"You took it!" The anger in Badswell's voice took on a generous hint of menace.
"No!" I declared forcefully. I was shaken by the abrupt disappearance, but my mind raced for an explanation. The fact that my companion could have squashed me like a bug if he decided to do so was something I had to factor into my hypothesis.
"We already know these are magic sticks," I told him. "Mine heals; yours causes that slow spell. There's some kind of other enchantment that took effect as soon as I brought them close together. One of them just disappeared!"
"Not 'one of them,' " Bads retorted with distressingly effective logic. "Mine disappeared."
"Look," I said, forcing myself to remain calm, "you can search me if you think I took it. But we're partners, Bads. I wouldn't cheat you or lie to you!"
It was the truth, too, though I realized with a trace of guilt and chagrin that I had cheated and lied to other partners before, without a noticeable twinge of conscience. Yet now, somehow, I had changed. I only hoped that Badswell could be made to see that.
Despite his dim-witted appearance, the half-ogre seemed to grasp that fact. He stared at me, still scowling, then nodded slowly.
"How will you get it back?" he demanded, shattering my illusions as to his understanding.
"How should I know?" I shot back. "I tried to tell you—it just disappeared!"
"You said that little piece helped you know where my Mum's piece was before. Why won't it do it again?"
I was about to make another sharp retort when I realized what he was saying and immediately regretted my assessment of my companion as 'dim-witted.' He had perceived something that I had been too agitated to understand.
"Let's see if it'll do the same thing again," I declared, suddenly very hopeful. Indeed, it seemed terribly important, somehow, that we find the other piece of the stick, if only to improve Badswell's mood.
I stood up in the little grotto and started to walk in the direction we'd previously been traveling. Immediately I felt that I was making a mistake, and veered my course toward the right. By the time I'd climbed out of the rock-lined depression, I had turned ninety degrees off our previous route and found myself starting down a long, gradual slope.
"I can't be sure," I said, trying to contain my excitement. "But I think it's somewhere in this direction."
"Let's go." Badswell lumbered to his feet, then paused and scowled at me. "Wait—I'll take yer stick till we get mine back."
Panic surged at the thought of losing the little chip of ebony. "Why?" I asked, stalling for an excuse to change his mind. I wanted desperately to hold on to my piece.
"Make sure you gets me mine, all right?"
"Well, I can't find yours unless I carry mine—right? I promise I'll stay close to you. I won't go away."
I was telling the truth, though once again I wasn't entirely sure why I did so. Perhaps I felt somewhat responsible for the big lug. In any event, I had no intention of abandoning Badswell to his fate.
The half-ogre thought for a second, but apparently he believed me. "Okay," he agreed, and he followed me from the clump of rocks. We walked side by side as we started to make our way along the forest floor.
The gradual descent of the ground held firm. As we walked through the day, I sensed the moistness of the air against my face, smelled the growing stench of stagnant water. At the same time, I felt utterly certain that we were going in the right direction—that my piece of ebony did, in fact, convey the course to the stub Bertisha had owned.
We had passed into an open woodland, and fortunately the walking was easy. The ground at the base of the trees remained grassy and smooth, the grade too gentle to require much attention. As we strolled along, I groped for an explanation of these peculiar ebony-black segments. More to the point, I began to guess that the two chips were in fact parts of the same magical device. It had somehow been snapped in two, and the strange geometric patterns had been inscribed as a means of showing how it linked together.
Another thought occurred to me: Since the larger of the two pieces had been carved at both ends, perhaps the original device even continued into a third piece. This made sense, at least when I considered past experiences. During the course of my adventures, I had encountered a variety of magical wands and staffs, and even the smallest had been bigger than our two pieces of ebony placed together.
My mind turned toward the grotesque spider-beasts that had twice attacked me. Those things were a worry, to be sure, and with that thought, I swiveled my head, peering into the woods on both sides and behind us, momentarily fearful that another one of those white tunnels might open up.
"Whoops!" declared Badswell, abruptly grabbing me by the collar.
