by Ed Greenwood
The other spearmen were scrambling to bar his and Tantaerra's way with a line of menacing spear points.
"Who are you?" one demanded.
"We're Lord Investigators of Molthune," Tarram told him sternly.
"What? A halfling Lord Investigator? Try again, jester!"
"I'm in disguise," Tantaerra Loroeva Klazra told him in dignified tones, lifting her chin. "And will accept your apology, soldier. Here or on trial for treason in Canorate."
The answer she got to that was a snort.
"You're Nirmathi, and you'll be dead Nirmathi very soon if you don't tell us straight what we want to know."
"Delbran ordered you not to waste any more crossbow bolts, yes?" Tarram asked crisply, walking straight toward the spears. If they tried to stick him, he'd blast them with the gauntlet. Until then, he'd heard enough Molthuni officers snapping orders to imitate one that soldiers just might respect. "Running low?"
"We're not to talk about it," the spearman who'd let slip Delbran's name said sullenly, "so—"
"So how'd you like lots of ready meat running right onto your spears?" Tarram pointed over his shoulder with the thumb of his non-gauntleted hand. "We were sent out foraging, and we're leading a herd of dweomercats to every stewpot of Molthune!"
"Dweomercats? The cats from the fairy tales, that eat magic?"
"They're no fireside tale, soldier," The Masked replied. "They're real, and right behind us."
"And you can eat them?"
"'Course you can eat them," another spearman said scornfully. "You can eat any sort of cat. Why, my brother—"
"Will you all shut it?" the first spearman bellowed. "I'm trying to interrogate prisoners here, and—"
"Prisoners?" Tantaerra asked swiftly, peering all around. "What prisoners?"
Whatever reply he was going to snarl died unsaid as the man's mouth dropped open in astonishment. Dweomercats were loping through the trees, scores of them, yellow eyes baleful.
"Run!" one Molthuni bawled, as he spun and heeded his own command. "Run!"
"Glorusk, you come back here! Stand! Stand and fight!"
"Stand and stick yourself some dinner!" another soldier shouted, trotting forward to lunge with his spear.
An instant later, he was bowled over by the squalling, writhing, clawing—and dying—dweomercat who'd tried to swallow it. They crashed to the ground together, thrashing about in dead leaves and thorn vines, and then all the Molthuni were either running or plying their spears in alarm and eager hunger—with the dweomercats in among them like tigers. The cats were more interested in getting past to reach Tarram and his halfling partner than they were in fighting Molthuni who thrust spears at them, but proved quite willing to oblige anyone who jabbed at them.
Tarram and Tantaerra sprinted after the fleeing Glorusk, heading for those distant peaks and—as they saw more Molthuni coming out of the trees—pointing back behind them and shouting enthusiastically, "Herd of beasts! Food for tonight! Roast cat!"
Many soldiers gave them frowns, obviously puzzled about who they were—but the flood of dweomercats snatched away the attention of every one of them.
Every one, that is, save Glorusk. When he ran out of breath and turned to fight, wild-eyed, Tarram caught hold of his spear and jerked him into a helpless stumble forward—and Tantaerra ran in under his feet and sent him toppling face-first into a tree.
They left him sliding down it, unconscious or stunned, and hastened on. Dozens of dweomercats followed, but seemingly just as many remained embroiled in a screaming, spitting, clawing battle. It was hard to tell who was winning, as the soldiers' weapons seemed to have surprisingly little effect against the cats' sleek fur.
"How are there so many, anyway?" Tantaerra panted. "I've never seen even one before this, and now there's a horde!"
"They seek out magic," The Masked replied. "I wouldn't be surprised if this is every one within a hundred miles. Maybe they're even breeding—you can see how small most of them are. I suspect they're still kittens."
"Kittens!" Tantaerra scoffed, watching in fascinated horror as several soldiers went down, the blue fur of their attackers stained dark with Molthuni blood. She turned away.
Behind them, the din faded swiftly into the green and leafy distances, and Tarram and his partner fell back into trudging along.
Death came for everyone soon enough that there was no need to hurry to find it.
