He nodded, squatting with the harpoon braced across his shoulder, reaching out to drive off the more curious of the saurians, guiding the boats steadily deeper into the shadowy interior.
It was as well he did, for soon it became apparent that the landscape was much changed since Orwen had mapped Gessyth. The chart Calandryll had so painstakingly copied showed the location of Tezin-dar, and described the coastline well enough, but the interior was a shifting thing, changed by fallen trees and the islands of matted debris that arose, indiscernible from the liquid surface save where sunlight penetrated to reveal a subtle alteration in the color of the water. Without the halfling they would have been lost before sunset, unable to distinguish the landmarks he recognized, or the hazards he steered around.
He named them in his own language as they passed. The thick clusters of oily blue flowers that grew on the reedy islands were feshyn and poisonous to the touch, he warned them; and where the water showed that leprous yellow color, flesh-eating worms, yennym, swam. The lianas were the habitat of stinging insects he called grishas, their bite often fatal; and the mangrove roots hid the things called estifas, that laid their eggs in human flesh, leaving the hatching grubs to eat the host. He pointed out a rippling in the water, telling them it was sign of a swarm of something he named shivim that, as best they could understand his explanation, were predatory fish, attracted by blood or movement, and able to reduce even a small dragon to bare bones in moments. Without his aid they would likely have died, just as ek'Salar had promised, poisoned, or stung, or eaten by one creature or another, for it seemed that very little in the swamp was friendly and the inexperienced went in constant danger of unpleasant death.
Landfall, even, proved hazardous, for as the light began to fade Bracht indicated a sizable island, suggesting they halt there before the sun finally set, and Yssym shook his head, pointing out the holes beneath, where dragons laired. He brought them instead to another mat of jumbled roots and rotting reeds, grown over with a kind of red-brown grass that gave off a sharp odor, which, he informed them, deterred both dragons and insects: compensation for its offensive reek. They poled in, dragging the boats clear of the water, and made camp. Yssym took a knife and set to cutting rushes, spreading them over the grass to use as bedding, the fronds a barrier against the moisture that seeped through the spongy island.
It was an uncomfortable camp, fireless, for the swamp held no timber so dry it would bum, and the island shifted constantly beneath them, prompting them to cluster toward its center, sweat-soaked, breeks and tunics wet, impregnated with the odor of their surroundings. Guards were posted even though Yssym's promise that the malodorous grass would hold off the dragons and the insects was proven, only the halfling at ease there, settling to sleep after he had eaten as if the night was not aloud with a symphony of alarming bellows and roars, shrill cries and splashings that told of things hunting and dying in the menacing half-dark. All around the water and the trees glowed with a strange phosphorescence, the canopy above lit silver by the risen moon, though that orb remained unseen behind the curtain, while between the trees ghostly lights flickered, as if phantoms sought to lure the unwary out into the unknown.
"I have little liking for this place," Bracht remarked miserably, the understatement prompting Calandryll to chuckle, for all he shared the Kem's discomfort.
"Perhaps it will improve," he murmured, staring at a green-yellow glow that appeared to dance about the trunk of a silver-lit mangrove.
"It cannot get worse," said Bracht.
"You forget the dragons," Katya smiled. "Yssym promises larger specimens."
"Aye, I'd forgotten that." The Kern grinned ruefully. "Dragons and yennym; grishas, have I forgotten any of Gessyth's delights?"
“Feshyn,” said Calandryll.
"And shivim," Katya added. "Nor have we encountered the flesh-eating trees yet."
"Your optimism cheers me," Bracht grunted. "I'd almost wish I'd not gone drinking in that tavern back in Secca.”
"Were that the case," Calandryll grinned, "you'd not partake of this heroic quest."
"Destiny brings us here," said Katya thoughtfully. "We three were bound to meet and I do not think it could be otherwise."
Bracht stared at her, smiling, and said, "Then I thank destiny."
She retumed his smile a moment and tumed her face away, smoothing hair that shone silver in the strange light from a face pale as sweet honey.
"We were—are—anticipated," said Calandryll, "and that I do not understand. How could these Old Ones know we should come?"
