by Tina Daniell
The slig stood between them, its slitlike eyes darting around nervously. Nor could it forget the two humans at the mouth of the cave, waving sticks of fire and shouting at it. Smoke was filling the cave, making breathing difficult.
“Ursa!” cried Kit, concerned.
“I’m fine!” he shouted. Ursa was inching around toward the rear of the cave, behind the slig.
“Awm fawm!” screamed the slig. “Awm fawm!”
It’s imitating Ursa’s speech, thought Kit, even as she made her move, charging with Beck’s sword held in front of her.
As she did, the creature agiley leaped to one side, so that Kit had to stab sideways, then back far away from it. No longer could she spot Ursa, who was lost in the dark recesses of the cave. Colo, meanwhile, had crept forward on her hands and knees, holding up her burning torch.
The creature threw the tracker a scornful glance, then focused its attention on Kitiara. Its eyes fastened on her, and she was transfixed by the feverish white pupils. Kit held her sword threateningly, but she wondered if she could make her legs move if she had to.
Droopface shouted out a stream of words, and the slig’s face twitched, his attention momentarily distracted. But before Kit could recover, the slig had turned back and once again fixed her with its sulfurous gaze.
“Look out!” was all Kit heard before being bowled over by Colo. As Kit tumbled head over heels, she realized that the slig had squirted a stream of its venomous spittle toward her. But Colo, pushing Kit out of the way, had been splattered instead. Now the tracker was screaming in pain and rolling over and over on the dirt floor of the cave.
Getting to her feet unsteadily, Kit barely had time to comprehend Colo’s predicament before the slig attacked. With one swipe of its great, hook-clawed arm, it knocked her hard to the ground. As she fell, Kit dropped her sword, which skittered away from her.
Lunging toward Kit’s prostrate form, the slig suddenly halted and gave a terrible yowl. It instantly whirled around, and Kit, scrambling away, saw that its short tail had been lopped off and was flopping on the ground. The slig hopped around on its hands and clawed feet, screaming in agony.
Ursa danced around in front of it, thrusting his sword at the creature. His tawny hair was tossed back, his dark eyes glinting with determination.
Droopface, who had sneaked onto the lip of the cave, stepped forward and heaved a big net over the creature.
The slig threw back its head, crying out fiercely, trying to shake the net off. Droopface immediately fell back out of sight, clinging to the rock ledge. The slig seemed off balance without its tail and careened toward Ursa, making desperate but powerful swipes with its thick, muscular arms.
Kit glanced over toward Colo, who was bunched up on the ground, shivering and moaning. Not much to be done there, not now. Kitiara scuttled toward her sword lying in the dirt and managed to grip the hilt.
Ursa had not backed off, and Kit was impressed by his strength, his courage, his resolve. The slig made furious charges at the mercenary leader, but Ursa gave no quarter. Then the beast stumbled, and Ursa rushed in, plunging his sword deep into the slig’s side. Black ichor poured out.
The slig swung recklessly and smashed Ursa in the face. Yet the mercenary held onto his sword and, with a superhuman effort, pushed it in even deeper. As he did so, from behind them both came Kit, at a running leap, thrusting her own weapon deep into the right calve of the slig. She immediately pulled her sword out, then plunged it back into the beast’s torso.
The slig lurched backward so abruptly that Kitiara lost her grip. Swaying and falling face forward, it knocked over Ursa, pinning his right leg. Hurrying to the fray, Droopface helped Kit pull their leader out from under the dead creature.
After a moment Ursa sat up, a shaky grin on his face. A bloody gash ran across his shoulder, and his face was bruised and raked with scratches. But he flexed his leg without much pain and managed to stand.
Across the cave, Droopface was already tending to Colo. He had stripped off her clothes and was rubbing her body with one of his unguents. Her moaning had subsided, although every once in a while she yelped in pain. Rolling in the dirt had not been just a reflex; Colo had slowed the effects of the spittle with her actions. Kit knew, from Ursa, that a slig’s venom stung like an army of bees, but if treated swiftly, could be counteracted.
