Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar

As the few scattered mountains drew tantalizingly near, the footing became less certain. The mare snorted frequently, and its pace slowed to a crawl. It lifted its hooves unnaturally high to clear the mud that sucked at its fetlocks. Finally, it stopped completely, twisting its head toward home and nickering uneasily at the swampy ground.

Mola dismounted. “It’s all right, girl. You don’t have to go any farther.” She untied her pack from the saddle, rolling up the twine and placing it in her pocket. Barely a cloud marred the sky, and the afternoon sun warmed the air pleasantly. It would take less than half an hour to reach the cliffs on foot, even slogging through the swamp at its base. “Wait here for me.” She did not know if the horse would understand or obey. The Heralds did not have to worry about such things; their Companions grasped everything they said, whether aloud or in Mindspeech.

Mola considered tying the reins to a branch of one of the scraggly trees at the edge of the swamp, but discarded the thought. If something happened to her, the horse would starve. And, if it spooked, it might break its neck or leg. It seemed better to risk the hike home than the horse’s life. Sighing, she removed the headstall and tied it to the saddle. To her relief, the horse did not run but settled into quiet grazing.

Mola took a forward step, the muck sucking noisily at her boots. She frowned, studying the trees again until she found a suitable, sturdy branch. Using a combination of the knife’s blade and her own strength, she broke free a thick limb a bit longer than a tall man. Using that, she poked ahead of herself, gauging the thickness of water and mud before plunging forward.

The stick did its job, warning Mola of sinkholes and helping maintain balance as she wandered deeper into the swamp. The water rose above her feet, then her calves, and, finally, above the top of her boots. Brackish water soaked her feet, reeking of plant material and dead things. Mola crinkled her nose and continued walking, her attention fixed always ahead, always on the mountain.

Mola ran the details of the dream through her mind as she walked. It always started the same, a strange and masculine voice narrating the scenes: “Come, Mola, come. You can find it.” It guided her through the swamp to the foot of the mountain, then up a craggy path to a ledge, where a five-leafed variety of pink clover grew. “Pick them, as much as you can carry. They will make the Herald strong.”

The tone never changed, nor the words. The scene that unraveled in the dream looked eerily similar to what lay precisely before her now: the sunlit swamp, the close gray stone of the mountain. Mola could not help smiling. Filled with sudden excitement, she took a few skipping steps through the muck.

They saved her. The surprise attack meant to end her life became a missed strike. An enormous shape hurtled past Mola, slamming her with a broad shoulder and knocking her into the filth. Huge, reptilian jaws closed on a rock instead of a woman.

Swamp drake. Mola screamed and tried to run. But the water hampered her movements, and the mud slowed her to an awkward stumble. Don’t panic. Mola tried to avert her eyes. She knew from the tales of the Heralds that drakes had hypnotic abilities, that catching its glance directly would result in her death.

I need a weapon. Survival instinct and common sense would not allow her to leap bodily upon the thing. A long weapon.

Mola dared not stare at the drake, but she kept the edge of her vision and her ears upon it. For the moment, it was more worried about shoving the stone from its mouth than catching her, but she had no illusions. The moment it freed its jaws, it would come after her again.

Mola juggled the twine from her pocket, and Corry’s knife. As quickly as she could, she tied the hilt onto the branch, creating a crude spear.

By the time Mola finished, the swamp drake charged her again. Though lumbering and slow, it had the great advantage of bulk. Massive and deadly, it opened its jaws wide, displaying rows of dagger-like teeth. It had lost the ambush but had not yet given up on its prey.

Mola screamed again. Shutting her eyes tightly, she shoved the spear toward the creature’s wide-open mouth. The impact of its attack hurled her to the ground, still clutching the branch in desperate, white-knuckled fingers. The drake’s massive body flopped on top of her, grinding her into the muck and water. She managed to choke down a breath of mostly air before becoming pinned, underwater, beneath it.

No! No! For the second time in a matter of moments, Mola fought panic. The swamp drake had gone still, apparently dead; its own momentum driving the spear deep. Smashed into the muck beneath the water, Mola struggled to wriggle loose. The drake’s body did not budge.