The ground about them was little more than thick mud frosting over a layer of decayed vegetation. Ravenwing's boots sank to the ankle with every step, and he thanked the gods that he was wearing the thigh-high leathers and not the low-slung dress boots he might have lost in the muck.

A sudden shiver ran down his spine as he realized that he no longer knew who or what he was praying to. If Eostivil won the game, he would be praying to himself. The thought made his head spin, and he forced it from his mind. Time enough for that later.

The important thing now was to get out of this vile swamp. The stench of the glutenous mud rose in foul waves around them, reeking of decayed foliage and rotting flesh. He gagged as a bubble of swamp gas burst with a loud thwurp of sound immediately beneath his feet. The resultant wave of hot, filth-laden air nearly drove him to his knees.

Gulping down the nausea that climbed the back of his throat, he gasped a query to the ragamuffin guide. "How much further?"

Petkin grinned back over his shoulder, apparently unaffected by the miasma of the swamp, or perhaps merely used to it. "Not much. See that rise?" He pointed to a ridge of rock, barely visible through the canopy of trees. "The softland ends at the base of that rock. From there it is nothing but hard climbing and hot sun. You'll wish for the trees quick enough when you reach there, my lord."

Ravenwing shuddered. Had he gone completely mad? Was he really here in this Flames-damned bog, or locked away in Norfulk's dungeon under some nightmare trance? Everything that had happened since the ill-fated attempt to rescue Stefan and Daerci felt unreal. Deodar's death, the fire, the mountaintop, the visit with the gods...and then his fingers brushed the crystal embedded in his cheek as he mopped his sweating face, and he knew it was no dream.

The air beneath the trees was stifling, and ropes of vines hung in festooning swags everywhere he looked. The back of his neck prickled uneasily. The vines looked far too pliable to him, less like plants than sentient creatures. He thought he saw one slither along the branch it lay against.

Too late he realized what it was he was actually looking at.

Fear choked him like a gloved hand around his throat. He tried to croak out a warning as the serpent slid silently through the mud toward Petkin, but no sound could squeeze past the vice closing his throat. His heart pounded in his temples, and he was surprised the boy could not hear it.

Having spent so much of his time in avian form, Ravenwing's fear and loathing of snakes was phobic in proportion, freezing him where he stood. This was no ordinary serpent either. Thick as his calf, and twenty feet in length, it glided forward with an almost imperceptable hiss of scales against the ooze.

He tried again to call out, hand slamming against the trunk of the tree beside him with a dull thump of sound. It was enough to draw Petkin's attention, and the boy swivelled his head toward the immobile elf. Ravenwing tried in vain to make his frozen limbs obey him, but he could not break the paralysis that held him in place.

The child's eyes widened at the sight of the serpent, and he stumbled backward as it slid closer, the jaw beginning to unhinge. Ravenwing gestured for the boy to flee, still unable to force out any sound. The elf fell to his knees, scrabbling through the muck for a stone or some bit of wood to throw at the monster and draw its attention.

Petkin wrenched his gaze free and started to run, but his bare feet tangled beneath him, and he fell headlong into the mire. Scrambling to his hands and knees, he tried to get to his feet, but before he could manage it, the snake was upon him.

The boy began to keen--a high-pitched, gibbering wail--and Ravenwing buried his face in his mud-caked hands, unable to watch. There was a final high, whistling scream, choked off in mid-note, and the elf sobbed.

What good was he to anyone now? He brought only ill-fortune to all who knew him. Without his magic, he was useless.

Suddenly, a rage swept though him; white hot in its intensity. "No more games!" he snarled, finding his voice at last. He leapt to his feet, the fire of his rage melting the ice that bound his limbs. He dove from the path to snatch up a sharp branch snapped from one of the looming trees. "No more games, do you hear me, Eostivil? No more games!"

Mad with rage and loathing, he staggered forward to where the sated serpent lay stretched across the path, belly obscenely distended. He clubbed it about the head until only a misshapen clump of ichor smeared bone remained.

The madness spent, Ravenwing stared down at the snake in dull horror, his stomach twisting with revulsion. No one deserved to die like that. Especially not a child.

He lost the fight to keep down his breakfast, spewing a vile-tasting mess into the undergrowth beside the trail.

Dragging a filthy hand across his mouth, Ravenwing whispered, "Rest easy, little one. You have earned it." He could not bring himself to offer the prayer to Andailia, knowing now that the gods he had worshipped all his life were lies.

Turning away from the carcass of the snake, he fixed his eyes on the distant ridge of rock that Petkin had pointed out to him. His grip tightened around the killing stick in his hand. He would survive this misbegotten quest, and when his magic returned, he would make them pay.