wore even stranger and more menacing masks. Drumbeats reverberated as the performers juggled, matching the rhythm of the dancing lizardmen. Obviously, this was a ceremony, but what was their purpose supposed to be in it?
The chieftain shouted something while motioning erratically with his arm, indicating the placement of the captives into the pit. Rowan tried to glimpse more of his surroundings, hopeful of finding something to help with their escape, but his hope faded fast. He noticed more lizardmen pouring out of the sunken pit as he and the others were carried toward it.
One by one, Rowan and his companions were hoisted upright and pulled into the pit, where their poles were wedged hard into the earth with smaller pieces of wood pounded beside the poles—keeping them fast. As the lizardmen worked, Rowan noticed the broken branches, leaves, and other debris littered around the pit’s base. His mind began racing as he realized their awaiting fate. Panicking, he quickly viewed the others, finding them unconscious, chins resting on their chests.
“Dugan. Cadrissa,” he hissed. If they heard him, neither acknowledged it.
He scanned the area without hiding his consciousness. It was pointless continuing his ruse. He had to take action or die. The chieftain, noticing Rowan was awake, spread the lips of his maw in a sort of twisted smile, revealing a long row of glistening, sharp teeth.
He flexed his wrists and tried stretching the ropes binding his feet and hands to the pole, but to no avail. More lizardmen approached the rim of the pit, their clawed hands holding blazing torches, sputtering and spitting in the growing darkness like hungry asps. These began singing a savage, guttural song that filled the night with dread. When they finished, they threw their torches onto the pit. What followed was a scattered crackling, and then smoke that billowed upward as small fires appeared throughout the kindling scattered only a few feet from him.
“Have mercy, Panthora!” Rowan pleaded at the top of his lungs in his native tongue.
The smoke quickly thickened into a suffocating black wave. Rowan heard coughing. Turning, he saw Dugan choking on the smoke.
“Dugan?” Rowan shouted over the growing noise of the chanting lizardmen.
Dugan coughed again. “Where are we?”
“We’ve been taken captive by lizardmen. We’re about to be burned to death. Can you break free?”
Dugan strained against the rope binding him to the post. The tendons in his arms bulged as he pulled his wrists apart, clenching his teeth with the effort. He groaned with the strain, but Rowan also heard the telltale creaking of the rope stretching away from his bloodied and bruised wrists.
“Almost there,” Dugan said, gritting his teeth for another try.
“Hurry.” Rowan continued fruitlessly struggling with his own bonds. “The fire’s growing!”
Dugan wriggled his hands free and quickly untied the rest of the rope holding him to the pole, dropping down into the burning pit. The footing was unstable and rapidly being consumed by the growing fire, but there remained enough safe spots to run to Rowan.
“Hang on!” Dugan rammed Rowan’s pole with his shoulder, sending it toppling backward. Part of it rested on the lip of the pit behind it. He did his best to keep from the rising flames as Dugan feverishly tore at the bindings on his legs. When he’d finished, Rowan slid himself to the ground, freeing himself of the bindings on his wrists by moving his hands down the uprooted pole.
“I’ll get the others,” said Dugan while running for Alara.
Rowan could hear the lizardmen’s angry screams over the roaring flames. By the time Rowan had finished liberating his wrists, Dugan had freed Alara’s limbs from their bindings and toppled her pole as well, slapping the elf’s face as he worked on the ropes around her wrists. “Wake up!” After a few more slaps, Alara moaned.
In a flash she shot to her feet. Without pause, she shouted, “Gilban!” Dugan joined Alara in a race for the unconscious elf, dodging the rapidly increasing flames all the while.
Rowan passed them en route to Cadrissa, who remained unconscious, drooping like a rag doll. Lifting her singed robes in order to get at the biting ropes around her ankles, he shouted for her to wake up. The flames had become serpent-like, dashing in and out, eager to sink their fangs into his flesh.
“Wha—” Cadrissa said as she suddenly awoke.
“Hang on,” he said and pushed against the pole.
She started to struggle as the pole fell backward, causing her to twist around and grind her hands against the wooden shaft. Rowan was right beside her, however, working her bindings with frantic fingers. A moment later she was free.
“I h
ave you.” He scooped up the mage in his arms. Cadrissa was silent while he carried her from the blaze, darting with sturdy strides across the burning branches. Above the pit, dozens of lizardmen swarmed about the lip, gripping simple wooden spears in their fists.
“What are those things?” He could feel Cadrissa’s nails through the leather armor on his arms.
“Dugan’s lizardmen.”
“They’re horrid!”
“And they have us pinned down. This might be our last stand.”
“No, not yet.” Cadrissa’s face grew distant as her eyes changed from green to bright blue. “Not when I have just the spell for the occasion,” she hissed in a frosty voice that was both her own but also the echo of another’s.
“Are you all right?” Rowan’s brow furrowed as he felt the shift in temperature about her frame.
“Perfectly fine!” she hissed, looking at him through those empty, bright-blue eyes in a manner more foreign and masculine than just a moment ago. “Now release me!” The command came out of her throat in a deep and powerful voice.
Rowan practically dropped her in his haste to comply. Instinct told him something wasn’t right, and he’d best be as far from her as he could at the moment. Perhaps the ordeal had been too much for her. But before he could say or do anything further, he watched in awe as Cadrissa was enveloped in a glowing ball of aquamarine light. Within moments, the heat from the flames abated, and the fire disappeared completely, leaving only wafting tails of smoke rising up into the growing breeze. The lizardmen began crying out in frantic yips and shouts, retreating to their village in terror.
“I’ll show them fear!” Cadrissa’s voice echoed with a hollow tone that caused Rowan and the others to stare at the mage in slight concern. “Canga lorin mashan echeen!” the strange voice resonating from Cadrissa’s lips continued. “Kotlin mia olo-bith!”
“She hit her head?” Dugan asked Rowan as she continued her spellcasting.
“No,” he said. “Maybe it’s part of the spell.”
“Well, she’s bought us some time.” Alara made her way to the edge of the pit and scaled it effortlessly. “Let’s use it.”