by Ed Greenwood
He staggered, almost fell, then lurched into a turn that brought him around to face Tantaerra directly.
"Get over there," he shouted, "to that plinth or block or whatever it is, and get up on it."
She started toward it, through streams of rushing dweomercats who ignored her completely in their haste to get to The Masked.
"Why?" she flung back over her shoulder, when she was halfway there.
"I'm going to throw the gauntlet to you. Don't drop it."
"So I can get smothered in dweomercats?"
"Just long enough for me to get to that ruined wall, yonder. You throw it back to me, and take yourself up that street to where that tree is—the one with the low bough, there? I'll throw it back to you, and move on and shout at you to throw it back. And so on."
"Sometimes," she called, clambering up onto the plinth, "I wonder why I hired you, I really do!"
"Sometimes," he called back, "I wonder why I let myself be hired. Catch!"
Tantaerra spat out a rude word, watched the glowing gage come hurtling at her, and concentrated on making the catch. If she dropped it, with all of these dweomercats raging around her ...
She didn't.
The next few moments were a whirlwind of leaping furry bodies, opened jaws coming at her, reaching paws...she slid the Fearsome Gauntlet on and hugged it to her, and the world promptly darkened and swam into muted, muffled excitement, as she felt the magic of the glove surging through her, spreading out its glories like an unfolding array of shining stars ...it could do this, and this, and that, and—
"Tantaerra!" The Masked shouted, from atop a ruined wall that he was sharing with a dozen-some dweomercats, all trying to rub up against his front, for some rea—oh, yes. She saw a faint glimmer of blue light through the leaping furry bodies. He had the mask tucked down his front.
"Yes?" she called back.
"The gauntlet!" he bellowed. "Remember?"
She didn't want to yield it up. This was wonderful, more power than she'd ever felt before. Stars before her, stars at her command, stars in the—
A bolder dweomercat than the rest slammed into her face and drove her staggering back against rough stone, that broken end of wall behind the plinth that she hadn't liked the look of at her first glimpse of it. It was every bit as sharp and hard as she'd thought it would be, and the dweomercats were thudding against her now in a ceaseless flood that threatened to crush her or drive her down and bury her, the strong reek of their musk tickling in her nose and throat, their eager fury a frightening—
Tantaerra spat out the rudest words she knew as she struggled to stand, struggled to climb the wall. She slipped twice, dweomercats climbing up her back and arms and dragging her down.
The Masked was watching her anxiously. She drew off the gauntlet and held it carefully in both hands, swung underarm once or twice to gain momentum, and threw.
End over end the glowing gage flashed, over the heads of countless dweomercats—and fell short.
The Masked sprang down off his wall, snatched it from under the very paws of jostling and yowling dweomercats, then turned and fought his way through a sudden surge of them, up the rising street.
"Run!" he yelled. "Head back the way we came!" He pointed ahead up the street, in the direction of the distant border with Molthune.
Tantaerra jumped down off the plinth and ran, utterly ignored by every dweomercat around her.
She made it into thick trees, where almost all traces of Hurlandrun were buried in forest, before she heard him shout again.
When she turned, he was hidden under a surging mound of dweomercats—and the Fearsome Gauntlet was hurtling toward her, end over end in the air.
It was a bad throw, and she had to sprint back toward the ruins to field it, dweomercats racing eagerly to beat her, but field it she did. She slid it on and ran, hugging it to her breast and just trying to get up into the trees again before the weight of rushing, leaping cats bore her to the ground.
There was a gully of sorts to her left, and she headed for it, to try to keep a throwing area relatively free of trees, so her return throw might have some small chance of reaching her partner. Provided he was smart enough to head up the other side of the little gulley. He—
The freedom to ponder things was snatched away from her in a leaping wall of musky, mewling bodies that slammed her to the ground, rolled her over, and almost dragged the gauntlet off her arm.
Spitting out curses she couldn't even hear through the squalling din, Tantaerra fought her way around a tree, dashed dweomercats away from her face and front for an instant with a vicious swipe of her arm, and shouted, "Tarram! Tarram!"
