[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
They hide in the muddy reeds. Jaston pointed his pole. There s
one now.
It took further clues to finally discover the pair of black eyes peering from
between bunches of rushes. Its scaled snout barely poked above the water. It
lay stone-still, the bulk of its body hidden in the water, but its thick
armored tail lay draped on the bank behind it. It had to be as long as the
boat.
Just a young bull, Jaston said, appraising it. I doubt it s even bonded
yet. A full-grown adult can grow twice that length, and I ve heard tales of
kroc an giants that can be even larger beasts that could swallow this boat
whole.
Elena leaned closer to Mycelle.
Er ril tired of these nature talks. Do you know where we re going? he asked
Jaston.
The scarred man nodded. These are well-traveled byways. I plan to take us as
far as the swampers have mapped. Beyond that, we ll have to trust Mycelle s
seeking to guide us.
How much farther until we reach these untracked lands?
We ll be there by nightfall. A swamper knows he risks his luck to spend more
than one night out among the sloughs and bogs. One day out and one day back
is an old hunting rule.
Why s that? Er ril asked.
After a night, the swamp has your scent and begins to hunt you. Swampers that
are gone for more than five days are mourned. Only a handful of men have
survived longer than that in the swamp, and most have come back missing limbs
or badly poisoned.
How long were you and Mycelle out while searching for this wit ch the last
time?
Seven days, he said sullenly, glancing to his feet. The longest anyone has
risked the swamp.
And how far do you think you penetrated?
Mycelle answered. We traveled for three days into the swamp before we were
forced back. Even that hard-won distance, I believe, only touched the fringe
of its dark heart. To reach the core will take easily twice that.
Er ril pondered this news with dark brows.
But this time the wit ch wants us to come, Elena said, rolling back her
sleeve to expose the vines of choker s nest that wrapped her arm. She marked
me with her calling. She won t be hiding from us.
Mycelle nodded as Elena shook her sleeve back over the vines. Perhaps, she
mumbled. But who knows the mind of someone who could live so long in these
poisonous lands?
Does anyone know how long she s been here? Er ril asked. Jaston answered.
Tales of the wit ch go back for generations. Hundreds of years. Some say
since the Drowned Lands were first formed. Others say it was the wit ch
herself who sunk this region long ago.
Elena sat straighter in her seat. What do you mean sunk? Hasn t this always
been swamp?
f
Page 237
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
JAMES ULEMENS
No, Er ril said, his voice a pained whisper as he stared at the poisonous
lands. It was once a part of the plains of Standi.
The blood hunter crouched, hidden among the tall reeds in the shallows near
the edge of Drywater. He had circled the ramshackle pile of rafts to its
southern point. His prey s scent left the town here and headed into the
swamps. He stopped to ponder the path that the wit ch chose to follow. Why was
she risking the dangers of these treacherous lands? It made no sense, not when
it was an easy trek to follow the Landslip to the coast.
Torwren slipped into the depths of the swamp, his head sinking below the green
waters. His limbs moved easily as he plodded through the muck at the bottom of
the channel. He marched steadily, the fresh blood heating his skin. He
relished the new strength in his limbs as he pushed aside tangling roots that
snagged at him. Large predators swam toward him, blacker shadows in the murk,
bared teeth like beacons in the gloom. But as they neared, it only took a
glance of his red eyes to twist them away. A flash of their thick, scaled
tails, and they were gone. Swamp eels writhed around his ankles and up his
legs, then were poisoned by his touch. Their carcasses floated up, leaving a
foul trail in the wake of his passage.
As he followed the waterway, he rose to the surface occasionally not to
breathe, since his body had passed beyond that need and blood fueled him
now but to sniff at the wit ch s trail, to make sure he did not stray from her
path. With little resistance from the denizens of the swamp, he moved well. He
would soon catch this wit ch and taste her heart.
As the sun crested to midday, he reached a stronger current in the waters. He
cursed under his breath.
The swift waters would carry the wit ch farther away from him, faster than he
could march. Scowling, he increased his speed as the sun began its slide
toward the western horizon. Still, where the current gave an advantage to the
wit ch, the night was a blood hunter s friend. His prey needed to sleep. He
did not. He would use the midnight hours to close the gap. So, like a boulder
rolling relentlessly down a mountainside, he continued, unstoppable,
determination smoldering in the flames of his red eyes.
As he continued, Torwren again wondered why his prey had
J 1UKM
chosen this route. Did she perhaps think to lose him among the bogs and fens?
He rose and sniffed at the trail. Her spoor was sharp and clear in the humid
air. No, he would never lose her trail.
Never.
Night had fallen by the time the punt glided up to a small island. Rope in
hand, Jaston hopped to the small dock protruding from its muddy bank. We ll
overnight here, he said, tying off the punt.
A stone shack stood atop a short rise. Elena stared longingly at the cottage.
It seemed much more substantial than its watery surroundings. The stacked
rocks that composed its walls must have been ferried here to build this stout
structure; nowhere in the swamps was there such solid building material.
