Red Tsonia & the Jungles of Madness

And then it was over. Whether her bestial rival drowned or bled out, she did not know and did not care. She hauled his corpse from the pool so as not to foul the only source of fresh water she knew.

"Again... You have my respect... Warrior," Tsonia panted, regaining her breath.

The jungle seemed to have given up its effort to twist inside itself and seemed oddly sedentary. The drums in the distance continued their steady rhythm. If there were other natives watching, hidden in the jungle, they chose not to show themselves. The witch head looked on, silent now, a scowl on her dead visage. Tsonia could not entice any sign of unnatural life from it and decided she had imagined its venomous taunt.

She wondered why Kelgore had kept such a thing, and then she realized that Kelgore was gone.

The quarry she had stalked for weeks over choppy seas aboard Ambrose's crowded ship, had through uncanny skill or dumb luck once again eluded her. Even if Kelgore had been seized for food or sport by the beastly natives, Tsonia still needed proof of his death to claim the God-King's bounty. She would be damned if she was going to be robbed of her prize.

Besides, Kelgore owed her an explanation as to how she came to be kneeling before him, spattered with his essence and no recollection at all. If he still lived, she would wrest an answer from him, and woe unto him if the answer displeased her.

Anger coiling in her innards like a steel-clad serpent, Tsonia dressed. She refilled the water gourd and a pair of skins her fallen foes had carried. She took their spears and a few other odds and ends that she thought might prove useful and bundled them together in one of their nets. After a moment's hesitation, she added the witch head to the bundle she had made. Kelgore clearly ascribed it some perverse value to have carried it with him through the storm. It might prove a useful bargaining chip.

With a final look around for any hidden threats, Tsonia turned her back on the spring and followed the trickling rivulet back towards the beach. Joras and Ambrose would be waiting, thirsting in misery for the water she had promised them.

***

The sky had darkened to a velvety black. Unknown constellations sparkled amidst the remnants of stormy clouds. Ambrose found it hard to measure the flow of time. How long had it been since Tsonia left to fetch some water? One hour? Several? Maybe some days? Between ever-mounting thirst and the pain ravaging his body, staying awake proved to be difficult. The monotonous rumble of the drums didn't help.

He only realized that sleep had claimed him when the femur, the feeble weapon Tsonia had left him with, dropped from numb fingers and hit his aching foot, jolting him awake again. Groaning, Ambrose fumbled for the bone before checking the limp body of his companion. Joras had succumbed to exhaustion, slumped into a heap on the splintered bench he and Ambrose were sitting on. At least the artist's breathing seemed even and his brow wasn't ablaze with fever.

Ambrose fought desperately to keep his eyes open, listening with focused intent for other survivors skulking among the debris. But there was nothing save for the unending rhythm of the drums. Slowly, inexorably, his head sank to his chest, the weapon drooped lower and lower and before he knew it, slumber had once again claimed him.

A gentle hand on his shoulder shocked Ambrose awake. Acting on pure instinct, he raised the femur, only to be stopped by a second hand around his wrist.

"Is this the way to greet me when I bring food and water?" The voice was feminine and laced with dry wit. Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the murky gloom under the broken hull and he saw Tsonia's face, a pale mask with twinkling eyes. Ambrose heaved a great sigh of relief, his voice hoarse with thirst.

Tsonia pulled something from the ground and pressed it into Ambrose's hand. The water skin was filled to the stopper and Ambrose greedily opened it, yearning for the feel of cool moisture on his parched lips and throat.

"Drink slowly," Tsonia advised him, sliding onto the bench next to Joras. "If you're hungry, there are some strips of dried meat in there." She nudged a rustling something with her foot.

"What took you so long?" Ambrose rasped. "Feels like you were gone forever." He took a long, deliberately slow swig from the waterskin and sighed as the cool water poured down his throat.

Tsonia cradled Joras's head into the crook of her elbow and carefully whetted his lips with a thin rivulet of water. Groaning, the artist came to, sipping the life-giving liquid.

"I found a spring and Kelgore both," she said, setting down the water skin and helping Joras sit upright. Once she was certain he could steady himself, Tsonia handed the skin off to him and busied herself with her bundle.

"My apologies to your tailor, Joras," Tsonia quipped as she ripped strips off the bottom of his salt-stained traveling cloak and knotted them around a spar of wood. A moment later, there was the sound of flint on steel and painfully bright sparks as Tsonia fought to light a makeshift torch. With an angry hiss, the wick of tattered rags sputtered to life

"Did you slay him?" Joras muttered, his voice slowly regaining strength. His gaze wandered along her toned body. "There are new wounds."

