Red Tsonia & the Jungles of Madness

He limped to the tree stump and picked up Shala's head with both hands. Holding her up to his face, he stared into her undead eyes. "Speak, witch. What do you need me to do?"

"Kiss me, oh captain of the seas," Shala purred. "It will be over in no time." The witch started to mutter, knotty words not meant for mortal tongues.

"You have to be joking!" Joras gasped. "Put your lips to that... thing?"

"Either that or dying on a nameless jungle path," Ambrose said, gritting his teeth. He puckered his lips and pulled the witch's head close. Shala, having finished her incantation, gazed at him with pursed lips, her wicked eyes wide with anticipation.

"There's a good boy," the witch cooed. "Be strong. It will be over very soon."

Her clammy, withered lips touched his. Then came her tongue, probing into his mouth. He tried to clench his teeth against the intrusion, but the glutinous texture of the organ so repulsed his sensibilities that his jaw opened in revulsion instead. He very nearly dropped her then, but forced himself to endure the horror.

The witch's tongue delved impossibly deep, caressing his teeth, tracing unknown sigils on the roof of his mouth, coddling his own tongue. Ambrose had eaten raw fish tasting better than the curling flesh, but there was no escape from the loathsome kiss. He was transfixed by her undead eyes as her tongue explored his mouth, fouling it with her rotten taste.

At last the organ withdrew and Ambrose began to relax- until her teeth gouged a bloody furrow into his lower lip. He dropped the head, but Shala did not fall. His lip, clamped tightly in her teeth, distended from the weight of Shala's head hanging off of it. With pain lancing through his jaw Ambrose swatted at the witch, but every blow that landed only tore his flesh.

Joars finally intervened with a cry of protest. Seizing the witch's head, he supported its weight, alleviating the pull on Ambrose's lip. He twisted Shala's ear until she finally released her grip sputtering one last breathless word, her maw stained crimson with blood.

Ambrose held his mouth, close to losing his stomach for the second time this cursed morning. As Joras asked after his state, Ambrose's heartbeat throbbed through the deep gash in his lip and he itched to cave in that undead skull with his cane. A tingling, burning sensation started in his lips, then spread.

"What manner of curse have you-" Ambrose spat, bloody spittle flying from his lips. But then he noticed it—the pain was receding! The mutilated lip was knitting itself closed! Like hundreds of stinging fire ants, the sensation traveled down his body, leaving nothing but the absence of pain behind. Even the ever-present throbbing in his ankle abated!

"No curse." Shala grinned up at him from Joras' grip, her cheeks flushed with an infusion of life. "I have told you again and again—until we find my boy, I will do my best to help."

Ambrose mulled the words over in his mouth, but as a man of honor, he had no choice, even if it galled him. Taking a deep breath, he bowed.

"Thank you, Shala."

The witch's grin was loathsome. "That wasn't so hard now, was it?"

Suddenly a long, drawn wail echoed through the jungle.

"That's Tsonia!" Ambrose exclaimed, reaching for a sword. "She's in trouble!" As if to answer him, a second wail followed.

"No," Joras sighed, setting Shala back down. "That is not the sound of Tsonia in distress I'm afraid."

"The whore is in heat, like a mongrel bitch" Shala spat dismissively.

"She is having all the fun, is she?" Ambrose asked, placing an arm around Joras' shoulders.

The artist scowled. "Sometimes it is very difficult, being her chronicler." He gently laid his head upon the taller man's shoulder. "It may be a while before we get that water."

Ambrose chuckled. "I'd rather half a keg of Debon's Winter Mead right about now."

He shifted his weight to embrace Joras. Had it been only a few days since they'd been swept upon these dreadful shores? Ambrose had almost forgotten how it felt to stand without favoring his bad foot.

Joras looked up at him, a sly cock to his eyebrow. "Oh, you do remember our first night then?" he asked. "I thought all that mead had muddled your memory."

"I remember enough," Ambrose affirmed, and then he kissed Joras in a way he'd not soon forget. Maybe, he thought, they'd make it out of this hellish jungle alive after all—if Tsonia's recklessness didn't kill them all.

With Ambrose's body mended and T'pek leading them, they traveled at a much faster clip. The soggy, swampy soil gave way to firmer ground, with the occasional rock formation jutting up between the trees. By midday, the jungle seemed much less dense and oppressive, with pools of golden sunlight cutting through wider gaps in the leafy canopy.

Shortly before dusk, with thick clouds pooling overhead, they reached a wide, gaping chasm. Deep below was the glitter of a rock-strewn river, its rush and roar echoing off the sheer cliffs to either side.

