The last words came out muffled, as a vine snaked around my head, blocking my mouth.
At least I wasn’t so ensnared that I couldn’t fight back. I opened my mouth and bit the thing, my most vicious clamp.
If it had been an animal, a person, I was certain it would have loosed a keening wail. Without vocal cords, it could only jerk away from me, sans the bite I’d taken out of it, releasing my head and neck.
I spat. It tasted like dirt mixed with ground up spinach, but with the consistency of a pencil.
“Listen to me,” Carson said. A note of panic tinged his voice. Yet he was still calmer than I or Heidi felt. “I think it’s like quicksand; the more you fight, the worse off you are. See? I’m not moving anymore, and it’s stopped pulling at me.”
It was hard to pull focus onto him, and to keep it for long enough to see that—he was right. Completely right. In his stillness, the vines had been dissuaded. Those still wrapped about his body, pulling him close to the trunk from which they’d burst, remained there. But they had ceased they spiraling coil. The end of one remained poised by his neck, but it did not move to strangle him.
His eyes pleaded with me. “Just … stop moving. It’ll be okay.”
Stop fighting for my life. That’s what it felt like—especially as another fat cable of green muscle was coming up my shoulder, for my neck.
But I forced myself to listen. To obey. And so, closing my eyes, my body like a spring under maximum load and ready to break, I just—froze. No movement, except the breaths from my chest. No bucking. No fighting. I was still.
And like that, as if I’d flipped a switch, the vine ceased too.
Heidi, conversely, was having none of it. She was engaged in a frantic kind of dance, although with her growing wrappings, she reminded me more of someone hopping around in a woman-sized pillowcase.
“Stop fighting it, Ron Weasley!” Carson called. “You’re just making it worse!”
“It’s—choking—me!”
“So stop moving!”
“He’s right, Heidi,” I said. It was my best please just listen to me right now or you might actually die here voice. “If you stop, it’ll stop too.”
“I—can’t—”
Her eyes bugged out. Her body tensed under a mass of green that had now wrapped her so fully up to her shoulders and neck that only glimpses of color remained of her.
“Heidi, stop moving, damn it!” Carson roared.
Somehow, she did it. Maybe part of that was oxygen deprivation. Maybe part of it was panic, knowing that what she was doing wasn’t working and these might be her last conscious moments to try something, anything, that might save her. Almost certainly it was not willing acquiescence to me or Carson. But she froze. And the vines stopped too. Loosened, even: after a few panicked moments, her face relaxed. She opened her mouth, and sucked in a breath. It came out again and was immediately replaced.
Breathing must have never felt so good. Though I would not put myself in a position to test that theory.
We caught our breath for a few long minutes. The wave of panic that had washed over me began to slowly ebb away.
Soon, my thoughts turned again to Borrick.
“He’s getting away,” I mused.
“Can’t really help that right now, can we,” Heidi said flatly.
I frowned.
“Maybe if we just …” I started. I wiggled, my softest little wiggle. Maybe the sheen of sweat on our bodies, and minimal movement, would be enough to free us from this duress.
It wasn’t. Any movement bigger than a turn of the head, the rise and fall of my chest, and the vines began their tightening again, clamping on to me like I was trapped in a vise that meant to squeeze me into juice.
I froze.
They let off.
I sighed, hollow.
Carson bit his lip. “Maybe there are other people out here who might help?”
“Have you heard or seen anyone other than Borrick and his newest band of thugs?” Heidi asked.
“No …”
“So there’s your answer. We’re alone out here.”
“So what do we do then?”
Heidi closed her eyes. “Shut up and die in peace.”
After that, she was silent.
Carson and I exchanged looks. But what was there to do? Tiny movements didn’t do it; the vines tightened again straight away. Feruiduin’s Cutlass was totally inaccessible, as was Decidian’s Spear. I didn’t think Carson had anything in his manbag that could help—a Swiss army knife, maybe.
