“Curb your tongue, dark knight,” Ryin said darkly. “There’s no cause for rudeness.”
“There’s no use in your bedchamber wench being offended for the whole troll race and snapping at me either, but she did.” Terian pulled back on the reins of his horse, turning it around to face the druid. “Keep your bitch on her leash; even Vaste wouldn’t have taken umbrage at such a simple observation.”
“All of you-shut up.” Aisling’s voice cut through the argument, silencing all three officers at once. Cyrus raised an eyebrow as the dark elf dismounted her horse and crouched by the edge of the water. The swamp’s edge was murky water, brown and shallow, a pool the size of the Sanctuary foyer, broken by small hummocks of trees and land that broke out of the mire. She stood and looked up to Martaina. “How long would you say?”
“Fifteen minutes at most,” the ranger answered. “Probably more like ten. The water looks shallow enough that I may be able to keep up with his footprints.” She straightened in her saddle. “Doubt the rest of you will be able to see them, though.”
“I don’t need to see them so long as you can,” Cyrus said. “Let’s keep going.”
Their progress was slowed as Martaina stared into the muck. They went along at a slower pace, the elf squinting into the water, pausing every few minutes, trying to decipher the dwarf’s path. “He’s leaving heavy impressions in the mud beneath the surface. He’s not running anymore, but he’s still … jogging, I would say. Walking fast. He’s also limping a little now, maybe from an injury or a cramp.”
“That’s amazing,” Terian said, holding his horse back at a distance with the others while Martaina and Aisling tried to decipher the trail. “Can you tell what he had for breakfast this morning, too?”
“If we follow him long enough, we’ll find some evidence of that,” Martaina said, not breaking away from her staring contest with the water. “This way.”
The water dried up ahead, and a set of tracks led them forward, cypress trees sticking out of the sodden ground around them. “It would appear we’re experiencing a drought,” Longwell said from behind Cyrus. “This swamp is usually considerably farther underwater, near impassable on horseback.”
“Too bad for us,” Mendicant said. “If the water were any higher, it might have stopped him from passing this way.”
“Yeah, you short folk don’t tend to like to get wet, do you?” Terian asked.
“It doesn’t take much for us to get in over our heads,” the goblin replied. “Rather like this fellow.”
The ground got higher for a spell, and the brush around them got thicker as bushes sprang out of the wet ground, the undergrowth and trees slowing their progress. In some cases they were forced to go around; in most, Cyrus felt at least a few low-hanging boughs and branches clatter on his armor and felt a moment’s pity for those not wearing any.
“I hear him,” Martaina said a few moments later, a small smile turning up the corners of her mouth. “He’s not far ahead now, and I don’t think he knows we’re here. He’s slogging along, maybe a thousand feet ahead.” She angled her horse slightly to the left. “This way.” She pulled her bow out and notched an arrow.
They rode across a small patch of level ground, and when they crested a small hill, Martaina froze, holding up her hand to halt them. She listened intently as the rest of them remained quiet. “Do you hear that?” she asked, a look of intense concentration upon her face.
“I do,” Curatio said. “Something in the underbrush ahead, in addition to our dwarven friend.”
“What, he’s got company?” Terian asked. “Or is there an animal nearby?”
Martaina continued to listen, and cocked her head, befuddlement showing through the mud and dirt on her face. “That doesn’t sound like any animal I’ve ever heard.”
Curatio shook his head. “Nor I. But he’s not far, we should be able to overtake him now.”
“Let’s not be too hasty,” Cyrus said. “I’d prefer to bring him down before he can throw out one of those spells that sends men and horses flying like kites in the wind. Rangers, ready your bows. Nyad, Mendicant,” he turned to acknowledge the two of them, “I want you to cast a cessation spell on him, shut down his ability to cast spells. J’anda,” he turned to the enchanter, “mesmerize or charm him if you can. Let’s not take any chances on this. It’s the last task we have before us, then we can go back to Vernadam to …” he cleared his throat, “… celebrate.”
