The Wizard's Mask

Chapter Seventeen

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-"

"You do," Tarram agreed. "You have orders from me. I distinctly heard myself give them, mere moments ago, and I know you all heard me. So let's have no delay or disobedience. Just lead the way."

"And if we don't?" the most distant spearman asked challengingly.

Tarram used the Fearsome Gauntlet's force punch on him, slamming it into his throat and leaving the man on his knees, clutching at his nigh-crushed throat and strangling for air.

"Don't make me use the full wrath Molthune has vested in me on you," he told the suffering heap almost sadly. "I have to report personally to one of the General Lords when I do that, and I hate having to make those reports. Enough that I'm always tempted to leave no survivors. So there'll be no witnesses."

"I increasingly admire you men of Molthune," Tantaerra piped up, looking at her partner. "So decisive. So direct. My country will be pleased to learn this of you. I am eager to present myself in Canorate."

"Molthune will be pleased to welcome you there," Tarram told her solemnly. "Now, if you faithful warriors will just lead the way?"

One spearman reached a decision. Bowing his head, he pointed the way through the trees with his spear and said, "Follow me."

Tarram stepped forward as confidently as if he were a king and the Molthuni all around him fawning, toadying subjects. Taking care not to roll her eyes, Tantaerra followed.

They didn't need to confer with each other to know they were being taken to the local Molthuni commander, not to the river. The soldiers fell in all around them.

Tarram caught sight of a crossbow slung across one man's shoulders. "How long ago was the order given to use bows only for battle?"

"I haven't marked the days," that soldier replied grudgingly. "Sir."

"One would think," Tantaerra remarked brightly, "that bowmen could more easily fill cooking pots. All these trees must hamper even the best spear cast."

None of the Molthuni replied until Tarram gave the nearest one a stern glare.

Whereupon that spearman said sullenly, "That's so. Yet our orders are that crossbows are to be used in desperate moments of battle, only."

They crested a heavily wooded ridge, and two strides down its far side were challenged by the half-hidden soldiers of another watch post.

"Guests to see Commander Elthen," one of the spearmen said tersely.

"Guests," not "prisoners." Good.

Their escort grew by a few warriors, and trudged on along a game track, across a boggy valley and up over another ridge beyond. There they were challenged again, and passed on down a slope choked with ancient, leaning trees, out into a clearing where the midday sun shone down brightly on some rather battered-looking tents, a cooking pit covered by a row of tripods holding up simmer-cauldrons, and a lot of stern and watchful Molthuni soldiers in better armor than the leathers of the spearmen.

A grim-looking officer with long grizzled sideburns and weary eyes, when informed that these two strangers were to see the commander, ordered Tarram and his halfling partner to divest themselves of all weapons.

"I am a Lord Investigator of Molthune," Tarram informed the man calmly. "I give orders, not take them. Until Nirmathas falls to us, this is enemy soil where we are at war, and my weapons ride where they are. My companion is an envoy from another country, and is to be treated as such. You would not order one of the General Lords nor the Imperial Governor to surrender his weapons, and you will not order her to do so."

The officer drew himself up. "Prisoner, you are in no position to be making claims or giving orders-"

Tarram stepped around him. "You are relieved of your rank and command."

Striding on, he addressed the next nearest Molthuni warrior in the camp. "Which tent is Elthen's? Our mission must not be delayed."

"I-"

The man was still hesitating when a tent flap nearby was thrust aside and a scar-faced man strode out and up to Tarram.

"Elthen," he identified himself flatly. "And you are…?"

"In some haste," Tarram replied. "I am a Lord Investigator of Molthune, escorting an outland envoy to Canorate. We require safe transport across the Inkwater, as swiftly as it can be provided."

The commander regarded Tarram in stone-faced silence for a moment or two, and then asked calmly, "Would that be the Fearsome Gauntlet you're wearing?"

Tarram smiled tightly. "Krzonstal Telcanor talks too much. As usual."

A trace of a smile rose very briefly onto Elthen's face. "So this envoy is not the only valuable you're escorting to Molthune."

Tarram nodded.

Commander Elthen turned to catch the eye of a man across the camp, waved him over, and upon his arrival announced, "This is Hardreth, my best scout. He and nine soldiers will conduct you both to Arlarn Straeble."

Tarram raised both eyebrows in a silent question, and the commander added, "The General Lords sent Straeble to the Inkshore camp to observe and report back on our war effort in Nirmathas. As I am under orders to inform him of anything unusual that comes to my attention, to him you must go. Gauntlet and all."

"Sir," Hardreth said briskly, bowing his head. "Shall I-"

He broke off as a dweomercat almost bowled him over. A furry flood of them burst into the camp, rushing to surround Tarram and swarm up his body to the gauntlet he was hastily holding high.

Molthuni everywhere started to curse, draw swords or daggers, or thrust at the rushing, snarling cats with spears.

Tarram spun around, already knowing what he'd see.

At the edge of the camp, buried in eagerly leaping, clawing dweomercats, was a lurching, lumbering mound topped by tentacles. As it advanced, those tentacles were rather wearily plucking cats from its body and hurling them away through the forest, to thud against trees, or dashing them to the ground. Wherever they clung most thickly, two tentacles swung a wicked blade-a curved sword that whispered ceaseless promises and taunts-in carefully aimed slices that swept squalling, slashed-open dweomercats to the ground.

More dweomercats were rushing at Tarram, leaping eagerly to try to touch or cling to his mask, which was starting to glow brightly again.