"Hey! What's the big—" I started to object, then looked down and realized that, lost in my musings, I'd been about to step off the lip of a steep precipice that suddenly yawned in the forest floor. The cliff dropped into a deep gorge, with an opposite face of rock rising to our level about thirty feet away. Down below—far, far below—I saw a tangle of jagged rocks lining the bottom of the chasm.
"Um, thanks," I murmured, shuddering at the vision of the fatal fall I had so narrowly avoided.
"Anyone kin fall down," he said with a grim chuckle, pointing to the leg I had healed for him yesterday. "Just try not to drop so far."
"Right," I agreed, still shaken by the narrow escape. Still, it was good to see some sign of humor from the big half-ogre; I was glad to see that he might break out of the bleak mood that had taken him since our flight from his home.
"We got to go that way?" He cocked a quizzical eyebrow at the far side of the gorge.
Following his gaze, I saw that the chasm extended as far as we could see in either direction. At the same time, my sense of direction, as strong as ever, indicated that we had to get to the other side.
"Yup. We've got to keep going."
"How we gettin' across?" wondered Badswell.
My eyes fell upon a nearby tree trunk, fallen amidst the living trees sprouting from the forest floor. The timber was dry, but when I walked over and kicked it, it proved solid and unrotted. Furthermore it was fairly straight, and at least forty feet long.
"D'you think you can move this?" I asked, somewhat skeptically.
"Sure. Want me to throw it into gorge?" Badswell was agreeable if, once again, somewhat dim.
"How about stretching it across the gorge—you know, like a bridge?"
His face lit up and he nodded, regarding me with an expression of deep respect. "That's a good idea!" he declared heartily.
I tried to help, but as the half-ogre reached down and hoisted the log, I had to duck to avoid getting knocked into the chasm. The most useful thing to do, I realized, was to get well out of the way and stay there. Badswell hoisted the heavy timber off the ground, swinging it about, positioning the trunk with the narrow end extending over the chasm. Stepping sideways to the very brink of the precipice, he heaved the log with a grunt, and the end came to rest on the far side. With a few rocking motions of his powerful hands, he set the trunk firmly in place.
"That's the fastest bridge-building I've ever seen," I acknowledged, impressed.
"We cross now, hey?"
"Yes... but one at a time, perhaps?"
Badswell was agreeable, so I started across, balancing by extending my arms, carefully stepping around the occasional stubs that jutted upward from the beam. Fortunately the half-ogre had placed his makeshift bridge with care, and it didn't even rock or wiggle underneath me.
Waiting until I had safely reached the far side, Bads started across. The log sagged alarmingly under his weight, but once again showed no signs of dislodging, and in moments he had joined me.
As we turned to continue through the woods, I reflected on the display of strength I had just witnessed. Even Benton, the strapping barbarian warrior, would have seemed a weakling beside the brawny half-ogre. Not only was he strong, but Badswell had displayed remarkably good balance as he followed me across the gorge. Now his ro
und face and its double-tusked mouth was creased by the traces of that smile he'd shown moments earlier. The tips of his lower tusks barely showed as he looked back at his handiwork, then turned to regard the woods before us.
"This way?" he wondered.
"Sure enough," I agreed, falling easily into step beside him.
By late afternoon, the fatigue of our nightlong flight caught up with us, and by mutual consent, we looked for a place to camp. I found a bower of grassy turf in the midst of a dense grove of evergreens, and Badswell displayed a new skill as he quickly built us a small smokeless fire. While my half-ogre friend gathered some wild tubers, garlic, and mushrooms, I visited a nearby stream and, with neither net nor hook, soon returned with several plump trout.
"Betcha tickled 'em, like my pap taught me," Badswell guessed, his eyes growing misty at the memory of Oakgnar. "Ya just reaches yer hand in and grabs 'em by the belly. They pops right out."
Acknowledging his correct guess, I started to clean the fish.
"Did yer pap teach you how ta tickle fish?"
"Yes... I guess so," I admitted.
