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So I moved off the path, following a pattern of hack and slash, step and listen, but this time more quickly than I had when Gwen had still been behind me.
The slithering, rustling noises increased, and I knew I had to be getting close to discovering whatever had happened to Gwen.
I slashed a creeping vine headed toward my ankle and took another step.
As if by the olde magick ways, the mist melted away, revealing a large, human-sized lump in the center of a clearing, covered with rustling, shivering vines sliding around, tightening over and around it.
“Jivink,” I cursed aloud—a rare occasion for me, as my mother had ensured any tendency toward vulgar language had been trained out of me by my childhood comportment instructors.
I didn’t have much time. If Gwen stayed wrapped in them very long, the vines would consume her entirely. But I needed to be careful when I cut her free, or the vines would consume me, as well.
And while my death this early in the games might keep my people from having to send representatives, making such a poor showing might suggest to other, currently unknown enemies that my people were weak and easily overtaken.
To save my people, I had to rescue Gwen, and to rescue Gwen, I had to keep myself safe.
So I took the time to circle the vine-covered figure once.
Inhaling deeply, I began moving through the ancient Qualtl’eth blade forms, using them to slice the gluttonvines away from Gwen’s body and dance away before the vines could regroup and attack.
By the time I had cut her free, her skin had turned an unpleasant shade of gray.
Terror clutched at my heart as I felt for the bond between us. Surely I’d know if she had already died.
There it was—the flutter of her tiny heart, slow but still beating.
I checked around us, making sure the mist had cleared away entirely. When I was certain it was nowhere to be seen, I pulled the mask down away from her mouth and nose, only to discover some of the vines had forced their way down her throat.
With a growl, I ripped them out, expecting her to begin gasping and choking.
When she didn’t, I did the only thing I knew might help—I shared my breath with her.
That, too, was one of the olde ways. Our medicine in the modern age had eliminated the need for such primitive techniques. But I didn’t have any of our medical devices with us—not even a rebreather that I could break under her nose to bring her back to consciousness. So I clamped my mouth over hers and began breathing for her, with her, trying to ignore the sweet taste of her skin beneath my lips.
And when she finally took a breath on her own, I shuddered in relief, pulling my mouth away from hers only reluctantly.
Joy at her survival suffused my entire being—right up to the instant that she began screaming and beating against my chest with her minuscule fists.
Her words were garbled, but the images in her mind pounded against me even harder than her hands—images of gluttonvines snaking down her throat, choking her, sucking away all the air in her lungs.
I gathered her hands in one palm and wrapped my arm around her chest, pulling her against me. “You’re safe, Gwen,” I said, then repeated it over and over as she burst into tears. She collapsed into my arms and sobbed, and I found myself wanting to hold her there forever.