Hardreth and Elthen were both snarling curses and slashing the rushing beasts as quickly as they could, their attention increasingly on the approaching tentacled monster.

"What is that thing?" Hardreth snapped. "Never seen anything like it!"

By way of answer, Tantaerra caught Tarram's eye and dodged behind the scout's knees. Tarram managed not to smile as he thrust a knife into a dweomercat in midair and swung hard, accidentally putting his elbow into Hardreth's chest and shoulder.

The scout went over backward with a startled yell, Tantaerra slipping out from behind him like a racing wind. She was in time to duck between Elthen's legs as the Molthuni commander turned to see what had happened to Hardreth, and she did that trailing a dying dweomercat by the tail.

Elthen stepped on the moving beast, stumbled, and crashed down atop half a dozen very alive dweomercats, who spat, clawed, and bit at him.

By which time Tarram and Tantaerra had left him far behind, sprinting across the camp in the direction of distant Molthune. The clearing around them was now a battling chaos of shouting, hacking men and racing, snapping dweomercats, but a clear trail led out of it in the direction the two partners wanted to go.

Out through a thin stand of trees into open, lower ground, it seemed. Which meant less cover, but…tentacled monster or no pursuing tentacled monster, it was the way they had to go.

Tarram risked a look back, at the frantic fray. The tentacled thing was gaining on them.

He put his head down and really ran-only to dodge behind a tent as more armored Molthuni soldiers, swords in hand, came running up the trail into the clearing to meet them, drawn by the rising din. Tantaerra scampered after him.

Luraumadar, Luraumadar, Luraumadar, the mask chanted insistently.

The soldiers racing into the camp swore in astonishment as they saw what was shedding dweomercats and rising up like a wall of tentacles to meet them.

Leaving so soon? the Whispering Blade hissed in Tarram's mind. Why, the bloodletting's just begun!

Tentacles lashed out.

∗ ∗ ∗

It was Tantaerra's turn to wear the gauntlet. She was still settling it on her hand as she and The Masked crested another hill on the rutted wagon-road and-

Found themselves facing a ready line of three Molthuni, with spears.

"Stop right there!" one barked.

"Lord Investigator of Molthune, coming through!" Tantaerra announced, running full-tilt at him.

At the last moment before slamming into them, as two of the soldiers crouched together to block her and the third swept his spear up to gut The Masked, she tossed the Fearsome Gauntlet behind her, high into the air.

In the distance, the half-mental, half-audible murmurings of the Whispering Blade rose into an excited shout as the sight at the hurtling glove.

Tantaerra crashed hard into an ankle, but took the butt-end of a spear in the ribs and lost all her wind and her footing in the same painful instant.

Smashed off her feet and falling helplessly aside, she saw her partner calmly catch the Fearsome Gauntlet, slide it on, and do something that smashed the Molthuni backward as if an invisible giant's fist had crashed into them.

The grunts and shouts and wet thuddings behind them were getting closer.

The Masked rushed over to Tantaerra, swept her up, and rushed on through the rows of tents, using the gauntlet twice to punch aside any Molthuni who barred their way.

"Put me down!" Tantaerra gasped, when she had her breath back. Gods, her ribs hurt!

Her partner obliged, and she risked another look back. Many Molthuni were pursuing them now, and others were fleeing the tentacled monster. It no longer had all that many soldiers of Molthune daring to fight it, and the dweomercats were noticeably fewer, too. So just how far were they from Molthune?

Not that a little thing like a river would stop that tentacled thing …

She and Tarram ran on, past the last few tents and up the far slope of the valley, into the inevitable trees beyond. A cart track climbed the slope beside them, and there'd be a Molthuni watch post somewhere here, ahead, and-

She was on the verge of gasping a reminder to The Masked about that when they came out onto the track, as it curved across in front of them-and reached the first soldiers' bodies, sprawled in huddled heaps in the road.

"Tarram," she panted, "we might be running right into Nirmathi arrows!"

As if her words had been a cue, shafts started to zip and hurumm out of the trees right in front of her, hissing past to thud into their Molthuni pursuers.

She swerved uncertainly. Just one arrow could end her life nastily, and-

"Keep running!" a voice called from the trees. "Have they any other captives in camp?"

"No," The Masked bellowed back, "but they've used fell magic and unleashed a tentacled monster! Fill it full of arrows!"

No one shouted a reply, but more arrows flew.

The cart track curved on into the forest before them, and Tantaerra and The Masked sprinted along it.

They ran and ran until strength and wind both deserted them, then staggered to a stumbling halt to lean on trees, gasp for breath, and continue at a slow, panting walk.

"We dare not stop moving," Tantaerra gasped, "or that thing will catch us."

Her partner nodded grimly. "We have to assume it will slay everyone who dares to challenge it, and keep after us." He peered up at what little sky they could see through the leaves overhead. "It'll be dark sooner than we'll want."

Tantaerra nodded, and looked back along the track. Almost mockingly, several dweomercats padded into view, following them with golden eyes gleaming. "So, do we stay on this road and make haste, knowing we could run into Nirmathi or Molthuni-or just their arrows-at any time? Or head into the trees and risk getting lost, making more noise, and going slower?"

"Mahalagris doesn't care how much noise we make or how slowly we're going," The Masked reminded her.

"Now that's a bright thought, O font of good cheer," Tantaerra told him, as they pressed on. "How damned far is this river, anyway?"