Cyrus waited for him to elaborate and when he did not, the warrior shrugged and continued riding. The dwarf’s trail carried them over plains, lightly rolling hills that began to trend further and further downward, until they finally came to the edge of a swamp.
“Gods, it smells like troll town in there,” Terian said, holding his nose.
“That’s not very nice,” Nyad scolded him. Her red cloak was stained with mud, and her usually relaxed expression was gone, replaced by one that was quite cross.
“Not nice but accurate,” the dark knight said. “Have you ever been to Gren? No? Then shut up.”
“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, sending 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