The ugly slig lay twisted and motionless in a dark pool of ichor, its stench filling Kit’s nostrils. Looking down at it, she asked, somewhat breathlessly, “What now?”
“We cut off its head to prove we killed it,” said Ursa.
They got to work with their swords, she and Ursa. It was hard slogging, for the slig’s plated orange hide and corded neck muscles made it like cutting through stone. Only out of this particular stone poured a fetid black mess of blood and innards.
After toiling at the grisly task for some time, Ursa stood up wearily, the job done. He had secured a rope around the slig’s head so they could lower it from the cave without having to carry the heavy, dripping trophy.
Kit went to Colo, who sat on a rock. Her skin was all red and blistered, and she was naked except for a coating of ointment and the blanket that Droopface had draped loosely around her.
“Thanks,” said Kit awkwardly. “If it hadn’t been for you …”
Ursa came over, too, and grinned down at Colo. “The pain will start to go away in a couple of hours,” he said, then added, “if Cleverdon knows his stuff.”
Even under the adverse circumstances, Kit was struck by Colo’s lithe, sensuous figure. The female mercenary didn’t show any false modesty. Colo didn’t draw the blanket any more tightly beneath their gaze. She looked up sulkily at both of them, settling her disgruntled face on Ursa.
“Slime and spittle,” she muttered with a curse. “It hasn’t been my day.”
They rigged up a crude pulley and lowered the bloody head of the slig, the size and weight of a boulder, onto the ground below the waterfall. This took some time. It was past dusk and darkness was descending swiftly. Ursa dragged the slig’s head several hundred feet into a small clearing and dropped the rope.
“We may as well camp here tonight,” said the mercenary, rubbing the wound on his shoulder ruefully.
“What about the horses?” wondered Colo, who was still draped with a blanket.
“I’ll get them,” said Droopface, setting off in the direction from which they had come.
“I’ll help,” volunteered Kit, starting to follow.
Droopface waved her off and disappeared into the dark woods.
“He’ll be all right,” said Ursa.
“What about, er, that thing?” asked Kit, indicating the slig’s gruesome head.
“Oh,” said Ursa, “it isn’t going anywhere.” With some effort he lifted the bloody trophy and stuck it on the end of a short, thick branch thrusting out of a nearby tree. It dangled there, askew, like some grotesque pumpkin-face.
“It’ll give the owls nightmares,” said Colo with a shudder.
“It’ll sure keep the crows away,” added Kit with a grin.
Ursa laughed heartily. They were all exhilarated after the successful fight. Ursa whistled as he bandaged his shoulder, then started a fire. Colo was feeling better already and insisted on donning some clothes and scouting the area for food. The wild berries she brought back augmented the meatsticks that Ursa carried in his pack.
After eating, they set to work cleaning their blades. Colo was looking for more ointment and rummaging in Droopface’s pack, which he had left behind. Kitiara had just finished wiping her sword and was wrapping it in some big, dry leaves when Ursa spoke.
“Wonder where Cleverdon is,” he said quietly. “He’s been gone pretty long.”
Before one of them could answer, a voice rang out in the woods and furtive noises encircled them.
“Stand where you are,” said the voice.
Kit noticed that the small clearing had been invaded by a dank mist seeping in from the perimeter, billowing a
nd growing in size. Out of the mist stepped a dozen men, two or three in ordinary tunics, the others elaborately armored from head to toe. These dozen said nothing, just stood there, shifting their weight. The armored ones wore flat-topped helmets with small eye slits and breathing holes. They were weighted down with an array of weapons, including ornate maces and battle-axes, as well as more conventional crossbows, shields, daggers, and swords.
Ursa made a move toward his sword, which was propped against a rock, but as he did so several nets flew out of the mist and wound themselves around him. They fell about him so tightly that he lost balance and toppled over into the dirt.
Two of the armored men clanked forward and hoisted Ursa between them. He could barely move, much less put up a fight. Kit struggled against her impulse to try to help him. Before he was gagged with a strip of leather Ursa managed to shout out, “Forget me! Save yourselves!” His face was taut and pale with fear.