Mild snickers filled the air from those around him, which Cyrus ignored. “Good for you, sweetie,” Nyad said. “I think it’s a very healthy thing you’re doing with Cattrine, and you can ignore these naysayers. They’re just jealous because they’re all going to back to lonely beds.” J’anda shot her a withering look. “Well, some of them are, anyway.”
Cyrus turned back to the path and caught Aisling staring at him. She looked away and spurred her horse forward. He followed along with the rest over a hummock that rose to a small hill. When he reached the top, he started to jerk back on Windrider’s reins; Martaina and Aisling had both stopped abruptly, trying to avoid sliding down the slope. “What?” Cyrus asked. “The slope’s not that bad.”
“What is that?” Martaina asked, pointing ahead. The ground before them dropped down to another patch of flat ground. Cyrus’s eyes were drawn to motion ahead, where something was struggling, and another figure was on top of it, wrestling in the high grass.
“Looks like our dwarf got tangled up with the local wildlife,” Cyrus said, urging Windrider ahead. The horse obeyed his gentle command and galloped down the hill.
As they drew closer to the battle, Cyrus caught glimpses of Partus struggling, flashes of the dwarf’s face, panicked, as something rode his back and dragged him down again and again. The thing was bizarrely shaped, like a man crossed with a four-legged beast; its skin was pale, wet, and slick. Clawed hands grasped at Partus, seizing him, jerking him back down to the ground behind the high grass, and a face appeared, something Cyrus caught only a glimpse of before it was gone.
He jerked on Windrider’s reins about twenty feet from the disturbance and the horse reared back, coming to a fast stop within a few steps. Cyrus dismounted and ran; as he drew closer, the thrashing between dwarf and the creature was more pronounced.
“Help me!” Partus screamed. He was lifted aloft, and the creature’s face was on his neck, buried, blood streaming down the white flesh. “HELP!”
Cyrus lunged forward the last few feet. His sword was in his hand, and he took care not to hit the dwarf as the writhing mass twisted on the ground. Cyrus brought his sword down on one of the creature’s forelegs and Praelior bit deep into the ghost-white flesh, severing it. The creature halted, unbalanced, Partus still clutched in its mouth, the dwarf screaming, the beast’s face hidden by the dwarf’s body. It dropped Partus slightly, exposing the upper part of its face; white-grey skin thinly layered over a hairless, dome-like head, roughly human-shaped, but peering above the dwarf’s figure were two eyes, black all the way to the edges, and protruding from the skull as though the creature had been choked.
“What the hell is that?” Cyrus heard Terian dismount behind him. Two arrows hit home in the creature’s backside, the only part of its body that Partus wasn’t shielding with his.
“GET IT OFF ME!” Partus shouted as it dangled him in its teeth, the dwarf hanging from its mouth.
Cyrus strode forward, feinting toward the creature as more arrows landed in its posterior. He took a swipe at it and it retreated. Cyrus took two more steps forward and lunged at the monster, trying to bury his sword in it. He missed the flank and fell, Praelior coming down with him. He hit his knees, catching himself with his palms, and he watched as the creature dropped Partus immediately and used its remaining three limbs to leap at him.
The teeth caught him on the armor, clamping firmly down upon his breastplate and backplate. He saw the creature’s mouth, a wide, gaping void, countless teeth, the lips bending outward almost like a beak. Cyrus rolled, se
nding it writhing through the grass. He kept his grip on his sword, which he brought around in a wide arc and used to lop off the beast’s hind leg. It struggled, biting down on him. His armor did not flex at its bite, the steel failing to yield to savage teeth even as the creature jerked its head back and forth on him. The weight of it pushed Cyrus to the ground, and he pulled it down with him.
Cyrus could feel the weight of the thing atop him as he pushed against it on the soft, muddy ground. His left arm was wrapped around the neck of the creature and his right was clutching Praelior. He pushed his blade up, into the stout body of the thing, felt the give as he pushed it through the skin. He felt the monster buck and squirm as it fought his hold, the desperate thrashing growing more maniacal.
After a few seconds, Cyrus felt an impact, and then the body went limp. He rolled it off and sat up, tossing the body aside, the putrid smell of rot in his nose. His hand came up and brushed his hair out of his eyes.