"Not only we three," Katya nodded, "Yssym spoke of others foreseen by the Old Ones."
"Varent," said Bracht, "may his soul rot."
"The Old Ones must be powerful augurs," Calandryll suggested, "if they scried all this so long ago. I know no soothsayers able to see so far ahead."
"There are forgotten magicks," Katya said. "Arts old when the world we know was young—things of the elder gods. Perhaps best lost."
"Aye," Bracht agreed, "I'd not know my future set out clear before me, but sooner find it for myself."
"Ours lies here." Calandryll gestured at the weird landscape surrounding their little island. "With the Syfalheen and the Old Ones."
"And sleep," said Bracht, stretching on the reeds, "if sleep may be found in this place."
It was, albeit fitfully, disturbed by the clamor of the swamp and the discomfort, and when dawn came indicated only by a changing of the light—they rose damp and more than a little miserable to eat a cold breakfast and man the boats again, poling steadily deeper along the tortuous waterway.
18
The mangrove forest extended deep into Gessyth and for days they moved among the great trees, wary of the feshyn and the grishas that scurried in relentless columns over the roadways of vines. One of Quara's archers was stung and fell into delirium despite the plants Yssym pressed to the bites and the infusion he prepared. By nightfall the woman was silent, her breathing shallow and labored, and by dawn she had died: reluctantly they left her body behind, knowing it must be soon consumed by the myriad predators of the swampland.
She was their first casualty: in a while they lost two more. An oarsman, careless of the lurid blue flowers that clustered on an outthrust root, ducked too slow to avoid the feshyn. A blossom brushed his cheek and he shouted as he felt the venomous petals lay their deadly caress upon his skin. Yssym called an instant halt, checking the water for shivim before wading back to gather handfuls of small yellow buds that he ground to a paste and smeared over the angry eruption covering the Vanu's cheek.
"Perhaps he live," the halfling announced. "Perhaps not ... must rest . .. Not spread poison."
The oarsman, fear ugly in his pale blue eyes, was settled among the baggage and they went on. That night Yssym prepared more of the ointment and the man appeared in better spirits, arguing against his enforced inactivity. Toward noon of the next day Calandryll heard a shout from the second boat and looked back in time to see the man rub furiously at his face as he began to shudder, that trembling becoming rapidly a seizure so that before his fellows had time to hold him, he pitched overboard. Yssym cried a warning as an archer sprang into the water, wading toward the threshing figure, but even as the woman heard him, the surface rippled, churned by the swarm of shivim attracted by the disturbance. She screamed as the blue-grey creatures surrounded her, the swamp boiling where she stood, the fish leaping from the water to fasten teeth in her tunic and flesh, others tearing at her protective boots so that even as her companions stared in helpless horror she was covered with a living mantle. The water became red and she fell down. Calandryll stared aghast, his impulse to leap to her aid, that quelled by Yssym's hand on his shoulder and the certain knowledge that neither she or the man could be saved. He could only watch as both were reduced to bare bones, and the shivim moved on in restless search of fresh prey.
Their camp that night, on another island of matted debris, was oppressively silent. The Vanu mourned their loss
es, Katya sitting moist-eyed, staring unhappily into the phosphorescent shadows, as if she held herself responsible. Even Bracht's sanguine humor was dulled, and save for a compassionate hand upon her shoulder he offered no comment.
The next day they moved with exaggerated caution, steering as far as they were able in that maze of roots and vines from the blue flowers and overhanging lianas, and when, on the following day, they saw open space ahead, all were cheered by the prospect of quitting the mangrove forest. Before them stretched a lily meadow, narrow spaces of clear water among the wide green pads, from which grew single thick stalks, each supporting a single creamy blossom, yellow at the center, the air refreshingly sweet with their perfume. Overhead they could see the sky once more, bright blue, the sun high. After the forbidding gloom of the trees it was a relief simply to be in the open. .
Yssym dampened their good humor with a blunt announcement: "Big dragons here."
He pointed to the shapes that bulked among the lilies and Calandryll gasped at the size of the beasts. They were far larger than any he had seen, several like small islands, with gaily plumaged birds, or feathered flying lizards, stalking their crenellated backs.