A pair of the other men marched forward and grabbed Kitiara and Colo, tying them together with their backs to each other. Colo struggled and kicked, but all she got for her efforts was a hard jab in the side. Kit’s mind was racing, trying to think—who were these new foes? What could she do to break free?
The guard closest to Kit was so thoroughly shrouded in steel that she could not tell if what lay underneath the metal was human or spirit. The one watching over Colo was not armored and looked more commonplace—a burly, bearded peasant with a chiseled face and glowering eyes.
Now Kit saw that three other men had materialized from the mist to join the original group. They were the leaders of this business, she realized. Two were elves, or half-elves, Kit guessed by how they held themselves, while the third was a dark-robed mage who stood apart from the others, his eyes glowing with concentration, lips moving, hands fluttering.
“No. Untie the black-haired one. She comes with us,” said one of the elves, pointing to Kitiara. “Kill the other.”
“What is her connection?” asked the other elf.
“She had the sword,” said the first elf. “Let her answer for it.”
He stepped forward, his eyes sweeping the area. Beck’s sword, newly wrapped in leaves, lay at Kit’s feet. In the darkness it was camouflaged. The elf, frowning and taking a step forward, did not see it.
Kit got a good look at him. It was the dark elf who had been watching her on board the Silver Gar. Somehow he had picked up her trail and followed her. But why?
“We must find it,” the dark elf said tersely.
The mist surrounding them was now so thick that Kit could no longer see more than a dozen yards ahead of her. She could hear Ursa grunt as he was dragged to his feet. Colo whispered at her back.
“Get ready!”
Ready for what?
The peasant guarding Colo drew his curved dagger.
The mist was almost suffocating. But something more, it began to pulse and swirl, and then to swirl faster, creating a wind that whirled at terrific speed. A low, almost whining noise built to a din and then into a deafening roar. A roar so horrendous that Kit’s one thought was not to escape but to break her bonds and clasp her hands over her ears. Leaves and branches broke off and flew past her. Debris whacked her in the face.
Through it all, strangely, she heard the low murmuring of the mage.
Kit felt her feet lifted off the ground by the force of a powerful current. She heard someone’s sharp groan, then the sound of a body hitting the ground. “Now!” Colo shouted in her ear.
All of a sudden, Kit was cut free. She bent and groped for her sword hilt. Grasping it, she started toward where Ursa had been—Kit could no longer see him. The whirlwind knocked her off the feet, flattening her on the ground. Colo grabbed Kit from behind, and when she tried to get up again, the tracker held her down on the ground.
“Don’t be a fool!” Colo screamed into her ear above the roar. “Stay down. Roll this way as fast as you can!”
Kitiara could just barely make out the female mercenary in front of her, rolling and crawling and snaking to the right.
Suddenly the maelstrom exploded in full force, sweeping everything up into itself. Even as Kit tried to follow after Colo she was being sucked back toward the clearing and worse, pulled aloft. Her fingers clawed into the dirt. Futile. All manner of things boiled past her, ascending—weapons and horses and flailing bodies.
The slig’s head.
“Grab on!” yelled Colo.
Kit could see that the diminutive warrior had dropped into a small ravine and was clinging with one arm to a giant root. With her free hand she grabbed Kit’s ankle. The force of the gale was such that both women’s bodies were linked in a line, fully extended.
Kit heard the cries of men all around her. She had to close her eyes against the dust and dirt flying into them. She had to gasp painfully to draw a single breath. Through it all she felt Colo’s steady grip on her ankle.
A rock hurtled up and hit Kitiara square in the temple, and she blacked out. The last thing she heard—or thought she heard—was a violent explosion.
Chapter 14
MANTILLA VALE
———
Kitiara woke up, cold water splashing on her face. She was lying on her back on the banks of the river and looking up into the face of Colo, who was crouched beside her, water cupped in her hands. Kit gave a start as everything—the slig hunt, the ambush, the destructive gale—came back to her.
“Shh!” whispered Colo.
Kit propped herself up on her elbows. This didn’t look entirely familiar. “Where am I?” she asked.