Then she spun around and slammed herself against the tree trunk, pinning several squirming dweomercats against it and scraping more off her as she slid along it, leaning into it hard.
There he was. She drew back the gauntlet, holding it firmly with her free hand, kicked out viciously to dislodge any cat trying to leap aboard it, and hurled it.
High and not far. Her turn for a lousy throw.
He sprang across the gully to meet it, punched the air with such deft aim that the great warglove hurtled right onto his hand. He landed hard, pivoted, and was gone up the gulley like a storm wind.
He made such headway that the suddenly abandoned Tantaerra held her tongue about what she'd just seen, back down behind them in the ruins of Hurlandrun. She wanted him to get a good long way up into the forest before saying anything that might slow him.
The slithering tentacled thing Voyvik had become was following them, gliding along the street. It was passing the plinth where she'd caught the gauntlet, and rising up to watch them, waving the Whispering Blade in one tentacle like some flamboyant duelist.
"Dung," she whispered. Then she turned and ran.
She reached the first wooded ridge before she was out of breath. Off to her left, amid trees too thick for any thrown gauntlet to travel far, The Masked was trudging along amid a carpet of dweomercats—well, more like a long bridal gown, with a dragging train of swarming cats that extended far back behind him. But he was still on his feet, still forging ahead. Slowly.
"Tarram!" she called. "Look back!"
For a moment she thought he hadn't heard her, but then she saw he was making for a many-limbed, half-fallen old tree that he could clamber up onto, and have some hope of not being buried alive in cats.
He made it, turned doggedly amid a battering hail of leaping cats, saw Voyvik—and blasted the tentacled monster with the gauntlet.
The magic surrounded it with a nimbus of flickering radiance. Amid that aura, the scaled, slithering thing grew visibly larger, the sword it held became louder in its whisperings—and every dweomercat in sight quivered, turns to regard the tentacled thing ...and then rushed toward it, yowling and screaming.
In an instant, it was buried under an ecstatic mountain of dweomercat bodies.
"Run!" The Masked bellowed, as the sun started to set. "Run for yon hill!"
"Way ahead of you!" Tantaerra called back, daring—for the very first time—to hope that they'd make it out of these ruins alive.
Chapter Seventeen
Luraumadar
Tarram Armistrade was out of breath, but this was no time to pause or even slow. There was the hill, ahead, though his lungs were searing and his aching legs starting to stumble—and right behind him, some of them nipping at his heels and shins, were dweomercats beyond counting, a gods-be-damned herd of them, and—
He risked a look over at Tantaerra, to make sure she was still ahead of him. At that moment something blue and supple sprang into view between them.
It was a dweomercat, but this one was as big as an ox, not counting its tail, with jaws on it that—
It roared and sprang over the herd of smaller dweomercats, charging right at him.
Tarram flung himself sideways, but one huge paw, sharp claws extended, raked at his shoulder, slicing his clothing like a row of daggers and sending him staggering.
He
spun around, heedless of the squalling dweomercats he was trampling—and they were springing at him again now, seemingly emboldened by the presence of their gigantic kin.
The pack leader—for surely this beast must be their king—came at him again just as swiftly, snarling horribly.
Protect the face. Protect the throat. Protect—
He brought the hand that wore the Fearsome Gauntlet up in front of his face. He knew all about its—whenever he gave any thought to it, it tried to tell him all about them. He knew full well he needn't do anything overt to it, nor move his hand or arm, to awaken its lesser powers. One of which was the invisible battering ram power he'd used before, a smashing punch of air. Yet if the smaller cats were any indication, targeting them with the gauntlet's magic only made them teleport closer, somehow riding the magic back to its source. And the last thing he wanted was this thing getting closer.
Or did he?
It might work. He'd have to get himself in just the right place to—
The cat pounced.