“You all right?” Martaina was at his side, her bow in her hand.
“I’m fine,” Cyrus said. He looked to his left to see Longwell, spear in hand, the pointy end still buried in the creature’s fat neck. It lay next to him, pressed to the ground. “What the hell was that?”
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Longwell said, wriggling the tip of his weapon in the creature’s neck. “As far as I know it’s not native to these parts.”
It was upright, its skull and eyes staring blindly up at them. The eyes were still black but unmoving now, and lifeless as well. Cyrus leaned over and stared into them, and something prickled in the back of his mind. “This thing is …” he shuddered. “There’s something very disturbing about this creature.” He blinked. And familiar, he thought. Something very familiar about it. “Anyone ever seen anything like this before?”
“Not that I can recall,” Curatio said, on his horse a few feet away. “But it seems … I don’t know, there’s something I can’t quite put my finger on, but it seems like something I’ve run across at some point before.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Longwell said, peering at it. “But I didn’t want to say it, because I know damned well I’ve never fought one of them.” He poked at it again, causing the body to wriggle with the motion. “I wonder if there are more?”
“It was a nasty bastard,” Cyrus said, standing. “But pretty weak overall. If it hadn’t gotten me off my feet, I don’t think it would have been a huge challenge.” He stooped and picked up his helm. “Speaking of challenges …” He turned his head and saw Partus a few feet away, Terian standing next to him with a sword across the dwarf’s neck. “There you are, my half-sized, bearded nemesis.”
“Here I am,” Partus said, his eyes still staring at the creature. “Not planning on going much of anywhere, either. I don’t care what you say, that thing damned near got me, and if there’s any more, I’m not looking to face them alone, though I might have made a better show of it if your wizards hadn’t cessated my damned spells. Anyhow,” the dwarf said, hands up, “I suppose I’ll be coming with you.” He looked up at Terian. “Unless you’re planning on being done with it right here and taking my head off.”
“So very tempting,” Terian said, and let the blade drift into Partus’s neck.
“I think not,” Cyrus said. “We’re not executioners.”
“Well, then,” Partus began to stand, and Terian kicked the dwarf’s legs out from under him, causing him to fall. He lay on his back, staring up. “Oh, so that’s how it is, eh? Are you quite finished?”
“I could stand to do it a few more times,” Terian said.
“I’ll just bet you could, you blue-skinned sadist. Not a great surprise to me that a dark knight feels the need to poke at me when I’m unarmed and surrendering; it’s not as though you’d stand a chance when I have my weapon in my hand,” Partus said.
“I’m more than a match for you, Partus,” Terian said coolly. “I just never did like you is all, so I’m taking this opportunity to get a few digs in for all the joy you gave me back when we were Alliance officers together.”
“I hear a lot of talk from you, Lepos,” Partus said, his ruddy complexion dark, “but I’m without my hammer, your sword’s at my throat and your wizard’s got a spell preventing me from sending you back to Arkaria in one good jump. Why don’t you just be a good lad and hand me my weapon and I’ll empty your head with it, just like I did your friend there.” He pointed to Cyrus, his small eyes fixed on Terian.
“Enough,” Cyrus said. “Bind him, gag him, and put a rock in there first so he can’t move his tongue around. We don’t need him hitting us with a spell if he can cast sublingually.” Cyrus smiled. “Better still, strap his hands around his neck; if he wants to cast a spell he can take his own head off and solve our problem of what to do with him.”
“What about this thing?” Aisling was on her hands and knees in the grass, next to the creature. Cyrus blinked in surprise. He hadn’t even noticed her there.
“What about it?”
“Maybe we should bring it with us?” She ran a finger along the flesh of its arm. “I know there are some strange and fanciful creatures in the world, but this is unlike anything I’ve seen. Might be worth taking a closer look at with a dagger. Especially,” her eyes flashed, “if there are any more of them out there.”
“I don’t see reason to concern ourselves overmuch,” Cyrus said, “but better to be overprepared than under, I reckon. Bind it, too, just in case, and bring it along on the back of your horse.”
