"Let's move," he said grimly. "Before this noise draws more soldiers eager to kill us."
Tantaerra nodded. "This gorge looks a little…punishing. Not to mention right in our way."
The Masked nodded. "So we take yon path that brought the unfortunate Jeressan and his friends here. The gorge begins somewhere in that direction-hopefully we can find a way across it."
"You never stop being clever, do you?"
"It's what you're paying for, Little Princess."
Tantaerra started to snap something rude in response, then swallowed her words. The Masked had lurched and almost fallen as he turned, and he was staggering as he started along the little trail on the edge of the gorge. If he needed anger to keep him going, she'd start in on him, but just now silence seemed kinder, and more prudent. These woods were full of skulking Nirmathi.
So she followed him as silently as she could. Her back burned like fire and her torn clothing over it was stuck to her with blood, but at least she didn't have a whittled-off stump of an arrow sticking out of her shoulder, or had to endure the clumsy whittlings of a halfling who mostly used the points of her daggers, and not to carve wood.
There was some sort of night-glowing moss on some of the rocks that stood up out of the stream, and they gave just enough light to see the walls and lip of the gorge. Ahead, The Masked was moving slowly and stiffly, which suited Tantaerra just fine. She was feeling a little slow and stiff herself, just now.
∗ ∗ ∗
It had been a farmhouse, once, before someone had burned it, and its scorched roof had collapsed down atop charred walls and pillars. Probably Molthuni raiders, torching a farm in a rainstorm. Tantaerra couldn't think what else would keep a roof mainly intact, while what was beneath it burned to ashes.
Not that she was thinking all that clearly just now.
With real dawn about to break, she couldn't afford to be choosy. Nor could the exhausted, pain-wracked masked man beside her. He'd been lurching and stumbling along the way bards always said zombies did, a long and wearying way along forest trails from that gorge where they'd almost been slain.
He was done. Gasping, dull-eyed done. Nor was she much better. They had to rest.
Dagger in hand, she peered cautiously around the edge of the canted roof, half expecting a wolf or something else nasty to snarl and lunge at her.
Nothing did. The roof that met the ground on the side they'd approached from flared up overhead into a splintered ending, above a blackened, littered hole that had once been the farmhouse cellar. Most of the cellar was still covered by an intact floor, itself sheltered by the charred stub of a wall, and another corner of roof.
Right. The cellar it would have to be.
She thrust her dagger down into the darkness warily, then followed it into an evil-smelling pit full of a tangle of charred spars, old brown-rotten bones, a great heap of blackened stones-ah, a chimney-and the orange-brown remnants of what had once been a large cauldron and its hearth-hook. Tantaerra flung some of the detritus clear, clawed at stones until they were more level than they had been, then led The Masked-who'd sunk to the ground against that stub of wall, and was just sitting there shivering-down into the cellar.
When they were in, she tugged on a spar she'd squeezed them both past, and it shifted enough that some fire-killed tree branches that had been tangled above it fell untidily across their end of cellar, providing a measure of concealment.
Then she fell back with a sigh, and watched dawn break. Beside her, The Masked groaned, mumbled something, and fell silent.
So silent that she had to peer hard, her nose almost touching his mask, to be sure he was still breathing.
He was. She fell asleep wondering why humans breath smelled so bad sometimes, and not bad at all at other times. Right now, his bore the iron tang of blood, which was bad. If he started to drool blood, it would be worse.
Hah, hear the halfling princess! How could things get worse, hey?
∗ ∗ ∗
She woke to unfamiliar voices. Human men, talking casually, very close by. Just above-
Oh. Yes. The burned farmhouse.
There was a smell of a small fire, and something gamey roasting over it.
Tantaerra tried to peer upward without moving, and caught her breath when a hand touched her cheek. The Masked, telling her wordlessly that he was awake.
Even twisting until it hurt, Tantaerra couldn't see anything much up above except the heel and backs of a pair of muddy war-boots. Obviously there was a man standing in what was left of the farmhouse. The sun was low in the sky, which meant they'd slept most of the day. Or even-
The voices again, even closer.
"This is excellent wine, Captain. Where did you find it?"
"In a Nirmathi cellar half a day's ride north of here, sir. It used to have quite a grand house over it-till we burned it-but they're still using the underchambers to store food and drink. Raided from merchants of Molthune, of course."
"So this was meant for someone in Canorate with silver enough to quench their thirst in fine style …well, I heartily thank you for bringing it along. I've not tasted better at high table feasts anywhere in Molthune."
"I hope the meat's as good, sir."
"Almost done, sir," came a hasty third voice, from farther off.
"Worry not." That was the Molthuni superior officer again. "I've learned to take what I can get, this side of the Inkwater. Good farm country, this, but going back to forest as we fight-and the Nirmathi are good at hiding their crops from us, and keeping what's left of their livestock well away from the border. I hear they have entire herds up in the high valleys of yonder mountains. Not that we'll ever push close enough to see them, and get out alive."
"Sir?"
"We're not winning this war, Captain. We rule only as much of Nirmathas as our swords can reach, and only just as we're reaching-and even then, they feather us with arrows almost at will."
"But sir! Our superior weapons …our training …" The captain sounded shocked.
"What you've been taught about that is all true, yes, but beside the point in the daily fighting. This is a war of regimented, disciplined-and mightily frustrated-Molthuni troops trying to find and crush fast-moving, hit-and-run Nirmathi warbands. A foe who won't stand and fight. And it's their country; they know how to move about swiftly, and hide from us. It's taking a damned long time to wear them down."
"So burn them out, and their forest with them," a fourth voice put in, from some distance.
"And what good is holding Nirmathas, soldier, if we turn it into a firepit taking it back?" The superior officer sounded testy now. "This was Molthune, and we want it to be Molthune again, not burned-out desolation. The easy way out is seldom the best way. Try to remember that."
"Yes, sir," came a chorus that sounded rather sullen. Four voices, at least, but probably more.
Dung. Molthuni, camped right on top of them. If she knew men, they'd be relieving themselves soon, thanks to the wine, and dark holes in the ground in the heart of handy ruins would be just the place …
Tantaerra tried stretching, as quietly as possible. Then stopped and sank back down, biting back a sigh.
She still felt weak, and very stiff, and her smarting back was complaining about the stretching almost as much as it had when she'd twisted herself to peer. The only way up was through this tangle-screen opening, right into the midst of the soldiers.
She looked at The Masked, who'd somehow stealthily drawn his sword. He tilted his head to rest on one hand, miming sleep, then used that hand to point upward.
Well, of course. They'd wait until some of the soldiers went to sleep. Darkness would be an ally, making bowmen less accurate than they'd be in full light. If these Molthuni were out here in the Nirmathi forest without crossbows cocked and ready, then they were fools.