"Where is yer pap?"
I sighed, realizing that the half-ogre was in the mood to pry. "He died, back when I was just a youth. My mother, too. There was a bad disease that came through Colbytown. It took many of the older folks."
"Colbytown, huh?"
"Yup. That's where I lived, until I couldn't stand it anymore." All of the reasons that I had left that little town came back to me: the boring predictability of life there, the lack of excitement, the peace and quiet that seemed as if it would suffocate me by the time I reached adulthood. It's funny, but none of those things seemed that bad now that I recalled them from the rude comforts of this wilderness camp.
An hour later, as sunset painted the sky in lavender and rose, we devoured a delicious meal of roasted trout flavored with mushrooms and wild garlic. As the first stars popped into view, I laid my head on the makeshift pillow of my boots and spare cloak. I thought of Saysi. I missed her a lot, but for the first time since her loss, I had at least a small sense of hope and purpose about the future. We would find Badswell's piece of the black shaft, and it felt good to know that I was doing something for a friend.
I found my thoughts returning to the mysterious hound. Before bed, I had left out a little of the fish from our dinner in an effort to draw her to our camp. After all, I reasoned that the animal must be somewhere in the woods.
Yet there was no sign of that loose, wrinkled pelt, and even when I called "Hound—come here, girl," a few times, nothing rustled in the trees. I missed those mournful eyes more than I thought possible, and before I drifted off to sleep I offered a silent prayer to Patrikon, hoping that our former canine companion was safe somewhere.
CHAPTER 10
THE VASTEST BOG
For three days we made our way through the wilderness, following a gradually descending slope that, not infrequently, rose to block us with steep ridges or bluffs. In these places, we scrambled up and over precipitous hills and crests, but thankfully the heights became less frequent with every mile's advance in our steady, relentless march. With each mile, it seemed that we were getting steadily lower, descending from the highland wilderness into a part of the world I had never visited before. The air became thick, moist, and pungent with the taint of decay.
The lofty trees of the highlands gave way to patches of scrub pine and buckthorn, through which we pressed against needlelike prickers and spiny thorns. Fortunately these thickets were interspersed with broad, grassy meadows, open swaths that allowed us to make up for time lost in the passages of tangled undergrowth. Furthermore, the generally descending grade also helped us to make good time.
Badswell never let me out of his sight, or indeed out of the reach of his long arms. He wasn't belligerent or bullying, though, and seemed quite content to follow my directions regarding the missing piece of stick.
I remained nervous about the eight-legged attackers, remembering in particular the beast with the hairy, bristling arms sprouting from its shoulders. Whenever I closed my eyes, I saw that snarling wolf face and heard the clearly articulated words spoken by the monster. When I looked around again, the day seemed colder and more oppressive, a feeling brought on by the vivid and unpleasant memory.
Finally the forest and the descending ground ended at the edge of a broad, brownish-green marsh. The flat expanse of wetland extended to the far horizon, and probably for miles beyond. The odor of rotting vegetation had teased our nostrils for the last several days, growing stronger by the mile. Now we saw the source amid intense wafts of swamp gas, and it was not an encouraging sight.
"You sure we got to go there?" wondered Badswell, his sloping brow creased by a scowl of concern.
My own instinct, guided by the chip of ebony, was to march right into the swamp. "Yup," I replied resignedly. "At least, if we want to find the other piece. I'm pretty sure it's out there somewhere."
"Pap told me about a place around here called the Vastest Bog. D'you think this is it?"
"It sure could be," I replied, my heart sinking at the appellation.
"Mebbe my stick's on the other side," speculated the half-ogre.
The flat, soggy terrain extended to the right and left as far as I could see, and to the limits of the horizon before us. Patches of open water were covered with green algae or dense lilies, while numerous thickets of reeds or mangroves clumped here and there on the flat surface. Whether this marsh led to a sea or lake, or rose again into high, dry ground at the far side was a mystery. Still, to judge by the view to each side, the prospects of successfully finding a route around it were very poor.