"They sleep in sun," the halfling advised, "We wait, then move slow ... if dragon attack, put harpoon in nose, or eye ... only belly soft enough you kill him."
Katya relayed this information to her people and they crouched nervously in the boats, waiting until the sun hung directly above the meadow. Then Yssym gave word they should attempt the crossing and Calandryll and Bracht took up lances as Quara's archers nocked shafts to bowstrings and the oarsmen poled slowly out from the cover of the trees.
The forest seemed suddenly less menacing as they traversed the floating meadow. The dragons there had been dwarfs compared to these monsters, and no cover was offered by that expanse of open water. For all the myriad dangers of the trees, there had at least been islands among the mangroves, solid footing of a kind that seemed less vulnerable than the raftlike boats.
"Ahrd," whispered Bracht, staring wide-eyed at a monstrous red back. "How do the hunters kill them?"
"Hunters only take little dragons," said Yssym softly, "Four boats to one dragon. Not speak now, or dragons hear you and attack."
His hairless head turned slowly, yellow eyes studying the hulks apprehensively, his muscular arm poised to cast the harpoon. Calandryll hefted his own lance, praying silently for safe passage across the meadow. Sweat beaded his forehead, running in salty channels down his face, and he blinked, knowing that any one of these gigantic creatures could wreck the boat, pitching them all overboard, that thought prompting him to wonder if shivim dwelt there, or if this was the province of dragons alone.
Slowly, slowly, they progressed into the meadow. The oarsmen dipped their poles with dreamlike regularity, creating as little disturbance as possible. The archers crouched with full-drawn bows, their breathing a soft sighing that echoed like shouting on tensed ears. The lily pads parted with a gentle rustling sound, that like the crash of falling timber, what little noise the boats made seeming unnaturally loud, surely enough to alert the monsters. Calandryll held his breath as he became convinced one round green eye fastened on him alone. It looked large as his palm, cut vertically with a slash of indigo. An arm's length distant, craggy nostrils thrust from the snout, and when the jaws opened he saw rows of jagged teeth, long and pointed as dirks. His heart pounded then and he felt his arm draw back unbidden, ready to cast the harpoon. But the dragon merely emitted a stertorous rumble and sank below the surface.
Calandryll heard his own breath come out in a long sigh and glanced ahead, reckoning the distance to the far trees. At the slow speed imposed by the danger it would be dark before they reached that cover, and he realized they faced the prospect of a night spent on the boats. That held scant appeal; but to hurry was to attract the attention of the dragons and he resigned himself to patience, concentrating on the more immediate threat.
Then a murmur from Yssym halted their progress altogether and he felt his heart lurch afresh as a vast reddish bulk showed directly across their path. The dragon was not the largest present, but it drifted between them and their destination, and to pole around it meant the negotiation of the dense lily pads where the creature s larger fellows drowsed: they waited.
The dragon appeared oblivious of their presence, lying like some vast log in their way. Its eyes were open, but unfocused, staring unfathomably into some saurian dream. Calandryll counted nine birds busy along the monster's spine, beaks delving among the wrinkles of its hide, three between the parted jaws, picking at the teeth with avian industry. How long they took to complete their task he could not tell: each moment was drawn out in a silence counted by the thudding of heartbeats too long to measure, the slow drip of sweat, but at last the birds completed their task, hopping briskly to the dragon's back. Their arrival seemed a signal, for the saurian's tail waved lazily and the obstructive bulk drifted clear.
"We go." Yssym's sibilant voice was urgent, his head tilted to the sky. "Dragons wake soon."
Calandryll looked up and saw the sun shifted across the heavens, the day lengthening toward dusk. Katya whispered orders and the Vanu folk set to poling again, driving the boats on across the meadow. His arm began to cramp from the weight of the harpoon and he flexed it a bit, not daring to set the lance down, even though he longed to massage muscles beginning to ache. They moved with agonizing slowness as the dragons began to stir, ominous fulfillment of Yssym's warning, the lily pads undulating with the ripples started by tails, submerging bodies. The birds took flight with startling speed, a handful lofting from their floating perches to be rapidly joined by the others, the air filled with the flock, shrill cries echoing as it wheeled low overhead and winged toward the distant trees.
