cringed.
Mola freed her hand to wipe them away fiercely. “I can’t climb mountains. I’m not Gifted. I’m not even trained to use a simple weapon. How could I possibly go on such a trip alone?”
A light flashed through Corry’s eyes, then disappeared. “Mola, there’s a reason these dreams are coming to you, not to me. Whether that reason is only your concern for your mistress, or if it is something more, it’s still your challenge and you must face it however you choose.” He unfastened a knife and its sheath, from his belt. “Keep this for me while I’m gone, and use it as you see fit. If you wish, I’ll have a horse ready for you at the stable, as well as a pouch of provisions.” Glancing toward the rising sun, he sighed. “I have to go now. What you do is up to you, and no one could fault you for dismissing a dream ... or for following it.”
Corry leapt to his feet, saluted a good-bye, and headed to ready Rexla.
A damp breeze stirred Mola’s hair, and she reveled in the motion of the sturdy little chestnut mare Corry had chosen for her. She patted the knife at her belt, then the sack of provisions tied securely behind the saddle. Her mission should not take long. With any luck, she would return by bedtime.
As the few scattered mountains drew tantalizingly near, the footing became less certain. The mare snorted frequently, and its pace slowed to a crawl. It lifted its hooves unnaturally high to clear the mud that sucked at its fetlocks. Finally, it stopped completely, twisting its head toward home and nickering uneasily at the swampy ground.
Mola dismounted. “It’s all right, girl. You don’t have to go any farther.” She untied her pack from the saddle, rolling up the twine and placing it in her pocket. Barely a cloud marred the sky, and the afternoon sun warmed the air pleasantly. It would take less than half an hour to reach the cliffs on foot, even slogging through the swamp at its base. “Wait here for me.” She did not know if the horse would understand or obey. The Heralds did not have to worry about such things; their Companions grasped everything they said, whether aloud or in Mindspeech.
Mola considered tying the reins to a branch of one of the scraggly trees at the edge of the swamp, but discarded the thought. If something happened to her, the horse would starve. And, if it spooked, it might break its neck or leg. It seemed better to risk the hike home than the horse’s life. Sighing, she removed the headstall and tied it to the saddle. To her relief, the horse did not run but settled into quiet grazing.
Mola took a forward step, the muck sucking noisily at her boots. She frowned, studying the trees again until she found a suitable, sturdy branch. Using a combination of the knife’s blade and her own strength, she broke free a thick limb a bit longer than a tall man. Using that, she poked ahead of herself, gauging the thickness of water and mud before plunging forward.
The stick did its job, warning Mola of sinkholes and helping maintain balance as she wandered deeper into the swamp. The water rose above her feet, then her calves, and, finally, above the top of her boots. Brackish water soaked her feet, reeking of plant material and dead things. Mola crinkled her nose and continued walking, her attention fixed always ahead, always on the mountain.
Mola ran the details of the dream through her mind as she walked. It always started the same, a strange and masculine voice narrating the scenes: “Come, Mola, come. You can find it.” It guided her through the swamp to the foot of the mountain, then up a craggy path to a ledge, where a five-leafed variety of pink clover grew. “Pick them, as much as you can carry. They will make the Herald strong.”
The tone never changed, nor the words. The scene that unraveled in the dream looked eerily similar to what lay precisely before her now: the sunlit swamp, the close gray stone of the mountain. Mola could not help smiling. Filled with sudden excitement, she took a few skipping steps through the muck.
They saved her. The surprise attack meant to end her life became a missed strike. An enormous shape hurtled past Mola, slamming her with a broad shoulder and knocking her into the filth. Huge, reptilian jaws closed on a rock instead of a woman.
Mola dared not stare at the drake, but she kept the edge of her vision and her ears upon it. For the moment, it was more worried about shoving the stone from its mouth than catching her, but she had no illusions. The moment it freed its jaws, it would come after her again.
Mola juggled the twine from her pocket, and Corry’s knife. As quickly as she could, she tied the hilt onto the branch, creating a crude spear.
By the time Mola finished, the swamp drake charged her again. Though lumbering and slow, it had the great advantage of bulk. Massive and deadly, it opened its jaws wide, displaying rows of dagger-like teeth. It had lost the ambush but had not yet given up on its prey.
Mola screamed again. Shutting her eyes tightly, she shoved the spear toward the creature’s wide-open mouth. The impact of its attack hurled her to the ground, still clutching the branch in desperate, white-knuckled fingers. The drake’s massive body flopped on top of her, grinding her into the muck and water. She managed to choke down a breath of mostly air before becoming pinned, underwater, beneath it.
Mola opened her eyes, only to have them stung closed by silt and blood. The world around her had turned scarlet, soft, and utterly wet. Her head started to ache, and her lungs spasmed in her chest. She had only one last chance to free herself before she drowned, murdered by the very corpse she had created.
Driven by new purpose, Mola writhed and shoved, braced and pushed to no avail. She felt her muscles weakening, the agony in her lungs growing unbearable. Seeking bearings, she buried her hand into the muck.
Mola could not wait until she fully reached the surface before gasping in a lungful of air and mud, blood and water. The combination choked her. She coughed violently, wheezing in air at the end of each paroxysm. She vomited forcefully, repeatedly.
Mola’s head felt ready to explode, and she continued to cough as she worked, twisting and pulling until blood boiled into the water and the branch finally slid free. The knife remained attached, to her relief. As she ran as quickly as the swamp allowed, she realized the provision bag still thumped against her shoulder. She had forgotten about it in the struggle and could not help wondering if slipping it off might have allowed her to free herself faster and easier.
Mola had never seen a mountain up close before, and it surprised her. She had expected a tower of pure rock. The Heralds’ tales always involved vertical crags with dodgy handholds and boulders crashing down upon them. Instead, she found a gentle, upward slope as grassy as a pasture and interspersed with trees. Mola climbed mindlessly, swiftly, her only thought to leave the swamp far behind. At length, exhaustion seized her; and she dropped to the ground to rest.
The grass felt warm and comforting beneath her, cushioning the many aches that descended upon her as fear and excitement ebbed. Mola felt bruised and achy in every part, but no one pain stood out from the others. Overtaxed muscles, pulls, and tears seemed the worst of it. Though covered in sticky drake blood, she did not appear to have shed any of her own. She stank of drying innards and swamp slime.
Mola opened the supplies Corry had had packed for her, thrilled to find clean, dry clothing as well as food. It seemed foolish to change now, when she had to wallow back through the swamp, but she needed the comfort. Quickly, she stripped down and replaced her grimy clothes. The soft, clean fabric felt wonderful, buoying her mood as well, and confidence swelled through her like second wind.
