by Mark E Lacy
The two of them wandered through the hills, daylight gradually revealing more of the landscape. Visylon reined the horse to a halt beside a rock cairn. To his right were taller, steeper hills and a rushing stream. He urged Cabellara down to the water, leaning back in the saddle to keep his balance.
The Saerani warrior dismounted as the mare bent her long neck to drink from the stream. Watching the water, he found the first evidence of a fire. Along the banks of the stream, washed up or wedged in the rocks, were charred pieces of wood and cinders that had been swept away from the fire-zone.
Enkinor, where are you?
Which way would he have gone? Kophid might or might not have been his real destination. What business did he have with a prisoner in the Sar's dungeons? Why would the Sar bother to send his guards with umars into the countryside to pursue a solitary Saerani? How did the fire start? How did it die?
A gang of ravens. A message delivered. A tribesman from the hills beyond Kophid roams the land, searching for a comrade. Bring him to me, alive.
And the ravens? Returned to the sorcerer, less the one Maznarg wanted for dinner.
Now the krylaan stood on the edge of a hidden canyon, cloak cast aside, watching a small band of hudraii camped below. They had several campfires to chase away the chill and the gloom that pooled in the depths of the canyon.
At the sound of a skittering pebble, the hudraii turned and drew their weapons. In moments, blades were bared and arrows nocked. No one said a word as they looked around. There was nothing to see, so two of them hastened in silence to the narrow gap in the canyon wall that served as their escape route. Satisfied, they looked back at their leader and nodded. All was clear.
The men went back to what they were doing, but Devorah was not satisfied. She had not become leader of this band without learning many skills, including listening to her senses when they told her there was something else to see or something else to hear. She looked up at the edge of the canyon in time to see a large figure standing where none had been a moment before. The figure was clearly silhouetted against the sky. Devorah muttered a quiet but blistering oath.
The hudraii followed her gaze and drew their weapons again. Devorah heard the faint hum of a bow being stretched, knew the bowstring must hold an arrow, knew the arrow must not be released.
“Hold!” said Devorah with hand raised to her men, not taking her eyes off the figure above them on the canyon rim.
She recognized the creature, though she'd never seen it uncloaked, with no hood, its markings bare to the world. Its black stripes began at the crown of a bald head and ran down its arms, its bare chest, its back. Her men, hardened one and all, murmured in apprehension.
Maznarg bounded down the rocks like a goat till it stood before Devorah. “Smart woman. Your sentari are dead. No need to lose more men.”
“Damn you. That wasn't necessary.”
“They tried to stop me. Asked me questions.”
“Why are you here, krylaan?”
“To collect on a debt.”
“Debt? I owe you nothing,” she said, hands on hips.
“Not me,” said Maznarg, standing now only inches away. “Raethir Del.”
Devorah refused to give the krylaan the satisfaction of stepping back, even if it meant she had less room to draw her knife, castrate it, and then duck before it took off her head with one swipe of a clawed hand.
“What does your master want?” she said, unable to resist goading the creature towering over her. From the corner of her eye, the hudrai leader saw her men were still at ready, weapons in hand.
“Find someone. Bring him back alive.”
“Why?”
Maznarg took her chin in its hand. “Not your concern.”
Devorah suppressed a shudder at its touch. She turned and began to walk away, knowing quite well the danger in turning one's back on a krylaan. When the creature's hand came down on her shoulder, she stopped but did not turn around.
“Your master is not my master, Maznarg.”
“Right now,” the krylaan growled, “I am your master.”
The hell you are.
Devorah dropped to her knees and yelled “Now!”
But before her men could loose their arrows, Maznarg's hand wrapped around her neck. It threw her against the cliff where her head hit the rock wall with a wet thud.
Devorah did not move.
The hudraii stared, one by one returning blade to scabbard, arrow to quiver.
“Make two groups,” ordered the krylaan. “One group with me. The other follows the road.”
The hudraii looked at each other.
“A tribesman. From beyond Kophid. Probably on horse. Capture him, and do not harm him.”