Ambrose peered over the edge, shuddering. "What are those dark shapes clinging to the walls?" He pointed.

"Death on wings," T'pek said. "They hunt fish below."

"I hear a 'but' somewhere," Joras quipped, then turned to T'pek. "How do we cross? Climb?"

T'pek shook his head, mane flying. "Follow me," the beastkin said, striding along the edge of the ravine until they found a rope bridge, affixed to a pair of massive wooden stakes shunted into the earth. Thick, braided ropes made from interwoven vines and leather strips ran at hip height while another pair below was connected by wooden planks. Seemingly at random, more tethers connected the upper and lower ropes.

The whole bridge swayed in the gusts of wind slicing through the ravine and Ambrose couldn't fail to notice how rotted some planks looked—or the gaps between others.

"This does not look safe," he remarked. "Why take this way?"

T'pek offered him his good-natured, open-mawed smile. "Tsonia asks for a fast path. This is fastest." He indicated the bridge. "You take the short path every yesterday. The short path is hard, dangerous, slow. The long path is fast and easy. This path takes us to the fast and easy path."

Ambrose turned on Tsonia. "This is reckless. We should find a safer way," he growled. "This... bridge, for lack of a better word, does not look like it could support T'pek alone, much less all four of us."

"The bridge is strong," T'pek said, seeming to sense Ambrose's hesitancy. "I walk it one yester-moon. Death on wings are not bad if we are fast."

"Once we cross, the way should be faster and easier," Tsonia offered by way of comfort. "Standing here won't bring us any closer to the village, Kelgore, or a way off these shores. It's getting dark, so let's go before we lose the light." She took a bold step and put her foot on the bridge. The ropes groaned under the strain, but held.

"All four together?" Ambrose asked T'pek.

"Yes, I walk with four, five, six," The beastkin shrugged. "Each with meat. Heavy meat."

"If T'pek says it's safe, I'll trust him," Tsonia said, taking another step. And another. The bridge held.

Shala snorted. "Of course she says that," the witch hissed. "She's blinded by his cock."

Joras, foolish, loyal Joras followed suit. He lacked the grace inherent to most warriors and set the bridge swinging with his clumsy steps, trying to find his balance.

T'pek followed next, his big hand effortlessly steadying the artist. "Step fast. Step-step-step," he advised.

"Oh Mother Of The Seas, help me," Ambrose muttered, brushing his hand in a wave-like motion against his heart.

The undead witch in his pack chuckled. "Afraid of heights, sailor? I thought you spent most of your time clambering amidst the sails, perched in the rigging."

"That's what deck hands are for," Ambrose growled. "I spent most of my career at the helm, steering my ships."

"Your dithering won't get you across the chasm. Or off the island," Shala prodded. "Look how far they've gone already."

Ambrose cast his gaze ahead. Shala was right, of course. Tsonia had already managed a full third of the bridge. Joras struggled to make it across a gap between two planks as he watched. T'pek, in a graceful maneuver, squeezed past him and leaped the gap, offering his long arm for support. Joras grasped T'pek's hand and the beastkin hunter pulled him across the gap.

Muttering curses and prayers both under his breath, Ambrose stepped onto the bridge, one hand clasping the dry, ragged vine rope at hip height, the other his cane. He didn't need it to assist his walking, but the thick, sturdy branch would make a decent club in a fight and since there had been no time to recover Montu or Sethos' weapons, it was the best he had.

Casting wary glances into the ravine, Ambrose crept along the bridge. The planks underneath groaned with his weight, but by some miracle, they held.

Ahead, there was a loud crack and a curse. Joras had crumpled to a knee, his other foot dangled below a broken plank. T'pek pulled him up to the next plank and Ambrose saw the long, wet gash in the artist's pants where a jagged splinter had cut him open.

T'pek offered a concerned growl.

Tsonia, already a few more steps ahead, turned and looked backwards. "What happened?"

"The plank gave out beneath me," Joras moaned, clutching his ankle. "I got cut."

Ambrose stopped to watch how Joras recovered and to plot his next steps when something hit him in the chest, nearly bowling him over the side of the bridge. By luck and the strength of his grip he managed to avoid a tumble to his death. He crumpled to the planks as other dark shapes rushed above his head with utterly unnerving silence.

"We must run!" T'pek bellowed, throwing Joras over his shoulder. The planks he stood on sagged and only a quick step back saved both of them from falling to their deaths. Wet patches appeared on T'pek's broad chest and Joras' back as the flying vermin tore past them, slicing them with teeth or claws or wing spurs. In the golden light of the late afternoon, Ambrose couldn't tell.