∗ ∗ ∗
It seemed Desna was still smiling on Tarram and Tantaerra when they ran into their next Molthuni, around midday.
The soldiers that greeted them were a proper army this time, but thankfully also low on bolts, and using spears instead—in hand rather than thrown.
As the soldiers of the first watch post rushed through the trees at them, spears outthrust, Tarram gave them his best disapproving glower and ordered, in precise mimicry of a Molthuni commander, "Stop, men of Molthune, and down arms—in the name of the General Lords! Who commands here? Alaskor? I didn't think to meet with any of my countrymen until I was much closer to the Inkwater!"
Jaws were dropping, spear points wavering.
"Well?" Tarram pressed.
Luraumadar, his mask commented approvingly, in the depths of his mind.
"Uh—ah—who are you?" one of the Molthuni warriors asked uncertainly.
"Lord Investigator Osturr, of Canorate," Tarram said flatly. "I report directly to the General Lords. This lady personage with me is an envoy from a distant land who was waylaid by foul Nirmathi, and I am under orders to get her safely to Canorate as soon as possible. I ask again: who commands here?"
Soldiers exchanged doubtful stares with each other.
Tarram stepped past a spear point, loomed up over its wielder, and remarked softly, "Don't make me ask a third time, man. The dweomercats chasing us are hungry, and more than eager to feed."
"What's that mask thing you're wearing?"
"Haven't met any Lord Investigators before, have you?"
"Uh ...no. Lord. Sir. Uh, sir."
"Escort us to the river," Tarram ordered crisply, "by the fastest route that will take us to where we can board a boat, and return to Molthune."
"Uh, Lord, the river's almost a day's march on from here, and we've orders to—"
"You do," Tarram agreed. "You have orders from me. I distinctly heard myself give them, mere moments ago, and I know you all heard me. So let's have no delay or disobedience. Just lead the way."
"And if we don't?" the most distant spearman asked challengingly.
Tarram used the Fearsome Gauntlet's force punch on him, slamming it into his throat and leaving the man on his knees, clutching at his nigh-crushed throat and strangling for air.
"Don't make me use the full wrath Molthune has vested in me on you," he told the suffering heap almost sadly. "I have to report personally to one of the General Lords when I do that, and I hate having to make those reports. Enough that I'm always tempted to leave no survivors. So there'll be no witnesses."
"I increasingly admire you men of Molthune," Tantaerra piped up, looking at her partner. "So decisive. So direct. My country will be pleased to learn this of you. I am eager to present myself in Canorate."
"Molthune will be pleased to welcome you there," Tarram told her solemnly. "Now, if you faithful warriors will just lead the way?"
One spearman reached a decision. Bowing his head, he pointed the way through the trees with his spear and said, "Follow me."
Tarram stepped forward as confidently as if he were a king and the Molthuni all around him fawning, toadying subjects. Taking care not to roll her eyes, Tantaerra followed.
They didn't need to confer with each other to know they were being taken to the local Molthuni commander, not to the river. The soldiers fell in all around them.
Tarram caught sight of a crossbow slung across one man's shoulders. "How long ago was the order given to use bows only for battle?"
"I haven't marked the days," that soldier replied grudgingly. "Sir."
"One would think," Tantaerra remarked brightly, "that bowmen could more easily fill cooking pots. All these trees must hamper even the best spear cast."
None of the Molthuni replied until Tarram gave the nearest one a stern glare.
Whereupon that spearman said sullenly, "That's so. Yet our orders are that crossbows are to be used in desperate moments of battle, only."
They crested a heavily wooded ridge, and two strides down its far side were challenged by the half-hidden soldiers of another watch post.
"Guests to see Commander Elthen," one of the spearmen said tersely.
"Guests," not "prisoners." Good.
Their escort grew by a few warriors, and trudged on along a game track, across a boggy valley and up over another ridge beyond. There they were challenged again, and passed on down a slope choked with ancient, leaning trees, out into a clearing where the midday sun shone down brightly on some rather battered-looking tents, a cooking pit covered by a row of tripods holding up simmer-cauldrons, and a lot of stern and watchful Molthuni soldiers in better armor than the leathers of the spearmen.