Calandryll saw Yssym's shoulders bunch beneath his rough-woven tunic, the halfling rising from his crouch to stand with harpoon upraised as a dragon swam close, the boat rocking dangerously in the wash of the huge tail. His own balance was precarious and he wondered how effectively he might cast his weapon should that become necessary. He prayed that it would not: he could envisage no way they might survive such attack.
The trees loomed closer, still too far distant to offer hope of refuge should a dragon charge, but an enticing promise, grey-gold across the perimeter of the lily meadow. The oarsmen plied their poles, driving the boats steadily toward that safety, the open channel of the river clear of the monsters. The trees grew more distinct.
Calandryll began to believe they would survive unharmed.
And the attack came.
A Vanu in the leading boat called soft warning as a hulk swam closer through the lilies, set on a collision course. Yssym gestured for more speed and waved the second boat back, intending to allow the dragon passage between the two craft. Whether the crew of the second boat misunderstood the halfling's gesture, or thought to outpace the dragon, none could tell, but they picked up speed. And so found themselves directly across the dragon's path.
The creature seemed, at first, oblivious of the obstacle, and for a moment Calandryll believed they would escape unscathed. Then the gnarled snout butted wood. The dragon snorted and submerged. The Vanus drove their poles furiously, the raftlike vessel rocking on the swirling water. The dragon surfaced on the far side and turned back. Yssym shouted a warning: unnecessary, for the oarsmen already dropped their poles and took up harpoons, the three remaining archers sighting on the monster. Its tail flicked, awful evidence of its strength as the massive body was propelled like some vast red battering ram at the fragile boat. Arrows flew, imbedding in the snout. The dragon roared, jaws spread wide, hiding the vulnerable eyes and sensitive nose. They closed on the bulwarks, wood splintering to open a ragged gash that let in water. A harpoon stabbed down and the dragon bellowed again. A man yelled, falling overboard, and the dragon took him, screaming as man-trap jaws closed about his waist. Three more of the beasts approached. Yssym shouted, "Go fast!" and Katya shouted, "No! Help them!"
/> There was little help they could offer. Quara and her women sent shafts fast at the dragons. One pierced an eye and the wounded monster roared in pain, rolling, its belly a target for the arrows. The rest converged on the damaged boat, more coming now, attracted by the commotion. Another man tumbled into the water, standing shoulder deep to drive his harpoon between the jaws of the saurian that engulfed him, man and dragon disappearing together even as another beast rose up to crash alf its length across the stem of the stricken boat. The lily meadow filled with the bellowing of the enraged dragons; the screaming of the Vanu folk as they were dragged down. Calandryll locked a fist about the talisman, willing its magic to drive the monster back, but the stone remained inert, cold to his touch; useless.
"Not help," Yssym said urgently. "We stay, we die, too ... Must reach trees fast."
Bracht said, "He speaks the truth. Ahrd forgive us, but we have no other choice."
Calandryll saw tears in Katya's eyes. A woman began to wade toward them: went under screaming as a dragon took her. Katya nodded, barking orders in the Vanu tongue. The oarsmen dropped their harpoons and snatched up the poles.
They reached the shelter of the mangroves and halted, looking back. The meadow was quiet now. A few pieces of jagged timber floated among the lily pads, but of the Vanu folk and their supplies there was no sign.
"Big dragons not come here," Yssym said softly.
Katya looked at him and shook her head, her eyes dark grey, stormy with grief. Quara touched her shoulder, murmuring something in their own language, and she answered in kind, slumping forlornly between the thwarts.
"Yssym sorry," the halfling said.
"How many more?" Katya whispered. "How many more must die?"
"Easier now," Yssym offered. "We find Syfalheen soon ... I bring you safe to clan."
"Too late for them."
Katya stared back across the meadow. Bracht said, "We must go on. Night comes," and she nodded, not speaking, her eyes still intent on the spot where her companions had died.
Angus Wells - The God Wars 01 Page 47