by Ed Greenwood
"Tarram!" she called. "Look back!"
For a moment she thought he hadn't heard her, but then she saw he was making for a many-limbed, half-fallen old tree that he could clamber up onto, and have some hope of not being buried alive in cats.
He made it, turned doggedly amid a battering hail of leaping cats, saw Voyvik-and blasted the tentacled monster with the gauntlet.
The magic surrounded it with a nimbus of flickering radiance. Amid that aura, the scaled, slithering thing grew visibly larger, the sword it held became louder in its whisperings-and every dweomercat in sight quivered, turns to regard the tentacled thing …and then rushed toward it, yowling and screaming.
In an instant, it was buried under an ecstatic mountain of dweomercat bodies.
"Run!" The Masked bellowed, as the sun started to set. "Run for yon hill!"
"Way ahead of you!" Tantaerra called back, daring-for the very first time-to hope that they'd make it out of these ruins alive.
Chapter Seventeen
Luraumadar
Tarram Armistrade was out of breath, but this was no time to pause or even slow. There was the hill, ahead, though his lungs were searing and his aching legs starting to stumble-and right behind him, some of them nipping at his heels and shins, were dweomercats beyond counting, a gods-be-damned herd of them, and-
He risked a look over at Tantaerra, to make sure she was still ahead of him. At that moment something blue and supple sprang into view between them.
It was a dweomercat, but this one was as big as an ox, not counting its tail, with jaws on it that-
It roared and sprang over the herd of smaller dweomercats, charging right at him.
Tarram flung himself sideways, but one huge paw, sharp claws extended, raked at his shoulder, slicing his clothing like a row of daggers and sending him staggering.
He spun around, heedless of the squalling dweomercats he was trampling-and they were springing at him again now, seemingly emboldened by the presence of their gigantic kin.
The pack leader-for surely this beast must be their king-came at him again just as swiftly, snarling horribly.
Protect the face. Protect the throat. Protect-
He brought the hand that wore the Fearsome Gauntlet up in front of his face. He knew all about its-whenever he gave any thought to it, it tried to tell him all about them. He knew full well he needn't do anything overt to it, nor move his hand or arm, to awaken its lesser powers. One of which was the invisible battering ram power he'd used before, a smashing punch of air. Yet if the smaller cats were any indication, targeting them with the gauntlet's magic only made them teleport closer, somehow riding the magic back to its source. And the last thing he wanted was this thing getting closer.
Or did he?
It might work. He'd have to get himself in just the right place to-
The cat pounced.
He'd been hit by a rushing wagon, once, and this was worse. It was like the blow of the proverbial giant's fist. All the wind was smashed out of him, and Tarram was flung through the air with musky cat blotting out the sky above him. He had his gauntleted hand wedged firmly in the creature's mouth, wedging the long fangs apart, only magical steel keeping his hand from being crushed or severed as the creature bit down with the strength of a blacksmith's hammer.
Clinging for all he was worth, bracing for the crash that might well break bones when he landed with this great stinking thing on top of him, Tarram called on the gauntlet to deliver one of its force-punches-right down the creature's throat.
He felt the blow, and so did the cat. Right in its lungs or stomach or whatever was first in line down its gullet.
And then they landed, thankfully on squirming, shrieking smaller dweomercats. They broke apart-literally, Tarram still clutching a chunk of shattered fang-to the tune of a howl of dweomercat pain and Tantaerra's shriek of, "Tarram?!"
She sounded close. The giant dweomercat was closer.
Gods, she'd be one gulp for it; he had to keep this thing's attention on him, and-
Well, that wasn't going to be hard. Wild-eyed and roaring in pain, the giant dweomercat was charging again, its paws churning up dirt, smaller dweomercats, and moss-cloaked stones alike in its frantic haste to get at him.
Tarram sent another gauntlet-punch down its maw, pulling the beast toward him even as it shuddered and faltered. It recoiled, then came at him again, shaking its head like a man gulping down something bitter. Blood spewed from its jaws with every shake.
