Banewreaker(78)

"It will be so," Malthus said with dignity.



NIGHT.

It fell hard and fast in the swamps of the Delta. Turin hurried after the fleeting form of Hunric the tracker, falling and splashing and cursing his speed. Before them, the hummock of dry land loomed, elusive and retreating in the fading light, A last, dying spear of light lit the palodus tree that stood sentry over it.

"Come on!" Hunric shouted, scrambling up the hummock ahead of him, the slow-lizard's carcass tied to a string about his waist. "Come on!"

Waist-deep in water at the foot of the hummock, Turin set his teeth and grabbed for a handhold. Shale rock, plates as broad as both his hands, slick and overgrown with moss. There would be nothing edible growing on this island. By main force he hauled himself, hand over hand, up the steep incline, his breath searing his lungs.

At the top, he bent double, panting.

"Look!" Hunric was grinning, arms open wide. "The heart of the Delta. Is it not a glorious thing?"

Turin could have wept.

There was nothing, nothing atop the hummock, only moss-covered black shale in articulated ridges that hurt his sodden feet, and a few fallen branches of palodus wood. He was tired and soaked and footsore, and his loins ached with gnawing desire.

"A freshwater spring would have been nice," he said wearily, sitting down and removing his pack, beginning the tiresome process of peeling off his boots. "You're sure this is the way out?"

"The way in is the way out." The tracker eyed him, then began gathering branches. "You're done in. Sit, then. I'll do it."

He sat, rubbing his aching feet. No need for a fire, really. The shale was warm, retaining the sun's heat like a forge. He could almost smell the sulfur. It would be nice, though, to have fresh-roasted meat, even if the kill was a day old. Meat went off fast in the heat; no wonder Hunric was minded to eat it raw.

So warm, here. So warm.

It made his aching flesh prickle.

"This is his place." At the crest of the hummock, Hunric had stacked branches into a neat structure and knelt reverently over them. "His place!" he repeated fervently, striking a spark and blowing. An ember kindled, tiny flames flickering.

"His place," Turin echoed dully. In the dark swamp beyond, an ember of yellow-green kindled. "And tomorrow, we head straight for Pelmar, yes?"

"Pelmar." Hunric, kneeling, grinned at him. "Oh, yes."

Something in the air throbbed, echoing the throbbing in his loins. He thought again of the white limbs of the Lady of the Ellylon, gritted his teeth and thrust the thought from his mind. In the air? No. It was the very rock beneath him that throbbed, slow and steady, warm as a pulsing heart.

An ember of yellow-green, lifting.

"Hunric." His voice was frozen in his throat. "Hunric!" A shape, moving, impossibly large. Roots ripped, dripping, from the swamp itself. Slow, so slow! An ember of yellow-green. A lidded eye, a dripping chin. "Hunric…" he whispered.

"What?" The tracker sounded almost friendly as he gauged the coals, skewering the slow-lizard and thrusting it into the flames. "Pelmar, yes. I remember. We'll leave on the morrow. Is that what troubles you?"

Unable to speak, Turin pointed.

"What?" The tracker squinted into the swamp.

When it struck, it moved fast. A wedge of darkness blotting out the emerging stars, swinging on a sinuous neck. Its hinged jaws opened wide, rows of teeth glistening like ivory daggers. The ground beneath Turin lurched, surging with the motion of the strike as, somewhere in the swamp, anchored talons gripped and heaved. He saw the lidded eye as it swung past him, the open maw snapping.

A strangled sound cut short, and the embers of the campfire scattered.

Hunric.

Turin gibbered with fear, scuttling backward crab-wise. Plates of shale beneath his hands and feet, the edges cutting his flesh. Not shale, no; scales, ancient and encrusted, dark as iron. Before him, the long neck stretched high, lifting the massive head to the top of the palodus tree while the throat worked in gulps.

It didn't take long. Not long enough.

"Please," Turin whispered as the terrible head swung back his way, arching over its own back, bearded and dripping with moss. "Oh, please!"

A nictitating lid blinked over the yellow-green eye. "Who assssksss?"

"Turin of Staccia." His voice emerged in a squeak. "I am here in the service of Lord Satoris."

"Sssatorisss…"

"Third-Born among Shapers." Summoning a reserve of courage he hadn't known he possessed, Turin found his feet, confronting the hovering head, fighting his chattering teeth. "This is his place, Lord Dragon, and he sent me here!"