A grim-looking officer with long grizzled sideburns and weary eyes, when informed that these two strangers were to see the commander, ordered Tarram and his halfling partner to divest themselves of all weapons.
"I am a Lord Investigator of Molthune," Tarram informed the man calmly. "I give orders, not take them. Until Nirmathas falls to us, this is enemy soil where we are at war, and my weapons ride where they are. My companion is an envoy from another country, and is to be treated as such. You would not order one of the General Lords nor the Imperial Governor to surrender his weapons, and you will not order her to do so."
The officer drew himself up. "Prisoner, you are in no position to be making claims or giving orders—"
Tarram stepped around him. "You are relieved of your rank and command."
Striding on, he addressed the next nearest Molthuni warrior in the camp. "Which tent is Elthen's? Our mission must not be delayed."
"I—"
The man was still hesitating when a tent flap nearby was thrust aside and a scar-faced man strode out and up to Tarram.
"Elthen," he identified himself flatly. "And you are...?"
"In some haste," Tarram replied. "I am a Lord Investigator of Molthune, escorting an outland envoy to Canorate. We require safe transport across the Inkwater, as swiftly as it can be provided."
The commander regarded Tarram in stone-faced silence for a moment or two, and then asked calmly, "Would that be the Fearsome Gauntlet you're wearing?"
Tarram smiled tightly. "Krzonstal Telcanor talks too much. As usual."
A trace of a smile rose very briefly onto Elthen's face. "So this envoy is not the only valuable you're escorting to Molthune."
Tarram nodded.
Commander Elthen turned to catch the eye of a man across the camp, waved him over, and upon his arrival announced, "This is Hardreth, my best scout. He and nine soldiers will conduct you both to Arlarn Straeble."
Tarram raised both eyebrows in a silent question, and the commander added, "The General Lords sent Straeble to the Inkshore camp to observe and report back on our war effort in Nirmathas. As I am under orders to inform him of anything unusual that comes to my attention, to him you must go. Gauntlet and all."
"Sir," Hardreth said briskly, bowing his head. "Shall I—"
He broke off as a dweomercat almost bowled him over. A furry flood of them burst into the camp, rushing to surround Tarram and swarm up his body to the gauntlet he was hastily holding high.
Molthuni everywhere started to curse, draw swords or daggers, or thrust at the rushing, snarling cats with spears.
Tarram spun around, already knowing what he'd see.
At the edge of the camp, buried in eagerly leaping, clawing dweomercats, was a lurching, lumbering mound topped by tentacles. As it advanced, those tentacles were rather wearily plucking cats from its body and hurling them away through the forest, to thud against trees, or dashing them to the ground. Wherever they clung most thickly, two tentacles swung a wicked blade—a curved sword that whispered ceaseless promises and taunts—in carefully aimed slices that swept squalling, slashed-open dweomercats to the ground.
More dweomercats were rushing at Tarram, leaping eagerly to try to touch or cling to his mask, which was starting to glow brightly again.
Hardreth and Elthen were both snarling curses and slashing the rushing beasts as quickly as they could, their attention increasingly on the approaching tentacled monster.
"What is that thing?" Hardreth snapped. "Never seen anything like it!"
By way of answer, Tantaerra caught Tarram's eye and dodged behind the scout's knees. Tarram managed not to smile as he thrust a knife into a dweomercat in midair and swung hard, accidentally putting his elbow into Hardreth's chest and shoulder.
The scout went over backward with a startled yell, Tantaerra slipping out from behind him like a racing wind. She was in time to duck between Elthen's legs as the Molthuni commander turned to see what had happened to Hardreth, and she did that trailing a dying dweomercat by the tail.
Elthen stepped on the moving beast, stumbled, and crashed down atop half a dozen very alive dweomercats, who spat, clawed, and bit at him.
By which time Tarram and Tantaerra had left him far behind, sprinting across the camp in the direction of distant Molthune. The clearing around them was now a battling chaos of shouting, hacking men and racing, snapping dweomercats, but a clear trail led out of it in the direction the two partners wanted to go.