He planted himself to be ready to dodge, not wanting to taste another teeth-numbing slam into the ground, but this time the huge feline came in low, trying to duck under his dagger and his gauntlet and hamstring him, going for the back of his knee.
Which made things almost too easy.
He staggered it with another force punch-its internal organs must be more than ruptured, by now-then flung his legs aside as it appeared next to him, falling on its head as he drove his dagger hilt-deep into one eye. He hung on grimly through the screaming chaos that followed.
By the time his dagger stopped being a handle and he was flung free, the dying dweomercat had clawed and flung itself-and him, along with it-in rolling agony across dozens of smaller dweomercats.
Tarram watched the beast tumble off the hillside they'd been flattening, and crash down across the broken-off base of a stone pillar, flopping bonelessly. Smaller dweomercats were fleeing in all directions, keening in fear, and he was drenched in the gore of the giant one.
Yet he still had his dagger, he still wore the gauntlet, and he seemed to be whole, more or less. Nothing broken, at least …
He drew in a deep breath. He was on his hands and knees, blinking blearily on a steep wooded hillside in Nirmathas, with the musk of countless dweomercats strong around him. As a bright blue glow spilled up out of his clothes, to light his chin from below.
He peered all around, quickly. Many baleful golden eyes looked back. And again their owners started prowling toward him.
Tarram Armistrade scrambled to his feet, still panting.
"And so the masked man prevails, but magic hands him fresh troubles," he gasped aloud. "As it always does."
As he ran, the mask he'd put down his front slid lower and lower down under his clothes, becoming increasingly uncomfortable, until sharp edges jabbed at him with every stride.
Enough.
Tarram dug it out and put it on, trying to ignore the bright blue glow. The Fearsome Gauntlet seemed to be…awakening it.
"Well," he gasped, "all we have to do now is fight our way through Nirmathas and into Molthune, get to Braganza without enthusiastic Molthuni patrols mistaking us for invading Nirmathi rebels, and somehow acquire allies and might enough to get out of Lord Telcanor's clutches alive. That'll require an army. Now, just where might I find one?" He looked at the dweomercats around him, and the moving trail of them that led back to a surging mound that must be the tentacled monster, and sarcastically added, "Oh wait-never mind."
"All right, I won't," Tantaerra put in sourly, from beside him, startling him with how close she now was. "I'm beginning to think you're crazed."
"I am crazed," he told her ruefully. "And damned. And plagued by a smart-tongued halfling princess."
"For the undoubtedly-NOT-last time, I am NOT a prin-oh, never mind!"
∗ ∗ ∗
It was too dark to travel safely, but halting would probably mean their deaths, too. If there hadn't been countless dweomercats, and that tentacled thing had been a mindless monster, and if it hadn't been wielding the Whispering Blade …but there were, and it wasn't, and it was.
It was still patiently trailing them, struggling along through an ever-present swarm of dweomercats that it was killing steadily as it came, yet not seeming to make a dent in their numbers.
By the snarls and occasional thrashings, other forest prowlers were trying to kill and devour the cats, too-and once, Nirmathi arrows had come out of the night to feather many of the cats, then stopped as abruptly as they'd
started.
The moon was rising. Tantaerra risked getting a branch in the eye to look at it, then ducked her head again, still trudging along.
"It's turning into a pretty night to get killed," she murmured. "Hurlandrun can't hold endless dweomercats; what would they all eat?"
"Nirmathi," The Masked told her. "And their horses and mules and hunting dogs, too."
She glanced back at cat bodies being flung against trees by seemingly tireless tentacles. "Not for much longer. The strength of our unwanted furry escort must be dwindling."
Her partner nodded. "We've got to keep hurrying. The dweomercats hampering Voyvik-if it is still Voyvik, and not Mahalagris-will be gone long before morning, at this rate. He'll be right behind us."
"Any other cheerful warnings?" Tantaerra asked bitterly. "I'd love to hear them, while I still can!"
The Masked winced, and shook his head.
Something howled, several hills away to the south, and she resisted the urge to howl back. Calling more guests to the dance would almost certainly be heaping folly atop stupidity.
Not that she'd never done that before.
