by Ed Greenwood
"Don't bother. For us, it's simple enough: Molthuni invade, and we kill them. If we don't, we lose our country. They have all the coin—thus all the soldiers—and so we keep hidden and strike when we can get away again alive."
"Except here at the river."
"Except here. We can't let 'em cross the Inkwater too easily, or they'll arrive in force without us knowing about it. There're Molthuni armies marauding around due west of here right now, you know."
"What? Why?"
"Because they want to, that's why."
"No, I mean: why do we let them maraud?"
"Because if we stand forth in bold battle lines to stop them, they'll carve us to frymeat, that's why! Now climb back up into the watch-tree, master strategist, and stop prating. You'll have all the invading Molthuni around here awake and listening."
"Hunh!" Keln said scornfully. "There aren't any invaders this side of the riverbank, or anywhere near here. We'd hear them."
"Not over your chatter, we wouldn't. Climb."
Smiling silently in the dark, Tantaerra followed The Masked, who'd started crawling purposefully west along the edge of the bushes as Keln noisily and grumblingly strode right past them and started to climb the watch-tree, still complaining about stew.
The Masked set a brisk pace. The last they heard from Keln, as his voice faded into the distance behind them, was undoubtedly a sarcastic comment on his arrival at his post high in the tree—yet it still made Tantaerra freeze, for a startled moment.
"Welcome to Nirmathas."
∗ ∗ ∗
Before dawn, The Masked managed to club a sleepy Nirmathi camp cook from behind, leaving the man draped dazedly over his pots never knowing who'd hit him. The masked man then stole two half-cooked rabbits and a fistful of pickles.
He'd handed half to Tantaerra as they'd slipped out of the camp—all the other Nirmathi were out somewhere in the night, hunting Molthuni—and they'd eaten as they crept on into the fading night. Looking now not for any road to Hurlandrun, but rather for a good hiding place where they could sleep through the day. Preferably near one of the many small, noisy creeks that seemed to tumble everywhere in this forested, trail-crisscrossed country. The din of racing waters might mask their snoring.
Across the river behind them, westernmost Molthune was all rolling grasslands, home to scattered ranches and farms, but this part of Nirmathas was a tangled, overgrown warzone of burned and abandoned villages and farms fast being reclaimed by the forest.
Tantaerra had no idea how far from the Inkwater they'd come—it was hard to travel for more than a few strides in a straight path, for one thing—but they were certainly deep in a war-torn countryside of unburied corpses, tangled scrub forest, and scavenging beasts, where Molthuni troops encamped amid much torchlight and Nirmathi warbands crept through the trees in the concealing darkness.
She doubted matters changed much for the Nirmathi by day. The trees were their cloaks and allies. More than once, she and The Masked had come across great charred scars through the forest, the open aftermaths of recent fires where a Molthuni commander had tried to burn out lurking foes.
The dozen or so wagon-roads they'd crossed weren't much different. They were all thrice as wide as most roads Tantaerra had seen, or wider, where bordering trees had been hewn down or burned away by the invaders from Molthune, to rob attacking Nirmathi of cover. It hadn't taken long to learn these roads were the deadliest part of their night journey. Molthuni patrols with no lanterns but ready crossbows lurked—and so did Nirmathi in the nearby forest, with their own bows. If they crawled with slow, agonizing care and Desna's blessing was with them, they might make it across one without attracting anyone's attention, but even their fastest, boldest dashes were chased by bolts or arrows—or hails of both.
Which meant, as the night sky grew lighter and lighter behind them, their progress had become a wearying sequence of hiding, rushing for short swift periods, then hiding again to pant and cower as warriors of either Nirmathas or Molthune stalked suspiciously about.
By then The Masked was wearing an arrow sunk deep in his right shoulder, while Tantaerra was bleeding freely from two deep furrows across her back where crossbow bolts had just missed taking her life.
"If we get through this, why don't we just keep going, and leave Nirmathas and Molthune behind?" Tantaerra gasped. They sagged against the same tree and peered grimly out through thick foliage at the sound of a stream flowing somewhere in front of and a long way below them, at the bottom of a narrow, breakneck-deep little gorge in the forest. "That Telcanor had to be lying about the spells!"