The hudraii argued quietly over which of them would accompany the krylaan.
“You. You. And you,” said Maznarg, settling the argument. “Now go. Return without him and you die.”
It was only a tea-brown trickle making its way drop by drop through moss and mud, its melody of descent barely audible over the breeze through the bare trees. It was too small to be called a rivulet, too big for a seep. It was simply what was left of the small brook Visylon had followed up through the hills. He had seen no more sign of any fire. He had found no clue that might lead him to Enkinor. The Swordbearer could only hope once he reached higher ground he would see more from that vantage point.
Near the crest of the hills, the land leveled out. The Saerani warrior entered a band of larches, their cone-shaped crowns swaying in the breeze. The trickle of water he had followed snaked through them, the outflow of a bog. The larches, winter-bare, circled the small bog like skeletal sentinels watching and waiting for something to emerge from the shallow pond in the center. The wind gusted, and the few remaining needles on the larches pirouetted to the ground to join the others in a thin, brown carpet.
Visylon brought Cabellara to a halt, her hooves splattering black mud at each step. The thread of water draining from the bog was enough to keep the ground wet but not enough to give the horse something to drink. He turned in the saddle to look back down the gully they had climbed. There was nothing but bare trees and dead leaves. Another leaf fluttered to the ground.
He turned back to face the bog. The scene before him was far from promising. The sun had passed its zenith and could barely penetrate the gray pall that stretched across the sky. A ring of swamp circled the bog, the larches stopping where the ground was too wet. Some of the trees had fallen over the years, unable to stand in the mud any longer. He scanned the swampy edge of the bog lying at the feet of the larches. Downed trees were painted with bright-green moss. Beyond that, thickets of alder choked the swamp.
Visylon urged the mare on, meandering through the bare trees. By the time the standing larches began giving way to dead ones, Cabellara was placing her steps with care. Now, they pushed through clumps of alder. With every cautious step, the mare's hooves sank deeper into the black muck. She stepped over dead trees and zigzagged as she tried to take the least wet route through the bog. As they cleared the alder and neared a band of grasses and weeds, Cabellara came to a halt. The mud now reached to her knees with each step. It was pockmarked with the footprints of a raccoon and a small deer that had come down to drink. Over the tops of the reeds, Visylon could see a small central pond. A few mallards paddled aimlessly in the middle of the bog.
Time to turn around? Perhaps strike out in a different direction?
Across the bog, a gap among the larches suggested a way out. Through that gap, he could see what might be fire-blackened trees.
Turning his mount, he made his way through the alder and reentered the woods. There, he began to follow the edge of the bog, thinking to circle it.
He sensed he was being followed, but he didn't know by whom or by how many. The warrior in him was eager for action, to make a stand here and face with bared blade whoever or whatever might be on his trail. The thought made his blood sing.
Yet, as eager as he was, he also knew he co
uld not risk failure. If he was overwhelmed, and perished — well, more was at stake here than just his life.
Find Enkinor, and only then join in battle. That was what he must do.
To backtrack could mean facing an unknown enemy. No, he would negotiate the bog somehow.
It was not long before his plan began to unravel. A steep hillside made it impossible to leave the bog, but the ground was getting wetter. He had come a little more than halfway to the gap in the larches. Cabellara was once again up to her knees in mud. It was slow going, guiding her over each log, letting her choose her steps, watching as she pulled each hoof from the muck with a sucking sound. Still, more than once, she stumbled and paused as if thinking. The Saerani warrior knew she was growing fatigued with the effort.
The larches and the alder parted, and they stopped. Ten yards of water, its bottom unknown, separated them from a small island, some twenty yards by ten, ringed with cattails and alder.
Retracing their steps was not an option, but neither was crossing to the island.
“Tatrai!”
Visylon turned in the saddle. Behind him the edge of the bog curved back around to the point where he had entered. It was there he could see three men standing by their mounts at the edge of the woods. One was small, his head shaved except for a gray ponytail and a long gray moustache, two shortswords crossed behind his back. Another man stood tall and slender like a reed, head wrapped by a dirty bandanna, a bow in his hands and a quiver of arrows over his shoulder. The third, stocky, a patch across one eye, stood with a long staff in his hand.