“My horse?” Aisling said, looking at him with equal parts disbelief and offense. “Why mine?”
“Because as the brilliant originator of the plan,” Cyrus said with a smile, “you get to carry it out.” He sniffed. “Also? That thing smells.”
“Great,” Aisling muttered under her breath. “Because I need more reasons to help you find me unappealing.”
Cyrus ignored her, whistling instead to Windrider, who came to a halt beside him. He patted the horse and climbed up in the saddle. “Mendicant,” Cyrus said, and waited for the goblin to appear out of the clump of the Sanctuary party, which had gathered behind him, between where they stood and the hill that he had charged down, “do you think your horse can bear the weight of you and our prisoner?”
“If we don’t run him too hard,” the goblin warned. “It’s been a long day, though, and we’ll be needing to rest the horses soon.”
“It’s an hour or so back to the edge of the swamp and a little farther to the crossing,” Cyrus said. “Let’s make camp once we’ve met up with the rest of our army, give our horses a night of rest.” He frowned, adjusting himself in the saddle and feeling a dozen aches and pains. “And ourselves as well. We’ll make our way back to Vernadam tomorrow.”
They took a few minutes to get situated and give the horses ample time to drink from a small stream of fresh water, and then started back. The journey took hours, and seemed slower than the trip in, the party mostly quiet from the fatigue of traveling through the night on the evening before.
Cyrus found himself riding next to Aisling and Martaina at one point, as the two trackers attempted to steer them clearly back toward the plains. “I never did get a chance to ask you,” Cyrus said to Aisling, startling the dark elf, “what was your impression of the Galbadien rulers when we were at Vernadam?”
Her eyes became snakelike as she studied him. “I came to make my report and found you … otherwise occupied.”
“You say that like it’s a curse,” Cyrus said mildly. “You’ve been badgering me for two years to loosen up, and now I have. Perhaps it’s a sour taste in your mouth, some envy that springs from deep within.”
Aisling let out a sharp exhalation of breath, almost like a hiss, and rolled her eyes. “You presume too much. Just because I’ve been honest about my interest in you, don’t assume that I’m so petty and insecure that I can’t handle even the thought of you pleasuring yourself with another woman.” She held her head high as she spoke to him. �
�I’ve offered in the past to bed you and another woman at the same time, though something tells me that the Baroness wouldn’t be much interested in that.”
“Fair assumption,” Cyrus said. “But still, I point out, your reaction to this turn of events is rather …” He thought about it, trying to find a diplomatic turn of phrase, “… sharp. Less than pleasant.”
“I beg your pardon, my Lord of Perdamun,” Aisling said, bending at the waist in a graceful bow that saw her nearly fold double yet not lose her balance on horseback. “My intention was not to be acute in my response to you. If I was, I apologize. Perhaps I was merely dismayed that after so many times offered, it seemed that you might finally be coming around-and you did, but with someone else.” Her eyes flashed again as she stared at him, and he caught a flippant toss of her white hair. “Forgive me for not quickly adapting to the new state of things.” Some of the acid was leeched out of her words, but enough remained that Cyrus felt the burn of it.
“I … can’t say I feel nothing for you. I am warming to you, but …” he pulled back, not wanting to finish his sentence.
“You felt more for her?” Aisling did not bother to hide the bitterness; she wore it plainly. “I can’t fault you for that; it’s not as though you can control the direction of your feelings. But it does hurt.”
“I have to ask,” Cyrus said, feeling the pull of a question within. “What is it about me that draws you so? You tried to seduce me, even though you knew I was in love with Vara. Now I’m with another woman, and still …” She blanched and he stopped speaking.
There was a pregnant pause before she spoke. “You asked, and in your question you have your answer.”
He thought about it for a moment. “I don’t understand.”
“You’re guileless,” she said with a sigh. “There’s no deception within you when it comes to personal matters. In battle you’re cunning when need be, but you’re straightforward in all else-you go right at what you want, no treachery, no trickery.”
Crusader s-4 Page 23