Терри Брукс - Jarka Ruus
They walked all day, yet by sunset it felt as if they hadn't gone anywhere. Everything looked exactly the same as it had hours earlier. Nor was there any apparent end in sight, the gloom and mist and wetlands stretching on endlessly in all directions. If anything, the swamp had thickened and tightened about them, stealing away a little more of the light and air, eroding their hopes that they might get clear soon.
When they stopped for the night, Pen used his compass a final time to check their direction. It seemed as if they were going the right way, but he was beginning to wonder if the compass was working. His concerns were fostered in part by the way in which the light seemed not to change in any direction, the gloom and haze so thick that it was getting harder and harder to tell which way the sun was moving through the hidden sky.
«We might be lost," he admitted to them. «I can't be sure any more.»
«We're not lost," Khyber insisted. «Tomorrow, we will be through.»
But Pen wasn't convinced. He took the first watch and sat brooding while the others slept, replaying the events of the past few days in his mind, a nagging concern that he couldn't identify tugging at his already dwindling confidence. Something wasn't right about the way they were looking at things, but he couldn't put his finger on it. As the darkness deepened and the minutes slipped by, he found himself going further afield with his thinking, working his way back through the entire journey, from the moment Tagwen had first appeared with news of his aunt's disappearance. Remembering how he had been forced to flee his home triggered memories of his parents and made him aware of how much he missed them and wished they were with him. He had always been an independent sort, raised to be that way, but this was the farthest he had ever been from home. It was also the most threatened he had ever felt. He knew of the dangerous creatures that dwelled in the places he visited regularly on his skiff journeys, but most of those he was encountering now were entirely new. Some of them didn't even have a name.
And just like that, he realized what was bothering him. It was his inability to account for what had become of the mysterious hunter that had chased him through the streets of Anatcherae on the night he had fled Terek Molt.
He took a long moment to think it through. His pursuer had come after him outside Fisherman's Lie, when the little company had fled into the streets to reach the safety of the Skatelow. It had tried to kill him both there and later aboard ship before they were able to cast off. A man had died right in front of him, killed by an dagger thrown from the rooftops and intended for him. During all of this, he had caught only brief glimpses of the wielder, just enough to suggest it wasn't entirely human.
What had happened to it?
It would be comforting to think that it had died aboard the Galaphile, consumed in the inferno that had claimed the ship, the Gnome Hunters, and Terek Molt. But Pen didn't think that had happened. It didn't feel right to him. The thing that had chased him through the streets wouldn't have been caught off guard like that. If it was still with Terek Molt at the time the Galaphile had found them, it would have been off the ship and stalking him anew. It would have survived.
It could be out there now.
In spite of the fact that he was virtually certain it wasn't, he looked around cautiously, peering into the darkness as if something might reveal itself. He even took time to read his magic's response to the sounds of the night creatures surrounding him, to the insects and birds and beasts that inhabited the swamp gloom, searching for anything that would warn him of danger. When he had satisfied himself that he was not threatened, that the hunter he feared might be lurking out there, invisible and deadly, was not, he took a deep breath and exhaled softly, feeling comforted for the moment, at least, that he was safe.
He sat listening, nevertheless, through the rest of his watch.
When his watch was finished, he took a long time falling asleep.
* * *
On waking the following morning, Pen said nothing to Khyber and Tagwen of his concerns. There was nothing to be gained by doing so. Everyone was already on edge, and adding to the tension could not help the situation. Besides, the hunter of Anatcherae's dark streets might have been a denizen of the port city rather than a tool of Terek Molt's. If the hunter had been the Druid's creature, then it stood to reason that it would have been used in tracking them down and disposing of them long since. The Druid wouldn't have confronted them himself when he had his creature to do the job for him.
It was solid reasoning, but it didn't make Pen feel any better and in the end it didn't convince him that his problems with his mysterious enemy were finished. Just because he couldn't account for its whereabouts didn't mean he was rid of it. But he kept that unsettling thought to himself, knowing that what mattered just then was getting clear of the Slags.
They worked all day at doing so, picking their way through a quagmire of tangled roots, choking reeds, quicksand, sinkholes, and mud flats thick with biting insects and gnats. They still hadn't had anything to eat or drink since they had lost their raft in the attack of those vines, and the lack of nourishment was beginning to tell. Tagwen was experiencing stomach cramps, Khyber was fighting off dizzy spells, and Pen felt feverish. All three were weaker, and progress had slowed noticeably. If they didn't find food and drink soon, they were going to be in serious trouble.
