She Belongs to Lady Zovira

After a moment of consideration, Malakor finally addressed the satyr’s earlier suggestion. “Returning is unwise,” he stated, his voice low and certain. “For one, Jianna has taken you into her care. I doubt she would appreciate you vanishing only to reappear at her side as if nothing happened.” He let the words hang in the air before continuing. “And for another, I know their kind. They will hold us accountable for ‘stealing’ from them, even if you were delivered back unharmed. Surely you see that?” Malakor’s eyes narrowed, fixing Blynn with an intense gaze until the satyr averted his own and gave a reluctant nod.

Suddenly, Blynn’s head snapped up, his goat-like ears swiveling and twitching with alarm. His gaze was locked on the path where Jianna had disappeared. “I think she may be in trouble…” he murmured.

“What makes you say that?” Malakor asked, already rising to his feet.

“Because I doubt she speaks Troggish,” Blynn explained, “and I’ve never known a Trogg to speak the Trade Tongue so fluently, or with such a high-pitched voice.”

A guttural oath, swallowed by the dense foliage, escaped Malakor’s lips as he launched himself toward the woods. He moved with astonishing speed, using the low-hanging branches as a makeshift highway while Blynn remained behind to guard their packs.

He didn’t have to travel far before he heard the voices himself—the grunting, guttural tongue of Troggs, punctuated by the furious squeals of someone who could only be Jianna. Malakor slowed his pace, picking his way through the canopy with deliberate care to avoid announcing his presence. Peering through a gap in the leaves, he saw them: a troop of five Troggs, their heavy footfalls crushing the undergrowth as they marched.

They were piggish in form, with sickly pink skin marred by a constellation of old scars and ugly warts. Beady, malevolent red eyes glared out from beneath brows crowned with matted clumps of greasy black hair. Their hulking, humanoid frames were draped in rusted armor and stiff leathers that reeked of spoiled meat, covering their torsos, shoulders, and legs. Each brandished a crude weapon, from splintered clubs to massive, unwieldy axes. The one who was clearly their leader, distinguished by slightly better-maintained gear, clutched a club in one fist, a sword at his hip, and a squirming, furious Jianna in the other.

As one might expect, Jianna was not submitting meekly.

“Let me go!” she demanded. “Right now! This is ridiculous! What could I have possibly done to you? Where are you taking me? OW! That hurt, you brute! Why must you be so large and stupid?” The Trogg leader’s expression grew darker and more furious with every syllable of her tirade. As the procession passed directly beneath his perch, Malakor chose his moment to strike.

His hand dropped to a sheath strapped against his leg, drawing a viciously curved knife. Taking a deep breath, he dropped from the limb, landing squarely on the back of the Trogg holding Jianna. He drove his blade deep into the creature’s arm. With a shriek of agony and surprise, the Trogg’s grip failed, and Jianna tumbled to the ground.

She lay there for a moment, stunned. When hands began pulling at her, her first instinct was to fight back, only to realize they were Malakor’s. He yanked her aside just as another Trogg brought a colossal club down on the very spot where she had been lying. An instant later, she was airborne, face-down, the world a dizzying blur of green and brown. Over her shoulder, she saw the Troggs giving chase. Looking up, she found herself cradled in Malakor’s powerful left forearms as he navigated the lower branches with breathtaking agility.

“Where are we going?” Jianna cried out, her fearful gaze darting back to the enraged Troggs, who were still far too close for comfort.

“Across the river,” Malakor answered, his breathing heavy from the strain of carrying her weight. “Troggs can’t swim!”

“Where’s Blynn?” she asked, a fresh wave of concern for the young satyr washing over her.

“Back at the river—gah!” Malakor’s cry was cut short as he slipped from a branch, his balance lost. They plummeted toward the ground, Malakor twisting in midair to absorb the impact. He struck the forest floor with a sickening thud.

Jianna felt the breath forced from his lungs. She scrambled out of his grasp to check on him. He was on his back, winded, cradling his right forearm. Blood was already seeping from a nasty gash just below his shoulder.

“Damn Troggs… got slings…” Malakor gasped. An enraged roar echoed through the trees, and both their heads snapped toward the sound. The Troggs were closing in. “Shit!” Malakor snarled. “Go! I’ll be right behind you.”

Jianna was frozen, torn between the impulse to help him and the primal need to flee for her life as Malakor struggled onto five of his six limbs. The sight of the Troggs looming over them made the decision for her. She whirled and bolted toward the river. Daring a glance over her shoulder, she saw Malakor scrambling on five legs, so close to their pursuers that he had to duck a wild swing from one of the faster Troggs. She forced her eyes forward, refusing to look back again.

She burst from the treeline and, without hesitating, leaped into the river. Weighed down by her clothes, she plunged several feet before kicking frantically for the top. As she ascended, she caught a glimpse of something hideous to her side—a face with a slightly beaklike nose and mouth, its clawed hands reaching for her. Her head broke the surface just as she heard a splash behind her, followed by four much larger ones. The opposite bank of the narrow river was only a few feet away, and she hauled herself onto dry land as fast as she could.

Jianna scrambled away from the water’s edge and turned to see Malakor paddling toward her in a bizarre, six-limbed doggy-paddle. In the river, the Troggs thrashed and floundered, roaring in what sounded like abject terror. Only their leader, the one who had carried her, remained on the far bank, shouting garbled commands at his drowning subordinates. Malakor made it across without issue, and Jianna helped him up, careful of his injured arm.

“You bring human back!” the Trogg commander bellowed across the water in a mangled version of the Trade Tongue.

“No!” Malakor and Jianna yelled in unison.

“Lady Zovira want human! Get human for Lady Zovira!”

A flicker of recognition crossed Malakor’s features, but his reply was swift. “Lady Zovira won’t get her!” he shouted over the noise of the still-flailing Troggs. “Go back and tell her Malakor is watching over the human!”

“Hey, Malakor?” Jianna murmured, an idea suddenly dawning. “Where’s Blynn?”

Malakor just glanced at her and shrugged with one of his good shoulders.

Across the river, the Trogg leader was seething with rage, screaming at the shrieking Troggs in the water, unable to comprehend why they refused to simply drown.

Then, his sharp, piggy ears detected a peculiar sound from behind—a slow, rhythmic thumping. He had just begun to turn his grotesque form when two hard, pointed objects slammed into his back with enough force to launch him, flailing, into the river with the rest of his troop.

Blynn recoiled slightly, rubbing the back of his own neck where the impact of his charge had sent a jolt through his spine. “Wow… haven’t done that in a while,” he muttered to himself. Then, with light, nimble hops, he began to cross the river, leaping from one thrashing Trogg body to the next, expertly dodging their flailing arms and grasping hands. On his final jump, he made sure to land with both hooves squarely on the head of the Trogg nearest the far shore, forcing the brute’s head underwater. He landed beside Malakor and Jianna without a single drop of water on him, his packs still secure on his back.

To their astonished looks, Blynn simply stated, “I don’t like to get wet.”

Malakor took his pack from the satyr and shrugged his good shoulder. “Fair enough. Let’s get out of here before they figure out the water is shallow enough to stand in.”