He'd been hit by a rushing wagon, once, and this was worse. It was like the blow of the proverbial giant's fist. All the wind was smashed out of him, and Tarram was flung through the air with musky cat blotting out the sky above him. He had his gauntleted hand wedged firmly in the creature's mouth, wedging the long fangs apart, only magical steel keeping his hand from being crushed or severed as the creature bit down with the strength of a blacksmith's hammer.
Clinging for all he was worth, bracing for the crash that might well break bones when he landed with this great stinking thing on top of him, Tarram called on the gauntlet to deliver one of its force-punches—right down the creature's throat.
He felt the blow, and so did the cat. Right in its lungs or stomach or whatever was first in line down its gullet.
And then they landed, thankfully on squirming, shrieking smaller dweomercats. They broke apart—literally, Tarram still clutching a chunk of shattered fang—to the tune of a howl of dweomercat pain and Tantaerra's shriek of, "Tarram?!"
She sounded close. The giant dweomercat was closer.
Gods, she'd be one gulp for it; he had to keep this thing's attention on him, and—
Well, that wasn't going to be hard. Wild-eyed and roaring in pain, the giant dweomercat was charging again, its paws churning up dirt, smaller dweomercats, and moss-cloaked stones alike in its frantic haste to get at him.
Tarram sent another gauntlet-punch down its maw, pulling the beast toward him even as it shuddered and faltered. It recoiled, then came at him again, shaking its head like a man gulping down something bitter. Blood spewed from its jaws with every shake.
He planted himself to be ready to dodge, not wanting to taste another teeth-numbing slam into the ground, but this time the huge feline came in low, trying to duck under his dagger and his gauntlet and hamstring him, going for the back of his knee.
Which made things almost too easy.
He staggered it with another force punch—its internal organs must be more than ruptured, by now—then flung his legs aside as it appeared next to him, falling on its head as he drove his dagger hilt-deep into one eye. He hung on grimly through the screaming chaos that followed.
By the time his dagger stopped being a handle and he was flung free, the dying dweomercat had clawed and flung itself—and him, along with it—in rolling agony across dozens of smaller dweomercats.
Tarram watched the beast tumble off the hillside they'd been flattening, and crash down across the broken-off base of a stone pillar, flopping bonelessly. Smaller dweomercats were fleeing in all directions, keening in fear, and he was drenched in the gore of the giant one.
Yet he still had his dagger, he still wore the gauntlet, and he seemed to be whole, more or less. Nothing broken, at least ...
He drew in a deep breath. He was on his hands and knees, blinking blearily on a steep wooded hillside in Nirmathas, with the musk of countless dweomercats strong around him. As a bright blue glow spilled up out of his clothes, to light his chin from below.
He peered all around, quickly. Many baleful golden eyes looked back. And again their owners started prowling toward him.
Tarram Armistrade scrambled to his feet, still panting.
"And so the masked man prevails, but magic hands him fresh troubles," he gasped aloud. "As it always does."
As he ran, the mask he'd put down his front slid lower and lower down under his clothes, becoming increasingly uncomfortable, until sharp edges jabbed at him with every stride.
Enough.
Tarram dug it out and put it on, trying to ignore the bright blue glow. The Fearsome Gauntlet seemed to be...awakening it.
"Well," he gasped, "all we have to do now is fight our way through Nirmathas and into Molthune, get to Braganza without enthusiastic Molthuni patrols mistaking us for invading Nirmathi rebels, and somehow acquire allies and might enough to get out of Lord Telcanor's clutches alive. That'll require an army. Now, just where might I find one?" He looked at the dweomercats around him, and the moving trail of them that led back to a surging mound that must be the tentacled monster, and sarcastically added, "Oh wait—never mind."
"All right, I won't," Tantaerra put in sourly, from beside him, startling him with how close she now was. "I'm beginning to think you're crazed."
"I am crazed," he told her ruefully. "And damned. And plagued by a smart-tongued halfling princess."
"For the undoubtedly-NOT-last time, I am NOT a prin—oh, never mind!"