I blamed technology for this. Why, oh why, had the tech giants developed voice-activated speakers, phones that could talk back, when they could have been inventing the voice-activated, remote-controlled penknife? Penknife, cut us free! And we’d be out, simple as that. Or an Inspector Gadget-style hat.
Just as my lamentations moved from tech gripes toward taking at least some responsibility for our error, something crashed in the brush.
Carson’s eyes went wide. “What was that?”
I hesitated. An answer had come to me, ready to go: It’s whatever the monster is that these vines catch prey for. I couldn’t bring myself to say it though, not least because I feared it was one hundred percent true.
The crashing grew louder. I tracked it, unsure whether to resume my fight or just lay down and die. It came from behind a blanket of trees and oversized shrubs with fronds for leaves. Closer, closer …
I gritted my teeth, ready for the worst as the bush nearest shook—
And then out it burst. A flash of green, red, and yellowed white. A vast mass, it pushed forward, and I opened my mouth to scream—
Then it stopped.
And I stopped with it.
It was an orc. Clad in dull red armor covered in bony barbs, he peered at me through beady little eyes under a mop of very flat dark hair.
I knew this orc. This was …
“Burbondrer?”
14
The orc swelled at the mention of his name. “My name is known!” Like that was some great accomplishment. People knew the name of Brand all over, and it hadn’t done me a bit of good.
Carson stared. His eyes were almost all whites. And why wouldn’t they be? The last time he’d encountered orcs, he’d been carried off by them and imprisoned and used as bait to lure me and Heidi to his rescue. They hadn’t hurt him particularly, apart from a little roughing up—being manhandled by those things was undoubtedly not the most pleasant experience—but still, it made sense that he would be wary.
“Burbondrer of Ocklatojsh,” he announced proudly, slamming a mighty fist on his chestplate. It reverberated with a clang. “And you are …”
He looked at us curiously, one after the other, settling last on me. Then the beady look turned into a full stare. His mouth dropped, revealing discolored teeth. Behind his eyes, the wheels turned.
He recognized me.
Suddenly, I wished the thing bursting from the swamp had been whatever creature scavenged meals from these vines. At least it might have a dumb sort of intelligence that we could outsmart. Enough of a fight and we might convince it that we weren’t worth the effort. Better that than an orc with a score to settle.
“You are the intruder,” he said. “Stealer of Decidian’s Spear.”
“The name’s Mira Brand,” I said, thinking quick. “And I’m sorry that I stabbed you before.”
“You stabbed him? That’s how you know each other?” Carson breathed. “Oh, for crying out loud …”
Burbondrer gave him a curious look. Then his eyes were on me again.
He sized me up … and stepped my way.
The distance closed. I braced, all too aware of the hilt of a vast sword swinging at his hip.
He was almost on me …
And then he stopped.
Apparently I’d closed my eyes without realizing. Now I opened one … to see Burbondrer appraising me, before sitting heavily on the ground.
A vine sprung up for him.
He slapped it away. The clap was booming, the force enough to knock whatever brains the plant had doolally, because it dropped into the creepers underfoot and remained there.
“I’m surprised to see you here,” said Burbondrer. “Very surprised indeed. Not a fit place for humans.”
“I could say the same about you,” I retorted.
“I am on a mission!” He belted the words heavenward, banging a fist again to his chestplate. There was no doubt in my mind that the force behind that blow would be enough to crush my skull. “For honor!”
“What sort of mission?”
“Not your business,” said Burbondrer.
“Well, we’re on a mission too.”
His eyebrows rose. Interest piqued, apparently. “Oh? And what mission is that?”
I was going to come back with a cagey quip of my own. But before I could, Burbondrer glanced at Carson, who had been staring with eyes about ready to pop out of his head. There was no menace in Burbondrer’s gaze, but Carson’s brain must have told him otherwise, because he blurted like an interrogated prisoner, “We’re going after the Tide of Ages!”
Heidi’s silence broke. “WHY CAN’T YOU JUST SHUT UP?”