The moonlight brightened all around them, as they hastened on.
The hand she didn't have started to throb painfully.
Instead of howling, Tantaerra growled instead.
∗ ∗ ∗
They were still stumbling along wearily when the sun rose, its cheerful brightness mocking. They were still in the heart of trackless forest, too.
Tantaerra's stump had taken to aching like fire. She shook it wildly for the hundredth time or so, trying to drive the pain down.
"How are you …" Her masked partner's question trailed off, then picked up again determinedly. "…bearing up?"
"I'll manage," she snarled. "Any bright ideas for not losing our way in these woods?"
Tarram gave her a look. 'I've known how to avoid drifting in a circle since I was a very young lad-and so long as we don't do that, the Inkwater does flow all the way between the two lands. We can't help but blunder into it eventually. Probably just after Nirmathi arrows start heading at us."
"Heed me, my overclever friend," Tantaerra said, a little testily. "That's just what will happen if we end up taking too close a route back across Nirmathas to the one we used to get to the tomb. If we run into any of the same Nirmathi, they'll know the tale we told them about why we came here was false-and will treat us accordingly."
"So we veer south, toward those peaks, right now." The Masked pointed. "I have been thinking about this, as we've walked. And walked. And-"
"Walked," Tantaerra sighed. "So what other clever thoughts did you have?"
"Well …dweomercats can be eaten, and all the fighting this side of the border will have made large meat on the hoof unobtainable by Nirmathi, and limited to what dried supplies they can carry in for the Molthuni."
"So we're liable to get trampled by the hungry warriors of both sides, rushing to take down dweomercats for their cooking-fires?"
The Masked nodded.
He was still nodding when the first spear came out of the trees.
∗ ∗ ∗
"May Molthune triumph!" Tarram shouted hastily, seeing the armor on the men hurrying over a ridge. Molthuni warriors, with spears in their hands and puzzled frowns on their faces.
"No tricks, Nirmathi!" one of them called, leading a charge of leveled spears as well as a charge can be led through a thick stand of trees, over ground uneven with old and gnarled roots. "Surrender or die!"
"Hah!" said another soldier. "Make that surrender and die!"
"Who's your commander?" Tarram barked. "And what's this nonsense with spears? Did someone get hungry enough to eat all the crossbows?"
"No, Delbran ordered-urrk!" Whatever that spearman had been going to say ended abruptly when the Molthuni beside him drove an ungentle elbow into the man's gut, adding a snarl of, "Shut it!"
The other spearmen were scrambling to bar his and Tantaerra's way with a line of menacing spear points.
"Who are you?" one demanded.
"We're Lord Investigators of Molthune," Tarram told him sternly.
"What? A halfling Lord Investigator? Try again, jester!"
"I'm in disguise," Tantaerra Loroeva Klazra told him in dignified tones, lifting her chin. "And will accept your apology, soldier. Here or on trial for treason in Canorate."
The answer she got to that was a snort.
"You're Nirmathi, and you'll be dead Nirmathi very soon if you don't tell us straight what we want to know."
"Delbran ordered you not to waste any more crossbow bolts, yes?" Tarram asked crisply, walking straight toward the spears. If they tried to stick him, he'd blast them with the gauntlet. Until then, he'd heard enough Molthuni officers snapping orders to imitate one that soldiers just might respect. "Running low?"
"We're not to talk about it," the spearman who'd let slip Delbran's name said sullenly, "so-"
"So how'd you like lots of ready meat running right onto your spears?" Tarram pointed over his shoulder with the thumb of his non-gauntleted hand. "We were sent out foraging, and we're leading a herd of dweomercats to every stewpot of Molthune!"
"Dweomercats? The cats from the fairy tales, that eat magic?"
"They're no fireside tale, soldier," The Masked replied. "They're real, and right behind us."
"And you can eat them?"
"'Course you can eat them," another spearman said scornfully. "You can eat any sort of cat. Why, my brother-"
"Will you all shut it?" the first spearman bellowed. "I'm trying to interrogate prisoners here, and-"
"Prisoners?" Tantaerra asked swiftly, peering all around. "What prisoners?"
