Perhaps, Wren thought. Perhaps not.
She looked at Garth. The big man’s fingers moved swiftly
in response. We don’t know anything about this creature. Be careful what
you decide.
Wren nodded. Typical Garth. He was wrong, of course-
they did know one thing. The Splinterscat had saved them from
the Wisteron as surely as they had saved him. And he might
prove useful to have along, particularly since he knew the dan-
gers of Morrowindl far better than they did. Agreeing to take
him with them when they left the island was a small enough
trade-off
Unless Garth’s suspicions should prove correct and the
Splinterscat was playing some sort of game.
Don’t trust anyone, the Addershag had warned her.
She hesitated a moment, thinking the matter through. Then
she shrugged the warning aside. “We have a bargain,” she an-
nounced abruptly. “I think it is a good idea.”
The Splinterscat spread his quills with a flourish. “Hrrwwll.
I thought you would,” he said, and yawned. Then he stretched
out full length before them and placed his head comfortably on
his paws. “Don’t touch me while I’m sleeping,” he advised. “If
you do, you will end up with a face full of quills. I would feel
badly if our partnership ended that way. Phfftt.”
Before Wren could finish communicating the warning to
Garth, Stresa’s eyes were closed, and the Splinterscat was asleep.
WREN TOOK THE EARLY WATCH, then slept soundly until dawn.
She woke to Stresa’s stirrings-the rustle of quills, the scrape of
claws against wood. She rose, her mind fuzzy and her eyes dry
and scratchy. She felt weak and unsettled, but ignored her dis-
comfort as Garth passed her the aleskin and some bread. Their
food was being depleted rapidly, she knew; much of it had sim-
ply gone bad. They would have to forage soon. She hoped that
Stresa, despite his odd eating habits, might be of some help in
sorting out what was edible. She chewed a bit of the bread and
spit it out. It tasted of mold.
Stresa lumbered outside, and the Rovers followed, crawling
from the hollow trunk and pushing themselves to their feet,
muscles cramped and aching. Daybreak was a faint gray haze
seeping through the treetops, barely able to penetrate the dark-
ness beneath. Vog swirled through the jungle as if soup stirred
within a cooking pot, but the air at ground level was still and
lifeless. Things moved in the fetid waters of the bogs and sink-
holes and on the deadwood that bridged them, a shifting of
shapes and forms against the gloom: Sounds wafted dully from
the shadows and hung waiting in challenge.
They started walking through the half-light, Stresa in the
lead, a shambling, rolling mass of spikes. They continued slowly,
steadily through the morning hours, the vog enfolding them at
every turn, a colorless damp wrapper smelling of death. The
light brightened from gray to silver, but remained faint and dif-
fuse as it hovered about the edges of the trees. Strands of the
the Wisteron’s webbing wrapped about branches and vines, and
snares hung everywhere, waiting to fall. The monster itself did
not appear, but its presence could be felt in the hush that lay
over everything.
Wren’s discomfort increased as the morning wore on. She
felt queasy now and she had begun to sweat. At times she could
not see clearly. She knew she had contracted a fever, but she
told herself it would pass. She walked on and said nothing.
The jungle began to break apart shortly after midday, the
ground turning solid again, the swamp fading back into the earth,
and the canopy of the trees opening up. Light shone in bold
patches through sudden rifts in the screen of the vog. The hush
faded in an undercurrent of buzzings and clicks. Stresa mumbled
something, but Wren couldn’t make out what it was. She had
been unable to focus her thoughts for some time now, and her
vision was so clouded that even the Splinterscat and Garth were
just shadows. She stopped, aware that someone was talking to
her, turned to find out who, and collapsed.
She remembered little of what happened next. She was car-