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Authors: Adele Abbot
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the other two engaged the ants. Ponderos was ready for the leap and wielding his blade in a blur of blue glass, he cleaved one of the front legs away and half of the mandible. Roli took it on as another dashed away from the ants towards the softer looking targets.
Calistrope’s and Ponderos’ swords almost met in the insect’s thorax while to the side, Roli decapitated the injured one. Meanwhile one or other of the ants had bitten through the third’s waist and the two halves—dead but still deadly—twitched on the ground with a stinger emerging from one half and its jaws snapping from the other.
The engagement had lasted no more than four or five minutes but all three humans were breathing heavily as though exhausted. The affray with the dragonflies out on the lake had in no way prepared them for hand to hand combat, it was not yet an activity which they could react to with equanimity. Calistrope hoped sincerely that they might never become so accustomed.
Leaving the carnage behind them and with a heightened awareness of possible predators, they trudged onward, comparing landmarks with those marked upon their chart.
Ponderos pointed to a rough pillar of rock which must have been half a league high yet no more than thirty paces across at its base. “God’s Finger. Do you think it’s natural or artificial?”
“Natural,” said Calistrope, not greatly interested in its provenance. “Though which God? Hmm? According to the notes in the margin, it stands close to the high point. How far do you think?” he thrust the map out towards Ponderos.
Ponderos squinted in the gloom. “Three leagues?” he shrugged. “About three leagues.”
The chart showed the massif as a long narrow peninsular of highland trailing southward from a great continent more than a thousand leagues in width. On the western side it was bounded by Lake Mal-a-Merrion, on the east—the farther side—the Long River emptied through its vast delta into the Last Ocean.
Another three leagues and they did, indeed, reach the watershed. The ground underfoot had become soft and marshy, the stream they had followed became a series of stagnant pools where pale insect nymphs wriggled away from the light and other—more developed—larvae snapped wicked claws and mandibles as their shadows fell across the scummy surface.
The humans trod carefully through or around the noxious ponds and came at last to where the valley floor tilted imperceptibly towards the east and water drained sullenly from the bogs and sloughs. Bubbles rose sluggishly and burst on the surface tainting the air with the smell of things long dead.
Gradually, their footing became less spongy; the water collected into a sizeable river which coursed downhill carrying with it a murky burden of silt and mud. In past epochs, this side of the landmass had undergone greater erosion; ahead, the valley widened considerably and the sides sloped away from the vertical.
In the final narrow throat of the ravine, the ants insisted upon a halt. This, Faramiss told them in its buzzing tones was as far as they would go.
“But your instructions,” Calistrope frowned, “you are to go with us to Schune.” This arbitrary decision quite bewildered Calistrope, it was a truism that the lower orders of ants—the workers and the soldiers—obeyed the Nest to the letter, acquiescence to Nest orders was cemented into their genes.
“Our food is almost exhausted,” Faramiss explained. “Only so much was salvaged from the raft after the attack. We will stay here for as long as we live and protect you from the pursuers.”
“Pursuers?” asked Ponderos. “What pursuers?”
Faramiss waved her antennae expressively. “Creatures of the marsh. Eight have followed us. A fire will halt them for a time, after that we will kill them until we die.
The humans looked back the way they had come. Was there a suggestion of shapes and stick-like limbs lurking in the shadows? Perhaps.
“Surely you can forage for
Calistrope’s and Ponderos’ swords almost met in the insect’s thorax while to the side, Roli decapitated the injured one. Meanwhile one or other of the ants had bitten through the third’s waist and the two halves—dead but still deadly—twitched on the ground with a stinger emerging from one half and its jaws snapping from the other.
The engagement had lasted no more than four or five minutes but all three humans were breathing heavily as though exhausted. The affray with the dragonflies out on the lake had in no way prepared them for hand to hand combat, it was not yet an activity which they could react to with equanimity. Calistrope hoped sincerely that they might never become so accustomed.
Leaving the carnage behind them and with a heightened awareness of possible predators, they trudged onward, comparing landmarks with those marked upon their chart.
Ponderos pointed to a rough pillar of rock which must have been half a league high yet no more than thirty paces across at its base. “God’s Finger. Do you think it’s natural or artificial?”
“Natural,” said Calistrope, not greatly interested in its provenance. “Though which God? Hmm? According to the notes in the margin, it stands close to the high point. How far do you think?” he thrust the map out towards Ponderos.
Ponderos squinted in the gloom. “Three leagues?” he shrugged. “About three leagues.”
The chart showed the massif as a long narrow peninsular of highland trailing southward from a great continent more than a thousand leagues in width. On the western side it was bounded by Lake Mal-a-Merrion, on the east—the farther side—the Long River emptied through its vast delta into the Last Ocean.
Another three leagues and they did, indeed, reach the watershed. The ground underfoot had become soft and marshy, the stream they had followed became a series of stagnant pools where pale insect nymphs wriggled away from the light and other—more developed—larvae snapped wicked claws and mandibles as their shadows fell across the scummy surface.
The humans trod carefully through or around the noxious ponds and came at last to where the valley floor tilted imperceptibly towards the east and water drained sullenly from the bogs and sloughs. Bubbles rose sluggishly and burst on the surface tainting the air with the smell of things long dead.
Gradually, their footing became less spongy; the water collected into a sizeable river which coursed downhill carrying with it a murky burden of silt and mud. In past epochs, this side of the landmass had undergone greater erosion; ahead, the valley widened considerably and the sides sloped away from the vertical.
In the final narrow throat of the ravine, the ants insisted upon a halt. This, Faramiss told them in its buzzing tones was as far as they would go.
“But your instructions,” Calistrope frowned, “you are to go with us to Schune.” This arbitrary decision quite bewildered Calistrope, it was a truism that the lower orders of ants—the workers and the soldiers—obeyed the Nest to the letter, acquiescence to Nest orders was cemented into their genes.
“Our food is almost exhausted,” Faramiss explained. “Only so much was salvaged from the raft after the attack. We will stay here for as long as we live and protect you from the pursuers.”
“Pursuers?” asked Ponderos. “What pursuers?”
Faramiss waved her antennae expressively. “Creatures of the marsh. Eight have followed us. A fire will halt them for a time, after that we will kill them until we die.
The humans looked back the way they had come. Was there a suggestion of shapes and stick-like limbs lurking in the shadows? Perhaps.
“Surely you can forage for
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