Элейн Каннингем - Elfshadow

Arilyn had anticipated this reaction. “I’m sorry,” she told him firmly, “but you’re going to come with me.”

He sighed with resignation, then smirked. “I do grow on people, don’t I?”

“Hardly. I need to reach Waterdeep and disappear without alerting the assassin. But,” she added pointedly, “if I let you loose along the merchant route, you would sing this song to anyone who would listen, and I’ll be back where I started.”

Danilo considered her argument for a brief moment, then nodded. “All right,” he said agreeably. He started to stuff his belongings back into his magic sack.

His ready compliance surprised Arilyn. “You agree? Just like that?”

Still packing, he arched an eyebrow at her. “Do I have much choice in the matter?”

“No.”

“Well then, no sense in whining about things you can’t change, is there?” he concluded cheerfully. He picked up the last item—a silver flask—and took a bracing pull at it before he slipped it into the sack. Thus fortified, he rose and faced Arilyn.

“There. Packing’s done. I say, do you think you could catch us something for breakfast? Anything at all? At this point I could eat a pickled wyvern. And while you hunt, I’ll just freshen up a tad. Not that we’re likely to meet anyone from polite society along the route you’ve chosen, but one can’t travel looking like leftovers from a gnoll’s feast, can one?”

Danilo’s gaze swept over Arilyn, who was clad for travel in boots and trousers, a simple blue tunic over her loose shirt, and her dark cloak. “By the way,” he added casually, with an obvious and exaggerated attempt at diplomacy, “that outfit is very … well, it’s certainly very practical. It looks comfortable, really! For whatever it’s worth, I vastly prefer the clothes you wore at the inn. Maybe all those veils would be a bit much for the road, but at least let me lend you a few pieces of jewelry to brighten up your ensemble?”

Arilyn stifled a sigh. It was going to be a very long trip to Waterdeep.

The sun was edging above the horizon when the half-elf finally nudged her well-fed and immaculately groomed hostage into his saddle. Worried by even a brief delay, Arilyn set as brisk a pace as she felt the horses could handle: it was important that they cross the Marsh of Chelimber before nightfall.

As they left the rolling foothills of the Greycloak Mountains behind, the friendly, autumn-tinted woodlands gave way to a flat, grim valley littered with jagged boulders and scrubby brush. As the ground beneath their horses’ hooves became increasingly soggy, even those pitiful bushes disappeared, and the only vegetation in sight were the rushes and cattails that ringed small pools of tea-colored water. The happy twitter of the forest birds had long ago faded, to be replaced by the incurious stare of an occasional heron.

Arilyn was not unhappy to note that the repressive ugliness of the landscape had curbed the nobleman’s tongue, for his chatter had dwindled to an occasional question. He rode well, she was relieved to see, and as he rode he took in the sights like some slightly distressed pleasure-traveler.

“What’s that?” he demanded, pointing to a large square depression in the bog. Arilyn looked, and her heart sank.

“Someone’s been cutting peat,” she said tersely.

“Whatever for?”

“Fuel. It burns well.”

Danilo considered her words. “Why would someone want to come all the way into this flattened-out version of the Abyss for fuel? There are perfectly good woodlands between here and the nearest civilized area.” When Arilyn didn’t comment on his observation, Danilo puzzled it over. He finally snapped his fingers and smiled in triumph. “Wait a minute! I’ve got it! Our peat-cutting friends must be from one of the uncivilized races. Orcs, maybe? More likely goblins, given the terrain. Am I right?”

Arilyn cast him a sour look. “You needn’t look so pleased about it. Listen, that peat was recently cut. Whatever did it is probably nearby.”

“You jest,” Danilo said, a hopeful note in his voice.

“Not very often. We’re nearing the marsh. Hold your tongue until we’re through it.”

The dandy subsided. Soon the spongy texture of the peat bog gave way to open wetlands, and the air took on a repressive, swampy tang. Before highsun they had reached the edge of Chelimber Marsh.

“I say, this is a dismal place,” Danilo noted with dismay.

Arilyn silently agreed. In her opinion, the Marsh of Chelimber could easily be mistaken for one of the lower levels of the Nine Hells.

There was no sign of animal life, yet an eerie, insectlike chirruping came from everywhere and nowhere. Bare, rock-covered ground alternated with soggy patches of waist-high marsh grasses, which swayed and beckoned despite an utter lack of wind. Many of the small pools that dotted the ground bubbled and seethed, sending up gushes of sulphur-scented steam. Even the air seemed heavy and oppressive beneath a slate-colored sky.

“Let’s get it over with,” Arilyn whispered, resolutely guiding her horse forward. Danilo followed, looking none too happy.

Despite the known and rumored dangers of the marsh, their ride was uneventful. Arilyn did not relax her guard, but listened alertly to the strange sounds of the marsh. From no discernable source, Chelimber emitted a continuous spate of chirps, pops, groans, and belches. The noise was unnerving, and Arilyn noted the toll it took on the high-strung mares. Yet there was no sign of danger, and by late afternoon it began to appear that the trip would pass without incident. Even Danilo managed to hold his tongue until, by Arilyn’s reckoning, they neared the western border of the marsh. The mist-shrouded sun hung just above the marsh grass. Tension began to drain from Arilyn’s taut body as the horses picked their way toward relative safety. They would escape Chelimber before nightfall, despite the morning’s delay.

That hope was premature. Almost lost in the swamp’s music was a new note, a faint, grating sound that brought to Arilyn’s mind the image of a dragon with hiccoughs. She hoped that the bizarre noise was just another of the marsh’s aural tricks, but just to check she held up a hand to halt Danilo’s progress. “Did you hear that?” she mouthed at him.

The nobleman’s attention was elsewhere. Arilyn followed the direction of his gaze, and her throat tightened in foreboding: at her side, the moonblade glowed with an ominous blue light.

“What’s that all about?” he asked, pointing to her sword.

“Lower your voice.”

“Why is your sword blue?” he asked softly.

“Magic,” she explained tersely, looking about for whatever the moonblade sensed. “A danger warning.”

“Quaint. Very quaint,” he drawled, regarding the pale blue light of the sword with casual interest. “A glowing sword. Tell me, does it come in green? If so, where can I get one?”

The lack of concern in his voice infuriated Arilyn. She glared at him, incredulous. “Goblins,” she stressed in a quiet voice. “Remember your peat-cutting goblins? Surely not even you could find such creatures amusing.”

Danilo pursed his lips and considered this. “Actually, there was this little fellow down in Cormyr …”

“Oh, be still,” Arilyn hissed. Her fingers curved around the moonblade’s grip, and she dismissed Danilo and his foolishness to concentrate on the battle that was sure to come. She eased her horse westward and gestured for the dandy to follow her. The ground was less flat here, and a small hill some hundred yards away bore the ruins of what appeared to be an ancient keep. The setting sun would be at their back, providing a disadvantage to any attackers. There they could take a stand.