“About half a mile from where we were,” said Colo, still whispering.
“How …?”
“I had to drag you! Now be quiet or you’ll give us away!” In a daze Kit heard distant tramping in the underbrush, muffled voices arguing, horses riding off. After what seemed an eternity, the noises tapered away, and she and Colo were surrounded by silence.
“What—” she began anew.
“Quiet,” ordered Colo, placing her hand over Kit’s mouth for emphasis. “Sleep now. In the morning …”
They went behind some rocks. Colo covered Kit with a layer of branches and leaves so that she couldn’t be easily seen and then made a similar blind for herself. As she fell asleep, trying to piece together what had happened, Kit was aware of Colo’s watchful eyes peering out from the camouflage.
Kit woke early the next morning. Colo was on her haunches next to her, throwing her dice and bones and muttering to herself.
They were on the edge of the woods, near the bend of the river where the four mercenaries had first begun tracking the slig the previous day. Obviously, the menace had passed, for Colo had no compunction about being spotted.
“Who were that bunch? What did they do with Ursa?” Kit asked insistently. “Will you please tell me what has happened? Why did that mage summon a whirlwind?”
“I don’t know,” Colo stopped her soothsaying and answered grimly.
“How did you—we—manage to escape?”
Colo smiled slyly. “When they came upon us, I had my hand in Cleverdon’s bag and was able to grab one of the poison blow darts that I knew he carried. It was tiny enough to fit into my hand and slip in my mouth. I waited for the right moment, when the stupid man who was going to kill me reached for his weapon. I spit it into his face. The poison is fast-acting, and in the confusion we were able to get away. Some of them tried to find us afterward but couldn’t, because I dragged you downstream.”
“Where are they now?”
“I think they have given up,” said Colo. “Now it’s our turn to look for them.” She had walked to the riverbank and bent over to sip some water from her hands. “Drink some,” Colo advised. “It’ll be good for you.”
Both drank their fill. Colo thought it best if they were to stay away from the river during daylight, and double back to the site of the whirlwind by a roundabout way through the forest.
They had one sword—Beck’s—which Kitiara had manag
ed to hold onto during the entire episode. Setting off through the brush, they took turns with it now, hacking away undergrowth wherever their path was impeded.
After a short but grueling press through the forest, Kit recognized the general vicinity where they had tied the horses the day before. There were majestic trees with yellow leaves and some clearings dotted with bare rock. Coming into one of the clearings, she and Colo stopped dead in their tracks at the sight that awaited them.
Cleverdon—Droopface—hung from a tall tree, his body stark naked, covered with cuts and oozing pus and blood. The look on his pathetic face was almost peaceful, but his eyes had been dug out. They lay on the ground at his feet where some birds had pecked at them.
Beneath him to one side was faithful Cinnamon, staked out on the ground and horribly flayed. She lay on one side, her flank skinned so that her innards lay exposed, rotting in the sun. Droopface had been killed before he’d been hung, but Cinnamon had died slowly, tortuously bleeding to death while woodland scavengers feasted on her.
Kitiara couldn’t bear to look at the sight. She fell to her knees, covering her face with her hands, fighting nausea.
Colo crept forward, looking around warily. Reaching Cinnamon, the tracker gave the dead horse a hard kick, raising nothing but flies. Likewise she gave Droopface a push. Though the sad-faced one swung back and forth crazily, there was no other movement or sound. Cleverdon had been dead for many hours.
Confident that no one else was around, Colo stalked back to Kit and shoved her in the back.
“What’s that for?” demanded Kit hotly, jumping up to face Colo with a hard-set jaw.
“Because we don’t have time for that schoolgirl stuff,” Colo said angrily.
“That was my father’s horse,” said Kit softly.
“So what? Who’s your father?”
“Gregor Uth Matar,” Kit said dejectedly. Her father seemed farther away now than ever.
Colo looked surprised by this information. “The one Ursa rode with?”
“Ursa!” responded Kit, even more astonished than her companion. “What do you mean? He never said anything about riding with my father.”