∗ ∗ ∗
It was too dark to travel safely, but halting would probably mean their deaths, too. If there hadn't been countless dweomercats, and that tentacled thing had been a mindless monster, and if it hadn't been wielding the Whispering Blade ...but there were, and it wasn't, and it was.
It was still patiently trailing them, struggling along through an ever-present swarm of dweomercats that it was killing steadily as it came, yet not seeming to make a dent in their numbers.
By the snarls and occasional thrashings, other forest prowlers were trying to kill and devour the cats, too—and once, Nirmathi arrows had come out of the night to feather many of the cats, then stopped as abruptly as they'd started.
The moon was rising. Tantaerra risked getting a branch in the eye to look at it, then ducked her head again, still trudging along.
"It's turning into a pretty night to get killed," she murmured. "Hurlandrun can't hold endless dweomercats; what would they all eat?"
"Nirmathi," The Masked told her. "And their horses and mules and hunting dogs, too."
She glanced back at cat bodies being flung against trees by seemingly tireless tentacles. "Not for much longer. The strength of our unwanted furry escort must be dwindling."
Her partner nodded. "We've got to keep hurrying. The dweomercats hampering Voyvik—if it is still Voyvik, and not Mahalagris—will be gone long before morning, at this rate. He'll be right behind us."
"Any other cheerful warnings?" Tantaerra asked bitterly. "I'd love to hear them, while I still can!"
The Masked winced, and shook his head.
Something howled, several hills away to the south, and she resisted the urge to howl back. Calling more guests to the dance would almost certainly be heaping folly atop stupidity.
Not that she'd never done that before.
The moonlight brightened all around them, as they hastened on.
The hand she didn't have started to throb painfully.
Instead of howling, Tantaerra growled instead.
∗ ∗ ∗
They were still stumbling along wearily when the sun rose, its cheerful brightness mocking. They were still in the heart of trackless forest, too.
Tantaerra's stump had taken to aching like fire. She shook it wildly for the hundredth time or so, trying to drive the pain down.
"How are you ..." Her masked partner's question trailed off, then picked up again determinedly. "...bearing up?"
"I'll manage," she snarled. "Any bright ideas for not losing our wa
y in these woods?"
Tarram gave her a look. 'I've known how to avoid drifting in a circle since I was a very young lad—and so long as we don't do that, the Inkwater does flow all the way between the two lands. We can't help but blunder into it eventually. Probably just after Nirmathi arrows start heading at us."
"Heed me, my overclever friend," Tantaerra said, a little testily. "That's just what will happen if we end up taking too close a route back across Nirmathas to the one we used to get to the tomb. If we run into any of the same Nirmathi, they'll know the tale we told them about why we came here was false—and will treat us accordingly."
"So we veer south, toward those peaks, right now." The Masked pointed. "I have been thinking about this, as we've walked. And walked. And—"
"Walked," Tantaerra sighed. "So what other clever thoughts did you have?"
"Well ...dweomercats can be eaten, and all the fighting this side of the border will have made large meat on the hoof unobtainable by Nirmathi, and limited to what dried supplies they can carry in for the Molthuni."
"So we're liable to get trampled by the hungry warriors of both sides, rushing to take down dweomercats for their cooking-fires?"
The Masked nodded.
He was still nodding when the first spear came out of the trees.
∗ ∗ ∗
"May Molthune triumph!" Tarram shouted hastily, seeing the armor on the men hurrying over a ridge. Molthuni warriors, with spears in their hands and puzzled frowns on their faces.
"No tricks, Nirmathi!" one of them called, leading a charge of leveled spears as well as a charge can be led through a thick stand of trees, over ground uneven with old and gnarled roots. "Surrender or die!"
"Hah!" said another soldier. "Make that surrender and die!"
"Who's your commander?" Tarram barked. "And what's this nonsense with spears? Did someone get hungry enough to eat all the crossbows?"
"No, Delbran ordered—urrk!" Whatever that spearman had been going to say ended abruptly when the Molthuni beside him drove an ungentle elbow into the man's gut, adding a snarl of, "Shut it!"