Out through a thin stand of trees into open, lower ground, it seemed. Which meant less cover, but...tentacled monster or no pursuing tentacled monster, it was the way they had to go.
Tarram risked a look back, at the frantic fray. The tentacled thing was gaining on them.
He put his head down and really ran—only to dodge behind a tent as more armored Molthuni soldiers, swords in hand, came running up the trail into the clearing to meet them, drawn by the rising din. Tantaerra scampered after him.
Luraumadar, Luraumadar, Luraumadar, the mask chanted insistently.
The soldiers racing into the camp swore in astonishment as they saw what was shedding dweomercats and rising up like a wall of tentacles to meet them.
Leaving so soon? the Whispering Blade hissed in Tarram's mind. Why, the bloodletting's just begun!
Tentacles lashed out.
∗ ∗ ∗
It was Tantaerra's turn to wear the gauntlet. She was still settling it on her hand as she and The Masked crested another hill on the rutted wagon-road and—
Found themselves facing a ready line of three Molthuni, with spears.
"Stop right there!" one barked.
"Lord Investigator of Molthune, coming through!" Tantaerra announced, running full-tilt at him.
At the last moment before slamming into them, as two of the soldiers crouched together to block her and the third swept his spear up to gut The Masked, she tossed the Fearsome Gauntlet behind her, high into the air.
In the distance, the half-mental, half-audible murmurings of the Whispering Blade rose into an excited shout as the sight at the hurtling glove.
Tantaerra crashed hard into an ankle, but took the butt-end of a spear in the ribs and lost all her wind and her footing in the same painful instant.
Smashed off her feet and falling helplessly aside, she saw her partner calmly catch the Fearsome Gauntlet, slide it on, and do something that smashed the Molthuni backward as if an invisible giant's fist had crashed into them.
The grunts and shouts and wet thuddings behind them were getting closer.
The Masked rushed over to Tantaerra, swept her up, and rushed on through the rows of tents, using the gauntlet twice to punch aside any Molthuni who barred their way.
"Put me down!" Tantaerra gasped, when she had her breath back. Gods, her ribs hurt!
Her partner obliged, and she risked another look back. Many Molthuni were pursuing them now, and other
s were fleeing the tentacled monster. It no longer had all that many soldiers of Molthune daring to fight it, and the dweomercats were noticeably fewer, too. So just how far were they from Molthune?
Not that a little thing like a river would stop that tentacled thing ...
She and Tarram ran on, past the last few tents and up the far slope of the valley, into the inevitable trees beyond. A cart track climbed the slope beside them, and there'd be a Molthuni watch post somewhere here, ahead, and—
She was on the verge of gasping a reminder to The Masked about that when they came out onto the track, as it curved across in front of them—and reached the first soldiers' bodies, sprawled in huddled heaps in the road.
"Tarram," she panted, "we might be running right into Nirmathi arrows!"
As if her words had been a cue, shafts started to zip and hurumm out of the trees right in front of her, hissing past to thud into their Molthuni pursuers.
She swerved uncertainly. Just one arrow could end her life nastily, and—
"Keep running!" a voice called from the trees. "Have they any other captives in camp?"
"No," The Masked bellowed back, "but they've used fell magic and unleashed a tentacled monster! Fill it full of arrows!"
No one shouted a reply, but more arrows flew.
The cart track curved on into the forest before them, and Tantaerra and The Masked sprinted along it.
They ran and ran until strength and wind both deserted them, then staggered to a stumbling halt to lean on trees, gasp for breath, and continue at a slow, panting walk.
"We dare not stop moving," Tantaerra gasped, "or that thing will catch us."
Her partner nodded grimly. "We have to assume it will slay everyone who dares to challenge it, and keep after us." He peered up at what little sky they could see through the leaves overhead. "It'll be dark sooner than we'll want."
Tantaerra nodded, and looked back along the track. Almost mockingly, several dweomercats padded into view, following them with golden eyes gleaming. "So, do we stay on this road and make haste, knowing we could run into Nirmathi or Molthuni—or just their arrows—at any time? Or head into the trees and risk getting lost, making more noise, and going slower?"