It was midafternoon when they entered a sprawling wilderness of scrub–choked trees that stretched in both directions until it could no longer be seen. Threaded by tendrils of mist and layered with shadows, the woods were so vast that there wasn't any hope of finding a way around. In any case, they were too exhausted to do anything but go forward, and so they did. Pushing into the tangle, they soon found themselves forced to proceed in single file, the trees grown so close together and the spaces between so clogged with brambles and scrub that any other formation was impossible. Weaving between the trunks and stalks, they slogged through pools of swamp water and sucking mud, using roots and limbs for handholds. Overhead, flying squirrels and birds darted through the dank foliage, and on the uncertain ground snakes slithered and rodents scurried in silent, dark flashes. Now and then, they caught glimpses of larger creatures sliding ridge–backed and deadly through deeper water.
«I thought it couldn't get any worse," Tagwen grumbled at one point, his beard become a nest of brambles. «Is there any end to this place?»
As they continued on, Pen began to worry about what would happen if they were caught in that tangle when darkness fell. If that happened, they would have to climb a tree and spend the night aloft. He didn't care for the prospect of watching the limbs for big snakes all night, but he didn't see that they would have any alternative. He began to make promises to himself about the sort of life he would lead if they could just reach better ground before dark.
It was gratifying when they did, if only momentarily. They slogged out of a heavy stretch of mud–soaked grasses and reeds and climbed an embankment to what seemed to be an island in the midst of the swamp, a low forestland amid the damp. Pen, leading the way, heaved a sigh of relief as he stepped onto the first solid ground he had felt beneath his feet in days, then immediately froze.
Directly to his left, not ten yards away, was the biggest moor cat he had ever seen in his life. He was not unfamiliar with moor cats, so coming on one unexpectedly was not in and of itself shocking. But that particular cat froze him in his tracks and sent a lurch through his stomach that he felt all the way to his toes. For starters, it was huge—not just big in the way of all moor cats, but gigantic. It wasn't lean and sleek; it was muscled and burly, a veteran of battles that had left its mottled, dark body crisscrossed with scars. It loomed up before him like a Koden gone down on all fours, the thick ruff around its neck giving it a bearish look. Its face was striking, as well, marked with a black band across its eyes that made it look as if it was wearing a mask.
Pen hadn't sensed it, hadn't detected it at all. He was searching for things that might threaten them, connected to the life around him, and still he hadn't known the cat was there. It must have been waiting for them, biding its time, letting them come to it.
Seeing Pen, the moor cat pricked its ears forward and its luminous eyes widened into amber lanterns. It made a coughing sound, deep and booming, and instantly the entire swamp went still.
Khyber Elessedil gave a strangled gasp. «Shades," she managed to whisper.
Pen's eyes were locked on the moor cat, trying to read its intentions. It didn't seem to have any, mostly finding them curious. Suddenly its eyes narrowed and its muzzle drew back in warning, and Pen glanced back to find Khyber slowly withdrawing the pouch with the Elfstones from her pocket.
«Put those away!» he hissed at her. «They're useless anyway!»
She hesitated. Then, slowly, the Elfstones disappeared back into her clothing. Flushed and angry, she glared at him. «I hope you have a better plan, Penderrin!»
Tagwen looked as if he hoped the same thing, but the truth was Pen didn't have a plan at all beyond trying to avoid a confrontation. It appeared that the cat and the humans each intended to go through the same patch of ground. One or the other was going to have to give way.
The big cat growled, more a grunt than a cough. Though Pen could tell it was not intended as a threatening sound, it came across as one nevertheless, causing his companions to back away hurriedly. The boy motioned for them to stand their ground, not to make any movements that suggested they were trying to run. Movements of that sort would bring the moor cat down on them instantly. The trick was to appear unafraid, but not threatening. A neat trick, if they could figure out how to make it work.
The moor cat was growing restless, its huge head lowering to sniff the ground expectantly.
Better try something, Pen thought.
Relying on his magic to guide him, he made a rough, low coughing sound at the cat, a sound meant to communicate his intentions, one he knew instinctively would be understood. The moor cat straightened immediately, head lifting, eyes bright.
«What are you doing?» Khyber hissed at him. Pen wasn't sure, but it seemed to be working. He made a few more sounds, all of them nonspecific but indicative of his desire to be friendly. We're no threat, he was saying to the cat. We're just like you, even if we look and smell a little different.
Intrigued, the moor cat answered with a series of huffing noises that came from deep within its throat. Pen was working furiously now, taking in the sounds and translating them into words and phrases, into deciphering the nature of the big animal's interest in them. The moor cat wanted reassurance that Pen and his companions were passing through to other places and had no intention of trying to usurp its territory. There was an unmistakable challenge in the sounds, a testing for antagonistic intent. Pen responded at once, doing his best to create a semblance of the coughing sounds, demonstrating that he and his companions were on their way to their own home, that a challenge to the moor cat's territory was of no interest.
He acted instinctively, almost without thinking about what he was doing. His magic guided him, leading him to say and do what was needed to connect with the moor cat. He was surprised by how easily the sounds came to him, at the certainty he had of what they were communicating to the cat. The huge beast seemed to be listening to him.