Burbondrer’s curious look moved to her. Then, to me, he said, “The miniature human is agitated.”
Yeah, what was new there?
Carson mumbled an apology.
“Look, about before. I meant it—about being sorry I stabbed you. I didn’t want to.”
“Do you have Decidian’s Spear still?”
“Uh … yes. Still got it.”
The interest on Burbondrer’s face ratcheted up. “May I see it?”
“Um … I mean, we’re kind of caught up here.”
“Oh! Of course.”
He lumbered back to his feet. A brutish fist closed around his sword. He pulled it free with a Hollywood sh-i-ick noise. The blade curved into two jags, forming a purple crescent.
He raised it overhead.
I screamed, sure my skull would be split open and Burbondrer would take his revenge and make off with the spear—
Then the blade sailed down, connecting with something thick down by my feet. Momentarily, I thought it was my foot: the sheer force seemed to be focused on my body. Yet it was not. I realized, eyes prised open with all the effort in the world, that Burbondrer had cut the source of the vines ensnaring me. They fell off in loops, raining down around my feet.
Free. I was free.
And this orc had done it?
He moved to Carson next. Carson whimpered, eyes closed. Then he too was loosed.
Finally it was Heidi’s turn.
“Don’t you come near me with that thing,” she warned.
“But I am helping,” Burbondrer said, perplexed. “Don’t you want freedom from the strangleroot?”
“Inspired name, but—I said to get away!!”
Burbondrer exchanged a look with me. I shrugged. Burbondrer took it to mean to proceed; he closed the distance to Heidi. She jerked away, screaming bloody murder. The strangleroot began to tighten again—
Then the sword struck true one last time, and the aptly-named strangleroot released its hold, setting forth a very small, very agitated Asian girl.
Heidi scrabbled away, still so covered in vines she looked like she’d been wrapped in pesto spaghetti. She pushed out of it, terrified eyes on Burbondrer as she put as much distance between them as she could.
Burbondrer’s baffled look returned to me. “I was helping.”
“I know.” And that was pretty crazy. But since when was my life anything but? “Thank you.”
He nodded, and sheathed the sword again.
“May I see Decidian’s Spear now?”
I hesitated. What if this was all some ruse to make off with it?
Yet he’d done me a favor … and I couldn’t help but recall that he was just as unwilling to fight as I had been during our previous encounter. Was the same now true?
Edgily, I pulled the umbrella from my pocket (which was, I decided, almost certainly going to be its permanent resting place, considering the number of metal rings I’d broken, yanking it off my belt at short notice). Then, with wary eyes on this orc, I shook it out to its full, unglamoured length.
Burbondrer cooed.
Like a child, he sat.
Dazzled eyes sparkled over the spear’s length.
“Such majesty,” he said.
“Um … yeah.”
I wasn’t sure whether he wanted a show. And what could I give as one? I’d come to be, at best, somewhat proficient with the thing since having it. But my moves were relegated to swings and jabs. Nothing particularly fancy. Should I be thrown into combat with someone trained in the use of a spear, I would be shish kebab pretty damn fast.
I settled for my best presentation: a brief spin in my hands, so the bladed tip spun.
“I see you have cleaned it,” Burbondrer said.
I winced. Not true; the spear seemed to have its own magical maintenance, because it had gradually cleaned off by itself during the course of the few days following my altercation with this orc. I didn’t like to remember that—not least because he’d now freed us from certain death.
“Yeah, well, it’s … it’s important to have a clean weapon,” I said, and condensed it back to its umbrella form, pocketing it. “Inspires fear in those you face. Or something.” That probably wasn’t true, but it sounded intimidating.
Burbondrer lumbered back up.
Heidi had crept very slightly closer to us again. Still distrusting, but now free of vines, she stared at the orc with dark eyes.
He peered back.
Again, I was reminded of a child.
Carson muttered to me, “What do we do with him?”
“I have ears,” Burbondrer said.