"He was," The Masked muttered, ducking back into the dark tangle of leafy branches and drawing her close, "but there's a little matter of a mountain range ahead of us—not to mention what lies the other side of it. The corpseland of Nidal. And then there's me."
"What about Varisia? We could head north along the mountains until—"
"They were high and cold enough we'd be climbing to our doom to try to cross them?"
Tantaerra gave the dark, half-seen face looming above hers her best glare. "You could at least try to be helpful, Tarram Armistrade. And just what do you mean, 'then there's me'? What is it you're not telling me? You've been keeping secrets from me, I know you have, and—"
The sword that burst through the twigs and leaves then to pass right between their noses was daubed with something to kill its shine, but they both saw it well enough.
With a shout of pain The Masked twisted and lunged, driving his own blade back along the intruder's into something solid. He was rewarded with a sob—and the dulled blade sagging as a convulsing hand let it fall.
The unseen Nirmathi's body crashed down through bushes growing in the gorge, landing with a thud and a splash.
"Jeressan?" a voice hissed from nearby. "Jeressan?"
The Masked listened intently, and when the faintest of cracklings marked a movement on the other side of the tree they'd been leaning against, he thrust past it, hard.
There was a startled curse and a much louder fall down into the gorge, thuddings that ended with a grunt of pain and then a flurry of curses, as the Nirmathi who'd fallen discovered he'd landed on a very dead Jeressan.
A light was kindled, flint struck into a pouchload of carried kindling that flared up long enough to show a shocked Nirmathi that a gape-mouthed, unseeing Jeressan was impaled on two broken saplings—and show The Masked and Tantaerra, above, just whom they faced. In addition to the Nirmathi who'd landed on Jeressan and made the flame, two more armed Nirmathi had hold of trees on the lip of the gorge, barely an arm's reach from Tantaerra and The Masked.
Tantaerra reacted first, springing to launch herself feet-first into the started face of the nearest Nirmathi—a woman with dark hair—before she could do more than gape. That drove the woman, flailing for balance, back into her companion.
The Masked calmly slid his sword through the throat of one and into the other, then stepped forward, got a good grip on a stout tree bough, and shoved the gurgling, throat-clutching soldier down into the gorge—onto the head of the man with the flame, below.
The second wounded Nirmathi was still fighting for balance when Tantaerra, who'd landed with a crash at his feet in what had once been a formidable thornbush and was still a prickly ruin, spun herself around on her side, heedless of the pain, kicking his ankles out from under him.
His landing in the gorge below was loudly and messily rocky.
The Masked looked down at Tantaerra, and she looked back up at him.
"Let's move," he said grimly. "Before this noise draws more soldiers eager to kill us."
Tantaerra nodded. "This gorge looks a little...punishing. Not to mention right in our way."
The Masked nodded. "So we take yon path that brought the unfortunate Jeressan and his friends here. The gorge begins somewhere in that direction—hopefully we can find a way across it."
"You never stop being clever, do you?"
"It's what you're paying fo
r, Little Princess."
Tantaerra started to snap something rude in response, then swallowed her words. The Masked had lurched and almost fallen as he turned, and he was staggering as he started along the little trail on the edge of the gorge. If he needed anger to keep him going, she'd start in on him, but just now silence seemed kinder, and more prudent. These woods were full of skulking Nirmathi.
So she followed him as silently as she could. Her back burned like fire and her torn clothing over it was stuck to her with blood, but at least she didn't have a whittled-off stump of an arrow sticking out of her shoulder, or had to endure the clumsy whittlings of a halfling who mostly used the points of her daggers, and not to carve wood.
There was some sort of night-glowing moss on some of the rocks that stood up out of the stream, and they gave just enough light to see the walls and lip of the gorge. Ahead, The Masked was moving slowly and stiffly, which suited Tantaerra just fine. She was feeling a little slow and stiff herself, just now.