Even the door appeared to be ironwood, a tree foreign to these lands. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl rafalstec.xlx.pl
They hide in the muddy reeds. Jaston pointed his pole. There s
one now.
It took further clues to finally discover the pair of black eyes peering from
between bunches of rushes. Its scaled snout barely poked above the water. It
lay stone-still, the bulk of its body hidden in the water, but its thick
armored tail lay draped on the bank behind it. It had to be as long as the
boat.
Just a young bull, Jaston said, appraising it. I doubt it s even bonded
yet. A full-grown adult can grow twice that length, and I ve heard tales of
kroc an giants that can be even larger beasts that could swallow this boat
whole.
Elena leaned closer to Mycelle.
Er ril tired of these nature talks. Do you know where we re going? he asked
Jaston.
The scarred man nodded. These are well-traveled byways. I plan to take us as
far as the swampers have mapped. Beyond that, we ll have to trust Mycelle s
seeking to guide us.
How much farther until we reach these untracked lands?
We ll be there by nightfall. A swamper knows he risks his luck to spend more
than one night out among the sloughs and bogs. One day out and one day back
is an old hunting rule.
Why s that? Er ril asked.
After a night, the swamp has your scent and begins to hunt you. Swampers that
are gone for more than five days are mourned. Only a handful of men have
survived longer than that in the swamp, and most have come back missing limbs
or badly poisoned.
How long were you and Mycelle out while searching for this wit ch the last
time?
Seven days, he said sullenly, glancing to his feet. The longest anyone has
risked the swamp.
And how far do you think you penetrated?
Mycelle answered. We traveled for three days into the swamp before we were
forced back. Even that hard-won distance, I believe, only touched the fringe
of its dark heart. To reach the core will take easily twice that.
Er ril pondered this news with dark brows.
But this time the wit ch wants us to come, Elena said, rolling back her
sleeve to expose the vines of choker s nest that wrapped her arm. She marked
me with her calling. She won t be hiding from us.
Mycelle nodded as Elena shook her sleeve back over the vines. Perhaps, she
mumbled. But who knows the mind of someone who could live so long in these
poisonous lands?
Does anyone know how long she s been here? Er ril asked. Jaston answered.
Tales of the wit ch go back for generations. Hundreds of years. Some say
since the Drowned Lands were first formed. Others say it was the wit ch
herself who sunk this region long ago.
Elena sat straighter in her seat. What do you mean sunk? Hasn t this always
been swamp?
f
Page 237
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
JAMES ULEMENS
No, Er ril said, his voice a pained whisper as he stared at the poisonous
lands. It was once a part of the plains of Standi.
The blood hunter crouched, hidden among the tall reeds in the shallows near
the edge of Drywater. He had circled the ramshackle pile of rafts to its
southern point. His prey s scent left the town here and headed into the
swamps. He stopped to ponder the path that the wit ch chose to follow. Why was
she risking the dangers of these treacherous lands? It made no sense, not when
it was an easy trek to follow the Landslip to the coast.
Torwren slipped into the depths of the swamp, his head sinking below the green
waters. His limbs moved easily as he plodded through the muck at the bottom of
the channel. He marched steadily, the fresh blood heating his skin. He
relished the new strength in his limbs as he pushed aside tangling roots that
snagged at him. Large predators swam toward him, blacker shadows in the murk,
bared teeth like beacons in the gloom. But as they neared, it only took a
glance of his red eyes to twist them away. A flash of their thick, scaled
tails, and they were gone. Swamp eels writhed around his ankles and up his
legs, then were poisoned by his touch. Their carcasses floated up, leaving a
foul trail in the wake of his passage.
As he followed the waterway, he rose to the surface occasionally not to
breathe, since his body had passed beyond that need and blood fueled him
now but to sniff at the wit ch s trail, to make sure he did not stray from her
path. With little resistance from the denizens of the swamp, he moved well. He
would soon catch this wit ch and taste her heart.
As the sun crested to midday, he reached a stronger current in the waters. He
cursed under his breath.
The swift waters would carry the wit ch farther away from him, faster than he
could march. Scowling, he increased his speed as the sun began its slide
toward the western horizon. Still, where the current gave an advantage to the
wit ch, the night was a blood hunter s friend. His prey needed to sleep. He
did not. He would use the midnight hours to close the gap. So, like a boulder
rolling relentlessly down a mountainside, he continued, unstoppable,
determination smoldering in the flames of his red eyes.
As he continued, Torwren again wondered why his prey had
J 1UKM
chosen this route. Did she perhaps think to lose him among the bogs and fens?
He rose and sniffed at the trail. Her spoor was sharp and clear in the humid
air. No, he would never lose her trail.
Never.
Night had fallen by the time the punt glided up to a small island. Rope in
hand, Jaston hopped to the small dock protruding from its muddy bank. We ll
overnight here, he said, tying off the punt.
A stone shack stood atop a short rise. Elena stared longingly at the cottage.
It seemed much more substantial than its watery surroundings. The stacked
rocks that composed its walls must have been ferried here to build this stout
structure; nowhere in the swamps was there such solid building material.
Even the door appeared to be ironwood, a tree foreign to these lands. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]