Page 23 of Fallacies

Callan did say there were no timeouts. Bastard.

Groaning, I throw the little light I have left back into the lantern to illuminate the next part of the maze. Then I quickly wish I hadn’t.

It’s a swamp. A nearly thirty-foot pit of muck and moss and who knows what else. The dark stone of Albatross continues on the other side. It’s eerily silent, the only light coming from the lantern beside me and a soft glow from the hallway on the other side of the murky pit.

I’m not even quite sure where to start. It would be incredibly foolish of me to assume I could simply wade through it unbothered. If I had to guess, as badly as I wish it weren’t so, there’s something in that mud.

I survey the room, taking in every detail I can. The stone walls encircle the pit, nothing hanging from them, and no irregularities in the stone that might indicate some hidden door or way to climb across.

My breathing echoes off the ceiling as I snatch the lantern off the wall and bring it to the edge of the pit. I pull out the bobbing amber light, stealing a fraction of its energy for my reserves, and let the now dim light float in the air above me. Then, with a deep breath, I toss the empty metal lantern into the pit as bait.

The second the metal hits the surface, two massive creatures spring up out of the mud.

Just as I thought.

I rear back as they stand, muck dripping off their lean, white bodies. They have to be at least eight feet tall, with clawed hands hanging down past their knees, and grimly blank faces. No eyes, no nose, no mouth. Just two holes on either side of their pale heads.

My breath stays trapped in my lungs as they stare in my direction, but they make no attempt to move—no attempt to attack me—even though I’m standing only a few inches from the pit.

Both creatures turn, surveying the mud, zeroing in on where the lantern has sunk deep beneath the surface.

I exhale, the expulsion of air louder than I had intended, and both creatures whip their heads in my direction.

Panic flares in my chest when they begin to move, slithering through the mud like it’s water. I watch them dip beneath the surface, heart pounding. As soon as the silence has settled in the pit, both creatures burst up at the edge of it, standing to their full heights right in front of me.

I slap a hand over my mouth, smothering my scream, fingers trembling against my lips. The jolt of fear sends a tingling sensation down to my toes, rendering me frozen to the spot.

The pale creatures dip their heads, blank faces lowered directly in front of mine.

They explore my space without ever touching me, getting close enough to drip mud onto my shoulders, but they make no move to hurt me.

All at once, they retreat, sinking back down and disappearing beneath the surface. Thank the gods, too, because my lungs are close to bursting with the air I’m holding in.

It dawns on me then. The holes at the side of their heads…the lack of anything else on their face…

They can certainly hear me, but I don’t think they can see anything. It’s the only thing that would make sense. Which means I can cross—I just can’t make any noise while I do it.

I can work with that.

Grimacing at the murky swamp before me, I try to calculate how loud each of my footsteps would be. They’d hear it, no question. Passing silently isn’t an option—I’ll have to distract them with something louder.

I ponder my options for a moment before a solid plan forms. I fight the urge to snort at the memory as I spin an illusion of something I can guarantee will be loud enough.

When I’m finished, I grin at the frogs before me, each one as slimy and imperfect as the one Callan had me replicate in training during my first lesson on illusions.

Itching to test my theory, I send one frog to each corner of the room, and with a wave of my hand, the illusion at the far end opens its slimy mouth and screams.

It’s blood-curdling, and I slap my palms over my ears to muffle the sound. Both creatures spring up out of the mud, lunging towards the far corner, but they find nothing tangible to take. Nothing to rip under the surface with them.

A smile creeps over my face.

I wave another hand, sending the other three frogs to their designated corners, and both creatures go ballistic, twitching and clawing at the dark holes at the sides of their heads. I take the distraction, blow out a breath, and quickly step into the mud.

Not only do I need to maintain concentration on each illusion, but I also have to be mindful of where I step and where both creatures are at all times. It’s simple, really. I just have to split my attention about six or seven ways.

Each creature towers over me a good five feet, their claws long and deadly sharp. If they get hold of me, I won’t stand a chance. Time is nothing but a blurry smudge in here, so who knows how close I am to the four-hour mark. All I know is that I can’t be in this swamp when the mender pill stops working. I can’t be in Albatross at all.

I’m waist-deep in it now, the brown sludge pooling around my shirt. I have both of my pointer fingers pushed into my ears, stifling the shrill sound, and I keep my head on a swivel, clocking the location of the creatures after each step.