"Could be, but I'm afraid not. I can't tell how close we are to your piece of the stick, but there's no way to say that we'd have any luck trying to find a way around."
"Let's go then," Bads declared, with a shrug of resignation. He took a step forward and sank to the knee in gooey muck. Laboring to free his foot, he pushed forward for several steps while I watched in dismay. When my companion looked over his shoulder at me, his own concern became apparent.
"Too deep for you," he realized.
"It'd be up to my neck," I agreed dejectedly, trying to imagine the work involved to travel even a hundred steps through this morass, not to mention the miles that we might have to traverse.
"C'mere—I'll carry you." Badswell extended his arms, taking a step closer to shore, and I reached out and allowed him to hoist me up to his broad shoulders. With no more effort than I might use to lift a baby halfling, he settled me with my legs straddling his thick neck before turning back to the stretch of swampland.
Grabbing the fringe of his bearskin tunic, I struggled to hang on, surprised at the speed with which Bads negotiated the dank, soggy terrain. Tirelessly he lifted his feet from the mud, plopping a heavy boot before him and then lurching slightly to pull the other foot free. He rocked back and forth, almost staggering, drawing breaths in great, snorting gulps of air, then bulling forward as if the swamp represented a personal affront to his pride.
After a few hundred yards, he reached a stretch of more solid ground—a sandbar, covered by a few inches of stagnant water, but firm and unyielding beneath his feet. The solid bed extended in the same direction as our course of travel, so for a few minutes the big half-ogre padded along more quickly, splashing his boots easily with each step. Soon, however, the sandbar petered out, and Badswell once again slogged into the muck. Clumps of brush and reeds jutted upward in frequent clusters, and we made minor adjustments to go around these, all the while maintaining our direction into the midst of the stagnant flat.
Once I cast a glance over my shoulder, seeing that the forested slope of dry land had receded surprisingly far to the rear. Our trail was for the most part indistinguishable, though in a few places, broken bushes or a wedge of flattened reeds showed where Badswell had forced his way through.
I listened for the sounds of birds, thinking that such creatures—ospreys, gulls,
or terns, perhaps—would flourish in such a marsh. Strangely, there was no audible sign of these feathered denizens. Nor, when I looked into the sky, did I see any sign of vultures or birds of prey soaring in the lofty heights.
Perhaps there was nothing for them to eat here, I speculated. Yet it seemed hard to believe that no frogs, muskrats, fish, or snakes dwelt amid the reeds and brush. The lack of animal life began to weigh upon me, an absence that was oppressive in the extent of its void.
Finally Badswell drew closer to a rounded hummock of terrain, a muddy, thicket-covered spot that was not a hill by any stretch of the imagination. Still, it domed slightly above the surface of the stagnant water, and that at least was a relief. Gratefully I let go of the half-ogre's tunic and slid down his broad back to come to rest on dry ground once again.
"This hump might not last so long," Bads warned, indicating the surrounding stretch of marshland.
"I can always climb up again," I said, stretching my cramped legs. "But I think both of us can use a little break."
"Yer not heavy," he said with a shrug, dropping down to his haunches so that I could climb back aboard if I wanted to.
I was about to reply—something about trying to straighten my permanently twisted legs—when an instinctive sense of fear jolted through me. Badswell, too, widened his eyes in alarm and started to rise.
"Hide!" I hissed, seizing his thick forearm and tugging sharply downward.
Bads reacted with encouraging agility, throwing himself flat on the ground as I crouched amid a thick cluster of cattails. Every nerve in my body jangled with terror, though I still saw nothing dangerous.
Before our eyes detected any sign of danger, we heard a steady splashing of water, as if the muck were being parted by a large object. I wondered at first if the sound might mark the approach of a boat, but the noise seemed too irregular, more like a monstrous swimmer stroking with fins or powerful arms. Small waves sloshed through the reeds, washing onto the shore of our little island, and I knew that a large presence pushed through the mire, not terribly far away.
The Rod of Seven Parts Page 11