Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar

Mola opened her eyes, only to have them stung closed by silt and blood. The world around her had turned scarlet, soft, and utterly wet. Her head started to ache, and her lungs spasmed in her chest. She had only one last chance to free herself before she drowned, murdered by the very corpse she had created. Charlin needs me. I’m not going to die here!

Driven by new purpose, Mola writhed and shoved, braced and pushed to no avail. She felt her muscles weakening, the agony in her lungs growing unbearable. Seeking bearings, she buried her hand into the muck. Soft. She tossed aside a handful, churning up the water into wild bubbles. Heading down when air was up defied survival instinct, but Mola forced herself to dig. Seizing and kneading, grinding down the muck beneath her, she created just enough extra space to squeeze out.

Mola could not wait until she fully reached the surface before gasping in a lungful of air and mud, blood and water. The combination choked her. She coughed violently, wheezing in air at the end of each paroxysm. She vomited forcefully, repeatedly. Gotta move. Might be more of these things. Eyes watering, lashes filled with silt, she grabbed the end of the branch, trying to wrench it free of the sunken corpse. It resisted.

Mola’s head felt ready to explode, and she continued to cough as she worked, twisting and pulling until blood boiled into the water and the branch finally slid free. The knife remained attached, to her relief. As she ran as quickly as the swamp allowed, she realized the provision bag still thumped against her shoulder. She had forgotten about it in the struggle and could not help wondering if slipping it off might have allowed her to free herself faster and easier. A Herald would have thought of that.

Mola had never seen a mountain up close before, and it surprised her. She had expected a tower of pure rock. The Heralds’ tales always involved vertical crags with dodgy handholds and boulders crashing down upon them. Instead, she found a gentle, upward slope as grassy as a pasture and interspersed with trees. Mola climbed mindlessly, swiftly, her only thought to leave the swamp far behind. At length, exhaustion seized her; and she dropped to the ground to rest.

The grass felt warm and comforting beneath her, cushioning the many aches that descended upon her as fear and excitement ebbed. Mola felt bruised and achy in every part, but no one pain stood out from the others. Overtaxed muscles, pulls, and tears seemed the worst of it. Though covered in sticky drake blood, she did not appear to have shed any of her own. She stank of drying innards and swamp slime.

Mola opened the supplies Corry had had packed for her, thrilled to find clean, dry clothing as well as food. It seemed foolish to change now, when she had to wallow back through the swamp, but she needed the comfort. Quickly, she stripped down and replaced her grimy clothes. The soft, clean fabric felt wonderful, buoying her mood as well, and confidence swelled through her like second wind. I survived a swamp drake! The thought filled her with pride.

I survived an attack—and it didn’t. That same morning, she would not have considered herself capable of such a feat. Charlin will be so proud.

Thoughts of her mistress brought Mola crashing back to reality. Charlin would never know about her success if she did not hurry and find those healing clovers. Maybe it’s not a fool’s mission. Maybe my dream meant something. Maybe I really can make my Herald strong again.

Grinning, Mola balled up the ruined clothes and shoved them into the pack. She would have rather burned them; but, without their corroborating filth and stench, she doubted anyone would believe her. With a lot of effort, she had managed to clean equally disgusting stains from the effects of her mistress in the past.

Mola looked up. The sun no longer glared down at her, partially blocked by the rocky peaks. The way had grown steeper, stonier; and she could see the crags not far above her, the ones from her dream. If she squinted, she believed she could even see greenery dotted with bits of pink. Using the makeshift spear as a walking stick, tossing the pack back over her shoulder, Mola started up the more sharply rising slope.

Mola had only taken a few steps when she noticed a dark figure towering above her on the path ahead. For a moment, she mistook it for an enormous man in a fur coat. Then, it opened its mouth in a growling roar, and she realized she faced a large and angry-looking bear.