Grumbling, he came to his feet and hurried across the bridge, trying to remember which planks he had seen buckle or creak as T'pek and Joras had trod upon them. The whirlwind of tiny teeth and claws of what he assumed must be some kind of bats made any attempt at rational thinking an impossibility.

"This is all your fault, Tsonia!" Ambrose yelled, throwing his bulk forward across a gap between planks. The ancient wood on the other side creaked and splintered. "I wish I'd never agreed to your gods-forsaken pirate hunt!"

Behind him, with a sound like a bullwhip tearing into a slave's back, a cable of vines snapped under the strain. Unsettled, the whole bridge shook like a wounded animal.

Ambrose managed another off-kilter step, swinging his club in a futile gesture of wrath. It connected solidly, swatting a pointy-mawed, winged abomination out of the air. Before it could even fall beneath the planks, two others were there, tearing the stunned thing to pieces.

Another bat tore at his arm, leaving a deep laceration. Roaring in pain and anger, Ambrose swung his club again, his rage-fuelled strike clipping another flapping wing and sending another bat spinning away.

Tsonia let T'pek pass, allowing the burdened hunter to carry Joras to the relative safety of the other cliff edge. Her blade danced this way and that, severing necks, wings, and talons. Her armor was slick with blood. More and more flying beasts descended upon her, carving bloody furrows into her fair skin. A quartet of slashes disfigured her cheek.

"What are you staring at?" she yelled. "Move already before they tear the whole bridge to smithereens!"

Ambrose took another hasty step. His foot broke through the mouldering plank like a hammer through wet paper. Screaming, he flailed for purchase. His club went flying and his hands caught the next plank. Jagged splinters dug into palms. Sheer stubborn pig-headedness kept him from losing his grip.

"If you fall and die, I will curse you for the rest of eternity!" Shala shrieked, dangling over the bottomless ravine.

There was a series of pops and snaps as more of the bridge gave out under the violent assault of the winged terrors. The whole bridge seemed to drop half a foot. Ambrose fought for purchase, but there was nothing! His hands hurt, his arms screamed in agony as his full weight dangled from his shoulder sockets.

And then Tsonia was there, towering above him. Hot, stinking blood dripped onto his face as she bent down and grasped his wrist.

"You'll have to let go if I am to pull you up!" she hissed. A winged terror slammed into her head, claws immediately tangled in her windswept hair. It hacked and gouged, tearing bloody gashes into her face and missing her eye, but just barely.

"We'll both fall!" Ambrose wailed.

The winged terror drove his pointed snout into Tsonia's eye. Snarling, she grabbed the nuisance and tore it off her face. It took strips of skin and a long tuft of her hair with it. But she never let go of Ambrose's wrist.

"I wish I'd never met you!" he yelled in defiance.

"I know," Tsonia said, a rueful smile on her face. Then her fist struck his temple. Ambrose went limp and he began to fall.

The impact never came.

***

Hot blood ran down her face. One eye was gone, some of her scalp too. But she had Ambrose by the wrist and pulled him up onto the swaying bridge, heedless of the winged monsters tearing into her. They were fixated on blood and thanks to her savage sword work, Tsonia had to be the bloodiest thing around.

She would probably survive—most of the wounds were long but shallow and her demonic blood helped knit them, but the bridge was quickly failing. Grunting, Tsonia tossed the unconscious captain over her shoulders and bolted. Planks cracked and splintered under her weight, vines under increasing tension snapped as she ran. The bridge unmade itself as she fought for each step.

Behind her, suspender vines gave way with loud cracks reminding her of the whips used in Xhastrian mines. Three steps, two, then one more and Tsonia flung herself and Ambrose off the bridge, crashing with rib-bruising force onto the cliff's edge. Her knees cracked against the unyielding rock as behind her, the bridge tore asunder under its own weight.

Like a thunder god's mad roar, half of the bridge slammed into the cliff. Tsonia, half-buried under Ambrose's bulk, laughed softly, her heartbeat racing. Once again, she had escaped death by the breadth of a fate spinner's web.

She dragged herself fully onto the cliff and rose to her feet. There was no time to rest just yet, her blood-soaked body would still attract anything nearby that hungered for soft, vulnerable flesh. Taking tentative steps, she carried Ambrose to the jungle's edge where T'pek and Joras waited.