“We need to talk,” called the gray one.
Hudraii, guessed Visylon.
“Who are you? What do you want?” said Visylon, calming Cabellara with a pat on the neck.
“Friends,” said the one with the crossed swords. “They call me 'Old Pony.' Who are you?”
“Old Pony? If you're friends, Old Pony, tell me how I can cross this bog.”
“Can't be crossed,” said the other. “Come back this way, and we'll show you a way around it.”
Visylon shook his head. “I'm not the kind to back away from a challenge.”
“But we need to talk to you,” called Old Pony.
“So talk.”
“Make it easy on yourself and just come with us,” said the hudrai. “We don't want to see anyone get hurt.”
Visylon allowed himself a slight smile. “You're threatening me?”
There was a pause. “Just a warning.”
The tall one took an arrow and nocked it, but he didn't draw his bow.
“Tatrai,” said Old Pony, “come on back. Shaft is very good with a bow. You wouldn't want an arrow in the thigh, would you?”
Visylon guessed the hudraii would want Cabellara unharmed, so she was safe at least. “Old Pony? Shaft? What's the other one's name? 'One Eye'?”
“We don't know. He doesn't talk. We call him 'Stump.'“
The Swordbearer laughed. “I have nothing to say to you. Go talk to someone else.”
Shaft entered the larches, leaving his horse with the others, and began heading in Visylon's direction. Unlike the Saerani's heavy horse, the slender hudrai was able to move quickly through the muck and the downed trees. He stepped on stumps and rotten logs Cabellara couldn't use for footing, hopping from dry spot to dry spot as he traversed the dead forest.
Visylon turned back to consider the short span of water separating him from the small island that would give him his next sure footing. There was no telling how deep the water was, but there were reeds standing in it. The more important question was how deep the mud on the bottom was.
The Saerani dismounted. “We can do this,” he said to his horse, taking her by the bridle. “We must do this.”
Visylon urged Cabellara forward a bit. He lost his footing and stumbled into cold knee-deep water. Clouds of silt bloomed from the bottom and hung suspended in the water. The mallards took flight, startled by the horse's splashes, webbed feet skipping along the surface.
Cabellara whinnied her disapproval. She backed up and Visylon's grasp moved to her reins.
“Come on, girl,” he encouraged her.
The mare entered the water and began sinking into the mud. Visylon would have to get her across to the little island before she sank so far into the muck she couldn't pull herself free.
The Saerani walked backward, keeping the reins taut, one hand waving her on. “That's it. Stay with me. Come on.”
Shaft reached the edge of the water and sighted along an arrow at the Saerani warrior. Visylon stepped to the other side of Cabellara, using the horse as a shield, and kept moving, trusting the hudraii would hesitate at killing a perfectly good horse just to pin him down.
Old Pony swore as he stumbled over a rotting log. He and Stump were not far behind.
The water was now up to Visylon's waist. The muddy bottom threatened to pull his boots off as he struggled to lead Cabellara through to the little island. When at last he reached dry ground, Cabellara, encouraged, gave one last effort and climbed out of the water and up through the alder. She butted her head against Visylon's chest as he stroked her and praised her. Visylon looked around and for the first time felt a small measure of hope. Very little water separated the island from the edge of the bog and the break in the larches that promised escape. He gave Cabellara a slap on the rump, sending her splashing across the water. She scrambled ashore and disappeared.
Old Pony and Stump reached Shaft and entered the water, following Visylon. Not burdened by a horse, they were able to move much faster. They had almost reached the island when they heard a shout from Shaft.
The hudraii turned in time to see Shaft point in horror at the water separating them. The bog erupted at his feet as a huge form leapt from the water and knocked him down. The thing was low and broad, the color of ash, with four short legs like tree stumps.
Mud slid from the monster's slimy skin as it lowered its frog-like head and took Shaft in its huge jaws, biting down with a crunch. Shaft's legs spasmed for a moment as he screamed in pain. In moments he was dead. The beast worried at the head of the body as if trying to tear it loose. Blood began to cloud the water.
