Against the rustle of trees and the calls of the birds, the plop, plop, plop of softly dripping water was almost inaudible. The moisture made its way down between the fibers of the sodden tunic and passed as an invisible sheet over the slime-encrusted surface of rough leather britches until at last it collected in large, graceful drops near the point of a mud-encrusted cuff. There it dripped back into the shallows at the north edge of the swamp.
At the beginning of his journey Rupert's back had snapped off protruding branches like so much dry kindling. In a second or two he reached the top of an arc which brought him clear of the uppermost limbs of even the highest trees. There Rupert seemed to float suspended between heaven and earth. In a few seconds the propulsive energy was spent, and he sped earthward on a ballistic path. As the forest flew upward at him Rupert curled his hurtling body into a tight ball, all elbows, shoulders, and knees.
He snapped through branches, then rebounded from a limb too massive to break and shot straight forward on a course almost parallel with the ground. In the near distance the trees thinned and spread apart to make room for Stinkhole Marsh.
Gravity and the laws of aerodynamics overcame inertia, and Rupert's body angled downward. Still at high speed, he struck the surface of the water and skipped like a stone across the first two thirds of the swamp. Dense clumps of yellow marsh reeds finally brought a halt to his forward motion. Still grasping an armful of the rubbery vegetation, he promptly sank to the bottom of the pond.
With remarkable fury Rupert flailed his arms and legs until he reached the surface, there to take in great lungfuls of the foul-smelling air. Kicking off his waterlogged boots, he somehow managed to reach the shallows. Numbed and almost exhausted, Rupert struggled forward. At last he reached the shore, where he allowed himself to fall backward on the muddy bank. There he now lay, wheezing like an exhausted pack animal on the verge of collapse. With each breath tiny insects were sucked through his open mouth, but even these were now beneath his notice. Only two thoughts occupied the Gogol's mind: first, the knowledge that he had failed Hazar and that it would be death for him to return to Cicero, and second, the rage-born certainty that somehow, someday, he would tear Grantin's living body limb from limb.
After a few minutes the worst of Rupert's wheezing subsided, and he sat up to survey his location. Already he had begun to make plans. He would find the river and clean himself. Using his Huntsman Spell, he would capture game for an evening meal. That night he would shelter in the forest, and the next day, clean and rested, he would set out to make a new life for himself.
Rupert recalled that some dozen years before another deacon had been forced to flee to the borderlands under similar circumstances. The man was now a bandit chieftain rumored to make his headquarters in this vicinity. Rupert had little doubt that he would be allowed entry into the gang. If nothing else, he had valuable spells to contribute, together with information on Lord Hazar's plans.
Rupert began to scheme with the utmost deviousness. The outlaws would become allies in his search for Grantin and the ring-always the ring. Let his new associates take the brunt of Grantin's defenses while he, at the appropriate moment, cut off the Hartford's hand and appropriated the ring. Then he would make the pipsqueak pay!
Rupert pushed himself to his feet and examined the sky. It was late afternoon. He would have to move fast to find shelter before full night. And tomorrow, tomorrow he would search out his new comrade, the bandit chieftain, Yon Diggery.