At the same time, Heidi said, “We leave him and get out of here. I don’t want an orc around.”
“I have ears.”
Carson turned to address him. “Burb—what did you say your name is again?”
“Burbondrer of Ocklatojsh,” he said proudly.
“Burb … Bubron …” Carson licked his lips. “I can’t say that. Can I just call you … Bub, or something?”
I braced for Burbondrer to respond that such a nickname was dishonorable, or whatever nonsense orcs believed in. Instead, he acceded with a short nod.
“You may,” he answered. “Do you have a name?”
“Carson. Carson Yates. That’s Mira. And that’s—”
“Don’t you tell him my name,” Heidi growled.
“Heidi,” I finished for him.
Blazing eyes threatened to burn a hole through me.
I ignored them, turning back to Burbondrer. One issue at a time.
“We told you our mission,” Carson said. “What’s yours?”
Burbondrer shook his head, as far as it would go. “This is not your business.”
“Cagey little bastard,” said Heidi.
“He just saved our lives,” Carson countered.
Heidi sidestepped this. “Unless he knows a way to get to the next temple—”
“Temple?” Burbondrer piped up. “That one? Over there?”
He pointed through the brush, west to north-west. Going by the angle, and knowing Borrick’s vector, he seemed to aim somewhere along the coast.
“Yeah,” I said, chancing it. “You know it?”
A guarded look came across Burbondrer’s face. “I may know it,” he said. “I am heading that way myself.” He sized us up a moment—sized me up, mainly. “I could … go with you, I suppose. I have a boat docked nearby—”
Carson leapt forward. “Yes,” he breathed. “We need a boat!” To me: “Can we keep him?”
“He’s not a dog.” At Burbondrer’s look of alarm, I said, “Do you even, um … want to come with us, uh … Bub?”
Doubtful, and the look on Burbondrer’s face told us as much. But this was one curious orc, not cut from the same cloth as the rest. And so I was half
surprised and half not when he said, “You require guidance through this mire. The strangleroot is thick. With me leading, you may pass through without incident.”
A pause.
Carson: “Is that, um, a yes?”
Burbondrer slapped his chestplate. “I, Burbondrer of Ocklatojsh, will rise to this challenge. For honor!”
And off he surged: sword drawn, alternately slicing at springing roots and slapping the overzealous ones down, he carved a path through the swamp.
The worry echoed in the back of my mind that he was here with Borrick, the last loyal remnant of an otherwise evaporated orc army. Right now, we might well be being led into a trap.
But the promise of a boat won out—and so I fell in with a hurried step, leading my own companions onward.
15
Our trek through the swamp was much faster than it would have been without Burbondrer’s—Bub, as Carson had called him, because it was a lot simpler to say—guidance, even if our path was weaving as we avoided places where vine clusters were too thick to cut through, or water pooled in great, algae-covered expanses. Truth be told, I found it a real struggle to keep up. Before long, I was lagging in third. Bub and Carson took the lead. I zoned in and out of their conversation. Carson was quizzing Burbondrer on all things orc: quite a sweet turnaround. The answers I paid attention to were mostly guarded, but that didn’t stop Carson from probing.
Otherwise, though, I was stuck in my head. Worrying about two things: Borrick being the first and most pressing. He had had such a lead on us. How could we hope to catch up in time to lay hands on the second key, even with Burbondrer accelerating our push?
The other worry approached me from behind.
“I want to talk to you,” Heidi said.
I glanced at her, sidelong.
She’d been so incendiary today, unwilling to listen. It was grating … but worse, I wasn’t surprised. The past month had seen a slow ramping up of this sort of behavior from her. And I got it, I truly did. Stalling out when you wanted to make progress sucked, big time. I recalled that well from—well, my whole life up to leaving home. And more than a little during my search for the Chalice Gloria.
But there were ways of handling it. And after today, I couldn’t help but wonder if accepting her into the fold had been a mistake.
The Tide of Ages (The Mira Brand Adventures Book 2) Page 10