Visylon backed away from the shore. He might take on a couple of hudraii, but he was certain he didn’t want to fight some monstrosity born from bog muck.
Old Pony and Stump scrambled out of the water onto the island and looked back. The frog-headed creature standing only ten yards away seemed content to munch on what was left of Shaft. Visylon guessed the monster could cover that distance in moments.
The hudraii turned to Visylon.
Old Pony pressed a hand into Stump's chest. “Go around,” he said, keeping an eye on the Saerani.
They split up and began circling around Visylon, approaching from two different sides. When they stopped, they stood between Visylon and his hope of escape. And Visylon stood between them and the monster that had killed Shaft.
“Are you ready, tatrai?” said Old Pony. “Let's go get your horse and leave before that thing over there comes after one of us.”
The gray-haired hudrai stood with no weapon in his hand. The one called Stump had a staff in his, not a blade, but Visylon was wise enough to know that didn't mean the man wasn't dangerous.
“Let me pass,” said Visylon.
“No,” said Old Pony. “You must come with us.”
Visylon drew his sword and took it in a two-handed grasp. Old Pony cursed under his breath as he drew his swords over his head and down with a rasp of steel against steel.
The Saerani warrior sprang through the air, bringing his blade overhead in a vicious slice. The startled hudrai blocked it, catching the blade in the notch of his crossed swords, inches above his head. Old Pony stumbled under the blow. Visylon raised his foot and kicked the hudrai in the chest, knocking him sprawling into the shallows at the edge of the island.
Old Pony got to his feet and glanced at the monster still eating Shaft. He sliced the water with his blades to clean
the mud from them. Back on solid ground, he crouched low, weaving both blades slowly through the air. With a yell, he charged the Saerani, coming in low.
Visylon stepped to one side and swung his blade at Old Pony's side. The hudrai brought one blade up to deflect Visylon's and stabbed with the other. But Visylon was out of reach. The Saerani's blade was longer and enabled him to keep his distance. Visylon tried another overhead cut. This time, Old Pony trapped the blade and scissored his own, pushing Visylon's blade aside and leaving the Saerani open. The hudrai leapt in to close the distance. Before Visylon could step out of range, Old Pony gave him a gash across his upper arm. Visylon turned and countered with a thrust the startled hudrai was unable to stop. Old Pony had mistakenly expected another downstroke. His blades made an “X,” which guided Visylon's blade. The Sword of Helsinlae pierced the hudrai's throat and came out the other side. Blood gushed from Old Pony's neck as Visylon withdrew his blade, and the man fell, sprawled across the alder.
Visylon turned to face the last of the hudraii. Stump twisted and spun his staff in a figure-eight before couching one end beneath his armpit. The hudrai crouched slightly, keeping his eyes on the Saerani, thinking to coax him into advancing on him.
“I say again, let me pass.”
Stump responded by attacking. He flipped the staff around and feinted an overhead strike like one of Visylon's sword moves, flowing into a side swipe at the warrior's head. Visylon stepped back but managed to take the blow on his wounded sword-arm. With a grunt of unexpected pain, the Saerani almost dropped his blade.
Angry at himself and his attacker, Visylon began hammering the hudrai with blows. Stump deflected many of the blows, but several times, his staff and his arms had to take the full force of Visylon's strikes. Visylon pressed forward, forcing Stump into the water that separated the island from the shore. Stump kept backing up till both he and Visylon had crossed the water and stood in the clearing among the larches.
Along the shore, just a few feet away, lay a pool of quicksand. As Stump noticed the pool, Visylon swept his sword in an arc that caught the hudrai's staff and twisted it out of his grasp. Stump lost his balance and fell with a splat into the quicksand. He tried to walk out of it, but the motion made him sink further. He swept his arms in a frantic attempt to reach the edge and get out, but his efforts only helped the mire pull him under. In only the span of a handful of heartbeats, the hudrai had sunk to his armpits.