∗ ∗ ∗
It had been a farmhouse, once, before someone had burned it, and its scorched roof had collapsed down atop charred walls and pillars. Probably Molthuni raiders, torching a farm in a rainstorm. Tantaerra couldn't think what else would keep a roof mainly intact, while what was beneath it burned to ashes.
Not that she was thinking all that clearly just now.
With real dawn about to break, she couldn't afford to be choosy. Nor could the exhausted, pain-wracked masked man beside her. He'd been lurching and stumbling along the way bards always said zombies did, a long and wearying way along forest trails from that gorge where they'd almost been slain.
He was done. Gasping, dull-eyed done. Nor was she much better. They had to rest.
Dagger in hand, she peered cautiously around the edge of the canted roof, half expecting a wolf or something else nasty to snarl and lunge at her.
Nothing did. The roof that met the ground on the side they'd approached from flared up overhead into a splintered ending, above a blackened, littered hole that had once been the farmhouse cellar. Most of the cellar was still covered by an intact floor, itself sheltered by the charred stub of a wall, and another corner of roof.
Right. The cellar it would have to be.
She thrust her dagger down into the darkness warily, then followed it into an evil-smelling pit full of a tangle of charred spars, old brown-rotten bones, a great heap of blackened stones—ah, a chimney—and the orange-brown remnants of what had once been a large cauldron and its hearth-hook. Tantaerra flung some of the detritus clear, clawed at stones until they were more level than they had been, then led The Masked—who'd sunk to the ground against that stub of wall, and was just sitting there shivering—down into the cellar.
When they were in, she tugged on a spar she'd squeezed them both past, and it shifted enough that some fire-killed tree branches that had been tangled above it fell untidily across their end of cellar, providing a measure of concealment.
Then she fell back with a sigh, and watched dawn break. Beside her, The Masked groaned, mumbled something, and fell silent.
So silent that she had to peer hard, her nose almost touching his mask, to be sure he was still breathing.
He was. She fell asleep wondering why humans breath smelled so bad sometimes, and not bad at all at other times. Right now, his bore the iron tang of blood, which was bad. If he started to drool blood, it would be worse.
Hah, hear the halfling princess! How could things get worse, hey?
∗ ∗ ∗
She woke to unfamiliar voices. Human men, talking casually, very close by. Just above—
Oh. Yes. The burned farmhouse.
There was a smell of a small fire, and something gamey roasting over it.
Tantaerra tried to peer upward without moving, and caught her breath when a hand touched her cheek. The Masked, telling her wordlessly that he was awake.
Even twisting until it hurt, Tantaerra couldn't see anything much up above except the heel and backs of a pair of muddy war-boots. Obviously there was a man standing in what was left of the farmhouse. The sun was low in the sky, which meant they'd slept most of the day. Or even—
The voices again, even closer.
"This is excellent wine, Captain. Where did you find it?"
"In a Nirmathi cellar half a day's ride north of here, sir. It used to have quite a grand house over it—till we burned it—but they're still using the underchambers to store food and drink. Raided from merchants of Molthune, of course."
"So this was meant for someone in Canorate with silver enough to quench their thirst in fine style ...well, I heartily thank you for bringing it along. I've not tasted better at high table feasts anywhere in Molthune."
"I hope the meat's as good, sir."
"Almost done, sir," came a hasty third voice, from farther off.
"Worry not." That was the Molthuni superior officer again. "I've learned to take what I can get, this side of the Inkwater. Good farm country, this, but going back to forest as we fight—and the Nirmathi are good at hiding their crops from us, and keeping what's left of their livestock well away from the border. I hear they have entire herds up in the high valleys of yonder mountains. Not that we'll ever push close enough to see them, and get out alive."
"Sir?"
"We're not winning this war, Captain. We rule only as much of Nirmathas as our swords can reach, and only just as we're reaching—and even then, they feather us with arrows almost at will."
"But sir! Our superior weapons ...our training ..." The captain sounded shocked.