Whatever reply he was going to snarl died unsaid as the man's mouth dropped open in astonishment. Dweomercats were loping through the trees, scores of them, yellow eyes baleful.
"Run!" one Molthuni bawled, as he spun and heeded his own command. "Run!"
"Glorusk, you come back here! Stand! Stand and fight!"
"Stand and stick yourself some dinner!" another soldier shouted, trotting forward to lunge with his spear.
An instant later, he was bowled over by the squalling, writhing, clawing-and dying-dweomercat who'd tried to swallow it. They crashed to the ground together, thrashing about in dead leaves and thorn vines, and then all the Molthuni were either running or plying their spears in alarm and eager hunger-with the dweomercats in among them like tigers. The cats were more interested in getting past to reach Tarram and his halfling partner than they were in fighting Molthuni who thrust spears at them, but proved quite willing to oblige anyone who jabbed at them.
Tarram and Tantaerra sprinted after the fleeing Glorusk, heading for those distant peaks and-as they saw more Molthuni coming out of the trees-pointing back behind them and shouting enthusiastically, "Herd of beasts! Food for tonight! Roast cat!"
Many soldiers gave them frowns, obviously puzzled about who they were-but the flood of dweomercats snatched away the attention of every one of them.
Every one, that is, save Glorusk. When he ran out of breath and turned to fight, wild-eyed, Tarram caught hold of his spear and jerked him into a helpless stumble forward-and Tantaerra ran in under his feet and sent him toppling face-first into a tree.
They left him sliding down it, unconscious or stunned, and hastened on. Dozens of dweomercats followed, but seemingly just as many remained embroiled in a screaming, spitting, clawing battle. It was hard to tell who was winning, as the soldiers' weapons seemed to have surprisingly little effect against the cats' sleek fur.
"How are there so many, anyway?" Tantaerra panted. "I've never seen even one before this, and now there's a horde!"
"They seek out magic," The Masked replied. "I wouldn't be surprised if this is every one within a hundred miles. Maybe they're even breeding-you can see how small most of them are. I suspect they're still kittens."
"Kittens!" Tantaerra scoffed, watching in fascinated horror as several soldiers went down, the
blue fur of their attackers stained dark with Molthuni blood. She turned away.
Behind them, the din faded swiftly into the green and leafy distances, and Tarram and his partner fell back into trudging along.
Death came for everyone soon enough that there was no need to hurry to find it.
∗ ∗ ∗
It seemed Desna was still smiling on Tarram and Tantaerra when they ran into their next Molthuni, around midday.
The soldiers that greeted them were a proper army this time, but thankfully also low on bolts, and using spears instead-in hand rather than thrown.
As the soldiers of the first watch post rushed through the trees at them, spears outthrust, Tarram gave them his best disapproving glower and ordered, in precise mimicry of a Molthuni commander, "Stop, men of Molthune, and down arms-in the name of the General Lords! Who commands here? Alaskor? I didn't think to meet with any of my countrymen until I was much closer to the Inkwater!"
Jaws were dropping, spear points wavering.
"Well?" Tarram pressed.
Luraumadar, his mask commented approvingly, in the depths of his mind.
"Uh-ah-who are you?" one of the Molthuni warriors asked uncertainly.
"Lord Investigator Osturr, of Canorate," Tarram said flatly. "I report directly to the General Lords. This lady personage with me is an envoy from a distant land who was waylaid by foul Nirmathi, and I am under orders to get her safely to Canorate as soon as possible. I ask again: who commands here?"
Soldiers exchanged doubtful stares with each other.
Tarram stepped past a spear point, loomed up over its wielder, and remarked softly, "Don't make me ask a third time, man. The dweomercats chasing us are hungry, and more than eager to feed."
"What's that mask thing you're wearing?"
"Haven't met any Lord Investigators before, have you?"
"Uh …no. Lord. Sir. Uh, sir."
"Escort us to the river," Tarram ordered crisply, "by the fastest route that will take us to where we can board a boat, and return to Molthune."
"Uh, Lord, the river's almost a day's march on from here, and we've orders to-"