The artist looked nauseous, his face covered by waxy sweat while T'pek seemed proud of himself. He offered Tsonia a now familiar grin.

"The bridge is strong when you are fast," the hunter growled.

"But not strong enough when we're not fast enough," Tsonia muttered, sitting Ambrose up against a knot of tree roots. She shuddered at the sight of the ruined bridge dangling off the cliffside. There was an occasional thud as a flying terror encountered a tree trunk, far less yielding than frayed vines and ancient wood planks. "Joras, are you alright?"

"Yes... Yes, I think so," the artist panted. "T'pek gave me a healing poultice... At least, I hope that's what it was." He scrabbled for the water skin on his back, only to find the leather vessel torn and almost empty. Desperately, he licked water droplets from his fingers.

"A camp is close," T'pek said. "Food and water are there. Can you walk?"

Joras pulled apart his torn pant leg. It was blood-soaked, but the skin underneath was unbroken and whole. "By my brushes! It worked," the artist gasped. T'pek growled happily. "Ambrose, you should fill a ship's hold with these things. You'd make a fortune if they didn't taste like death itself," he added in Thelyrian.

He looked up at Tsonia kneeling over the sea captain and went pale. "Oh, dear..."

Tsonia offered a horrible, bloody smile. "I had to go back for him. The old fool was debating fate with the gods and I couldn't let him die just yet. I know how fond you are of him."

"Thank you," Joras said, clasping her wrist. "Of all of us, he's had it the worst. Losing his ship, his crew, having to watch a friend be torn to pieces by the living dead..."

"I know. All because I asked for his help chasing Kelgore." Tsonia sighed. "Curse the gods for the choices we make, eh?" She wiped at the blood covering half her face, only managing to smear it.

Joras came to his feet and took up the pack that Ambrose had carried. "I'm sure the idea of taking half of what the God-King offered us appealed to him at the time."

"It will be more than enough to buy him a new ship at least." Tsonia hoisted Ambrose back onto her shoulders. She fell into step behind T'pek, Joras by her side. "Gods, I'd kill for a bath right about now."

From bundle slung over Joras's shoulder, the dead witch's voice rasped "Kelgore is close! His presence draws me like a lodestone."

"Yes, thank you," Tsonia replied. "We have a guide now, your service is no longer required."

"Insolent whore!" Shala gnashed her teeth. "First you tempt my son into debauchery, and now you dismiss my counsel with such contempt. The fate spinner may have granted you beauty, but they sacrificed any shred of virtue."

Tsonia inhaled slowly, mustering her patience. "You should choose your words carefully, witch. Especially when a bottomless chasm is so close." She paused, letting her words sink in. "What makes you think I corrupted your whelp? From what I've heard, he was called 'The Despoiler' for good reason, long before I met him."

"Kelgore has always shared my ambition to dethrone the God-King!" Shala protested. "His carnal endeavors were little more than the spoils of the victor. It was only when he found your demon-tainted cunt that he got it into his head to breed an heir that might surpass him."

"Ha!" Tsonia barked. "No man's seed has ever found purchase in my womb." Over the years since her virgin defilement by Q'alan, there had been many, many men who had tried. "Kelgore yearns in vain."

"No mortal seed, perhaps," Shala admonished. "But Kelgore's blood flows just as black as yours. Don't scorn the fate spinner's patterns so casually, whore. They have a vicious sense of humor."

That gave Tsonia pause. She had never met another soul that had survived desecration by a demon the way she had. Was it possible that she might conceive a child with Kelgore? She really had no idea, and she wasn't entirely sure how to feel about this new possibility.

T'pek stopped at the foot of a towering tree. "Here," he said, pointing at the trunk. Deep hand holds had been carved into the bark.

Tsonia craned her neck. Expertly hidden among the wide leaves of the jungle's canopy was a large platform nestled in the branches. Gently, she let Ambrose slide from her shoulders. The captain groaned, slowly coming to his senses.

"Good to see you return to us," Tsonia said, helping Ambrose into a sitting position. "Are there other hunters up there, T'pek?"

The beastkin shook his head. "They would have come already." He cocked his head, ears perked high. "Drums from the village are quiet. That does not happen." He looked at Tsonia. "I am worried."

"We will see," Tsonia said. "Can your drum ask?"

"Yes." T'pek clambered up the trunk. Moments later, a quick beat echoed from above. The response was distant and sparse.

"Oh grand, more drumming," Ambrose muttered, reaching for the hand holds. With some effort, he pulled himself up the trunk and onto the platform. Joras followed, a bit hesitant.