"What you've been taught about that is all true, yes, but beside the point in the daily fighting. This is a war of regimented, disciplined—and mightily frustrated—Molthuni troops trying to find and crush fast-moving, hit-and-run Nirmathi warbands. A foe who won't stand and fight. And it's their country; they know how to move about swiftly, and hide from us. It's taking a damned long time to wear them down."
"So burn them out, and their forest with them," a fourth voice put in, from some distance.
"And what good is holding Nirmathas, soldier, if we turn it into a firepit taking it back?" The superior officer sounded testy now. "This was Molthune, and we want it to be Molthune again, not burned-out desolation. The easy way out is seldom the best way. Try to remember that."
"Yes, sir," came a chorus that sounded rather sullen. Four voices, at least, but probably more.
Dung. Molthuni, camped right on top of them. If she knew men, they'd be relieving themselves soon, thanks to the wine, and dark holes in the ground in the heart of handy ruins would be just the place ...
Tantaerra tried stretching, as quietly as possible. Then stopped and sank back down, biting back a sigh.
She still felt weak, and very stiff, and her smarting back was complaining about the stretching almost as much as it had when she'd twisted herself to peer. The only way up was through this tangle-screen opening, right into the midst of the soldiers.
She looked at The Masked, who'd somehow stealthily drawn his sword. He tilted his head to rest on one hand, miming sleep, then used that hand to point upward.
Well, of course. They'd wait until some of the soldiers went to sleep. Darkness would be an ally, making bowmen less accurate than they'd be in full light. If these Molthuni were out here in the Nirmathi forest without crossbows cocked and ready, then they were fools.
This officer certainly didn't sound like a fool. He was talking again.
"It'll be dark soon. We'll want a lantern about here, so you can all see the map. You, cut me a support—two saplings, a head taller than you are. We'll notch and wedge them here to hold up what's left of this beam, and hang the lantern from it about here. Captain, more wine!"
Rotting wood groaned as booted feet moved, there was a clink of metal as flask met flagon, and someone called, "Meat ready soon, sir!" A fifth voice. Of course.
Lady Desna, I know not what I did to displease you, but—
"Not much of a table for the map,
sir."
"Agreed, but if we pin it yonder with your dagger, and here with mine, and Vrail here holds the far end, we can have a quick look before eating. Shift that tangle out of the way, will you?"
This was it. The unpinned end of the cloth map in his hand, the captain kicked at the tree branches Tantaerra had pulled down to hide them, without really looking. They didn't budge as he wanted them to, of course, so he turned, bent to tug them aside—and looked right into Tantaerra's eyes.
The Molthuni's own eyes widened, his mouth dropped open for a shout—and The Masked put the tip of his sword into it in a deft upward thrust, then pulled.
Spewing blood over Tantaerra, the captain toppled forward onto the tangled branches and the burnt spar-end supporting them. They promptly collapsed, spilling the dying man head first down into the hole over Tantaerra.
"Wha—" the startled commander began. The Masked didn't wait for him to say any more, but thrust upward through the cloth map.
The man was fast, rearing back and flinging the flagon clangingly aside to get at his own sword, but The Masked had already hissed, "Ankles!" at Tantaerra, and she knew just what to do.
She sprang at those muddy boots, one of the smallest chimney stones in hand, and slammed against the officer's ankles. When he didn't topple, but stood planted solidly, she hammered at his toes with the stone.
He howled and hopped back—and she thrust the stone right under one of his descending feet.
This time he toppled helplessly, with a yell, the stone bouncing and rolling, and Tantaerra stabbed his face and throat repeatedly and rushed on, because she had to get to the two leaning and cocked crossbows across the ruin before the three Molthuni soldiers did—and they'd left the cook-fire to charge, swords coming out.
The Masked was clambering up out of the hole in a flapping chaos of rippling, still-impaled map, and his emergence and Tantaerra's tiny stature distracted the foremost Molthuni from her for an instant.
Tantaerra used it to dive headlong into the bows, knocking them over and slashing at their strings with her dagger. She heard one part with a twang as she rebounded off the wall and rolled under the boots of the Molthuni soldier. A boot came down on her ribs, making him stumble, and The Masked thrust his blade into the man.