Jean Rabe - Betrayal

“Lies,” she repeated now bitterly to Rig. “It was all lies. The ransom was never mine to keep. Maldred was never human. Dhamon was never trustworthy. Lies. Lies. All of it….”

Her cruel work done, the child had melted away into mists of the swamp, taking Rig’s magical glaive with her. Dhamon and Maldred announced they would escort the freed slaves back to Donnag, inviting Fiona and Rig to come with them. It would be safer. Instead, the Solamnic marched off into the swamp, Rig following. Maldred and Dhamon had called out to them for a time, until their voices grew distant and the animal and insect noises finally drowned them out.

“Damn Dhamon Grimwulf.” Fiona whirled to resume her trek. “And Maldred, too. Damn the lying lot of them.”

“I never did like Dhamon,” Rig muttered as he fell in step behind her. He added softly, after they had traveled only a short distance, “I would like to get my glaive back.”

The ground was marshy, thick with mud and rotting plants. It pulled at their heels with each step. Walking was hard work, but the harsh conditions only made Fiona more determined. A sudden gust of wind whipped out of nowhere and extinguished her torch. The inky blackness of Sable’s swamp reached out and covered them from all directions. The air stilled. The leafy canopy high above them was so dense no hint of starlight filtered down. Everything was blackest black.

“Fiona?”

“Shhh.”

“Fiona, I can’t see anything.”

“I know.”

“I don’t hear anything either.”

“I know. That’s the problem.”

The insects had stopped buzzing. The silence was unnerving. The silence, the heat, the darkness, and the dampness of the place. A prickly sensation ran down the Solamnic’s spine, a feeling that suggested someone or something was watching them. Something that could see without any problem in this cavelike blackness.

Rig had never considered himself a man to scare easily. He had a respectable fear of the dragons and of strong storms at sea. He didn’t fear much else. Now, though, he felt a horrible, constricting fear. He considered grabbing Fiona and retreating and wondered if he could even manage to retrace his steps and find his way back to the clearing with the silver mine. He wondered if they might yet catch up with Dhamon and Maldred. Rig knew Fiona had to be frightened, too. He hated the notion of rejoining Maldred and Dhamon, but it would be the prudent thing to do. It was suicide to stand here practically helpless in the dark. The insects resumed their constant drone, and the irritating noise made them both breathe a little easier.

“Can’t see a damn thing, Fiona,” Rig grumbled. “Not even the hand in front of my face. Maybe we should go back to the clearing. Get some torches. Maybe there’s some lanterns in the mine. Maybe some food. We left too fast, without collecting something to eat.”

“No. No. No.”

“Fine.” Rig let out a deep breath, the wind whistling through his clenched teeth.

“There has to be a clearing somewhere ahead where we’ll be able to see.” She dropped the useless torch and flailed about with her hand until she found Rig and laced her fingers with his. They pressed on like blind people, brushing by the thick trunk of a shaggybark, slogging through a stagnant pool of water, wincing as thorn bushes scratched their legs. They walked through an enormous spiderweb and had to stop for several minutes to pull off the gummy mass.

“Just a little farther,” Fiona whispered, determined to put more miles between herself and the silver mines. “Farther… away from Dhamon and Maldred.”

A great cat snarled in the distance. Closer, something hissed. Directly overhead, a branch rustled, though there was no breeze in the swamp. A stench hung in the air, perhaps a large animal rotting nearby. There was the strong, pungent odor of dead plants decaying in the loamy marsh. The hot air and overall oppressive scent of this great bog nearly caused Fiona to gag.

“A little farther, Rig. Just a little….”

“So hot,” he said. The mariner was listening to a bird with an odd, throaty call, to frogs croaking noisily, to something making a rhythmic clacking sound. He wished for a breeze, another lone gust of wind, anything to stir up the air.

Fiona’s pace slowed, her body admitting a fatigue her mind railed against. They stumbled over logs and fallen vines and blindly groped their way through clumps of willow-birches. A break in the canopy above painted their world in shifting grays. Not starlight, Rig could tell, for the bit of sky was lightening, heading toward dawn. It was a welcome, if brief, change, however. They passed beyond the break, plunging again into utter darkness. Suddenly the mariner tensed. He gently squeezed Fiona’s hand.

“What?” she asked.

“I hear something.”

“Maldred? Dhamon?”

He shook his head, then realized she couldn’t even see him. “I don’t think so. Doesn’t sound like boots. Hear it?” His voice was so soft she had to strain to catch it. “I think…”

He dropped her hand and took a few steps away from her, drew his sword and swung hard in a wide arc, the blade whistling in the air and glancing off… something. Wood? A tree? The mariner desperately needed to see!

There was more rustling, to the side this time, followed by a snarl that trailed off into a loud hiss. Rig spun and swung again, connecting with something softer. His unseen foe howled, the rustling plants hinting that the thing was trying to circle around behind them. What were they up against?

“Fiona! Stay put!” he shouted. “I don’t want to strike you by mistake.”

Rig heard the hiss of the Solamnic’s sword being drawn, and he concentrated on the soft sounds in front of him, the leaves being brushed aside. He pivoted on the balls of his feet, following the sound and thrusting forward. Nothing! He pulled back and stabbed farther to his right. Another howl, and this time Rig knew he’d seriously wounded the creature, as acidic blood sprayed out, sizzling against the foliage and splashing against his arm.

“ Ow!” Rig shouted. “Fiona! It’s a damnable draconian. Stay put!”

Fiona heard noises in another direction, and she shifted her weight from foot to foot, listening intently. “Two draconians, Rig,” she corrected. “You stay put, too!”

“Not draconiansss,” a voice to her right hissed. “We are ssspawn.”

“Draconians, spawn, what’s the difference?” Rig spat. “You’re monsters.”

Fiona whirled, tripping over an exposed root and flying forward. But her fingers held tight to her sword, which was extended and somehow grazed spawn flesh. There were more sloshing footsteps, a series of hissing growls. There were more than two of them, she instantly realized. How many?

She scrambled to her feet, swinging wildly to keep the creatures back, or, better yet, to hurt them. She grazed something again, an angry snarl vouching that it was a spawn and not the mariner. At the same time, she felt sharp claws dig into her back. Fiona bit down on her lip to keep from crying out.

“Woman is clumsssy,” one cackled.

“Man clumsssy, too,” another added.

“At least I’m not ugly,” Rig countered. He wanted Fiona to hear his voice so she’d know where he was. “And you’re about as ugly as anything gets.”

Though he couldn’t see them, he knew what they looked like: hulking manlike creatures with claws and wings, covered in glossy black scales.

There was movement directly in front of him now. Lunging forward, he felt his sword sink deep into muscular flesh. He rammed the weapon in up to the hilt and found himself drenched with stinging acid. He knew that black spawn exploded in a burst of acid as they died, and he wondered if the burning acid would leave scars.