When they entered the Swamp of Akhlaur, a pall settled upon the spirits of the elves. The air was as dank as an open grave. As they made their way through moss-draped trees, long filaments brushed at them like lifeless fingers. Each crystal ghost the elves passed was an occasion for mourning. Kiva urged them on, and after a while they took to singing their keening laments in time to their step, like a mournful marching song.
Andris, too, was forced to confront his dead. On the second day into the swamp, they reached the site of the battle with the laraken.
The jungle was already reclaiming the battlefield. Foliage scarred by the fireball battle between Kiva and Tzigone had healed and grown. Flowering vines entwined the naked rib cage of the lion-centaur who had died protecting his elf mistress. Andris was grateful that he did not have to gaze upon the actual bones of his comrades. Lacking tools for burial, they had weighted down the bodies and dropped them into a deep pool nearby.
A wave of odor slammed into him-a stench so foul that it made Andris dizzy with nausea. It was familiar, but for a moment Andris could not identify it.
"Kilmaruu," he murmured, remembering the battle in the swamp and the rank scent of long-drowned men.
Andris reached in his bag for the pot of pungent ointment he'd prepared for that battle. He smeared a quick dab under his nose to help block the smell. Tossing it to Kiva, he pulled his sword and dropped into a battle-ready stance. Behind him, the elves followed suit.
A rotting, swollen corpse blundered through the foliage. Its puffy hand drew back and hurled something brown and wet at Andris. His sword leaped up to bat it away, easily cutting through the spongy missile. Two halves of a vampire leech-each the size of his fist-writhed at his feet.
A shudder ran through Andris. The leeches were as voracious as their namesakes, and nearly impossible to dislodge. If the leech had hit a living target, it would have sucked enough blood to fill a wine bottle before they could cut it off.
The undead creature came on, pulling a sword from a rusty scabbard. Andris stepped in and blocked the attack. The «sword» snapped in two as easily as a dried reed. It was no warrior's weapon, but a thin, hollow tube.
Andris darted a gaze to the corpse's chest. A groan escaped him as he noted the stab wound to the heart, almost obscured by the pale, puffy flesh around it. This had been Dranth, a jordaini student who had left the college with a "debilitating illness"-as spurious a claim as the one that added Andris to Kiva's ranks. Dranth had died in the swamp, slain by a giant stirge. The weapon in Dranth's undead hand was that which had dealt his deathblow: a stirge's snout.
There was no intelligence in the dead eyes, nothing at all of Dranth. That made Andris's task somewhat easier. With three quick strokes, he beheaded the walking corpse and ran his sword through the already-shattered heart.
Dranth was dead, Andris reminded himself as he stooped to wipe the foul pus from his sword.
A whimper of inarticulate terror came from behind him. Andris glanced back at the undine. The watermaid managed to stand upright only because Cibrone linked a supporting arm around her waist. Both females stared at the beheaded zombie with revulsion and sorrow. Andris knew enough of elves to realize their great respect for the afterlife. The notion of an animated corpse was abhorrent to them.
A ragged, gurgling wail rose from a vine-shrouded copse of trees. The jordain spun away and stalked toward the new threat, bent on destroying the animated bodies of his former comrades.
Themo arrived at the travel hut two days late, flushed with sun and excitement and ready for adventure. Any doubts Matteo might have had about his decision to meddle in Themo's life dissolved at the sight of the big man's grin. He leaped from his horse and swept Matteo up into a bone-crushing embrace.
"What did you say to old Ferris to get him to turn me loose?"
Matteo managed a faint smile. "Wouldn't you rather know what we're hunting?"
Themo listened intently, nodding and offering an occasional suggestion. His spirits were high as the three jordaini rode out, following the Crinti trail deeper into the hills, expecting ambush with every bush and cave they passed. Trail sign was plentiful, but never once did they see their prey.
"Not much sport to this," Themo complained after a few hours.
Matteo and Iago exchanged glances. "Perhaps his sword is sharper than his mind," the small jordain said sarcastically.
"During my time with Procopio Septus, I often joined the wizard in games of war," Matteo began, deftly cutting off Themo's indignant response. "He had a wondrous table, a raised map shaped much like this wild land. With it were hundreds of tiny figures that moved and fought. He commanded them to enact battles so we could observe the field from above, as a god might, and better understand how the battle played out. Sometimes we would play the same battle again and again with variations to learn what worked and what did not."
A wistful smile crossed the big man's face. "That would be worth seeing!"
"It was enlightening, certainly. One strategy concerned an airborne wizard-one of the deadliest of foes. We jordaini know to increase chances of success by keeping the wizards on the ground. So do the Crinti. They generally keep to the caves or the deep woods. But this path is not sheltered, and it leads to increasingly open ground. This is not typical Crinti behavior."
"None of us are wizards," reasoned Themo.
"True enough, but strategies that prove successful are not abandoned lightly. The Crinti would not take such a path without a purpose." Matteo paused and looked toward the western sky. Only a crimson rim was visible above the hills. "Because this is the Nath, we have additional concerns."
Like the voice of an actor taking a cue, the wail of a dark fairy rose from the hills. "The Crinti fear the Unseelie folk, yet they are leading us deeper and deeper into haunted lands."
Iago shot a furtive glance toward the sound. "Maybe the shadow amazons are like quail, pretending to have a wounded wing and luring danger away from the nest."
"Or perhaps the Crinti are not leading us away from something but toward it."
"An ambush, most likely," Themo muttered, studying his surroundings with new interest.
Matteo considered this a logical assumption. The Crinti trail led through a winding, narrow pass, past small dark caves and tumbled piles of rock. They emerged from the passage unscathed into a large clearing-and the strangest place he had ever beheld.
"By lord and lady," he whispered. He slid down from his horse.
Large, conical mounds rose from the ground, covered with green moss. Some of the hills barely rose to Matteo's shoulder, but most were at least twice the height of a man.
The air seemed different in the clearing. Just beyond the pass, the sky had held the brilliant clear sapphire common to a summer sunset, and the few small clouds that clung to the mountaintops were gold and crimson and purple. Here all was gray mist and land-bound clouds. Much of the Nath was either scrubby forest or barren waste, but here the ground and the hills were covered with lush, light green moss, such as might be found only in the deepest forest. Matteo had the uncanny feeling that the rugged pass had led them not into a sheltered clearing but into another world.
"Never have I seen so enchanted a place," he murmured in awe.
"Enchanted!" Themo sent him a sour look. "You've been spending too much time around wizards."
The big man's face was unnaturally pale, and he shifted his weight from one foot to another, looking fully as spooked as the skittish horses.