"Nothing to worry about," Tsonia said, waving his concern away with a dismissive slash of her hand. "Before I could seize Kelgore, some natives appeared and attacked us. Either he used the commotion to abscond or the natives have snatched him."

"You're not planning on following him, are you?" Joras asked, his tone suggesting he already knew that Tsonia was planning exactly that.

"Unless we want this whole endeavor to be for naught, we will have to follow him," Tsonia said. "I know we're short on men and weapons, but each hour we wait allows Kelgore to slip ever further from our grasp."

"And what if we find him? How do you plan to get us back to Xhastria?" Joras asked. "Be reasonable, Tsonia. Kelgore might be gone or dead already. We should focus our efforts on finding a way home."

Ambrose bent low over Tsonia's bundle, rooting for the food she had offered. Sharp teeth clamped around his hand, nearly taking off two of his fingers and tearing open his skin. Blood flowed freely. Cursing, he yanked his hand back, staring in horror at a grinning head amidst the gathered trappings. Sharp teeth were still snapping, framed by bloodied lips. But worst of all were the eyes, bloodshot orbs glaring straight into his soul. Ambrose recoiled and grabbed his club.

"What in the Burning Hells did you bring back, Tsonia?" Ambrose snapped, raising the weapon for a devastating blow. "Is that a woman's severed head?"

"Your flame-haired whore has no understanding of the things she is meddling with," the witch head sputtered. "She loosed the storm that I contained. She has marooned you here in this waste."

"Did you both hear that?" Tsonia asked, her gaze going from Ambrose to Joras. Ambrose nodded in uneasy confirmation. "I was drugged by a native's dart and thought the speaking head was but a waking nightmare."

"Who is... or was... she?" Joras asked. "And why bring it here?"

"I am Shala, mother to the great Kelgore! Traveler beyond the Veil! Willing consort to demons! I have received the seed and the blessing of horrors beyond your compre--"

Tsonia snatched up the head and crammed a scrap of driftwood in its mouth, interrupting its blasphemous tirade. "And she calls me 'whore'?" the flame-haired warrior growled.

"I thought I killed the witch aboard Kelgore's ship," Tsonia explained over Shala's muffled grunts. "When I met Kelgore at the spring, he had her head with him. It must be very important for him to protect it through the storm and whatever else he encountered along these savage shores."

"You could have warned me," Ambrose said, cradling his mauled hand against his chest. "It nearly cost me two fingers."

"I didn't realize it was still dangerous," Tsonia said. "I'm sorry."

She offered Ambrose a scrap of fabric as a makeshift bandage. The captain took it and wound it around his hand, trembling with his hastened heartbeat and pumping fresh crimson into the fabric.

"And what do we do now?" Joras asked, suspiciously eyeing the disassembled bundle at their feet. "I don't fancy a trek through hostile jungles with just a few water skins and barely any food. No paper, no paints or brushes. Not that you'd let me paint you once your hair starts to fade. I suppose all of your henna is at the bottom of the ocean. Not even a simple whittling blade to carve--"

"And we have no idea where Kelgore might be," Ambrose added, interrupting Joras's rambling.

There was a ghastly sound, halfway between retching and coughing. Shala's head had managed to work the gag from its mouth. Her hoarse, cajoling voice offered: "I know where Kelgore is. He is as much a part of me as eyes or tongue. My spawn lives yet, and so long as he draws breath, I shall sense his presence."

"Why should we trust the word of a dead demon-kisser?" Ambrose asked, voice filled with malice. "We should roast you over a fire and send you to whatever hell will have you."

"Because that buxom barbarian brute of yours won't let you leave this island until you find Kelgore," Shala gloated. "I wish to be reunited with my son. We share a common goal... For now."

"It galls me that she has a point," Ambrose confessed.

"It's just bargaining for its life. There is no truth to its words," Tsonia spat.

"Can you get them home, whore?" Shala challenged. "Do you have any notion in which direction Xhastria even lies?"

Even Ambrose, with years of experience at navigation, had been flummoxed by the storm. They had been chasing Kelgore westward when last he had his bearings, so Xhastria probably lay somewhere to the east. It would be a toss of the dice to venture out on the open sea with so little certainty though.

"No?" the witch continued. "Help me restore my body and with a simple spell I can conjure you home. To your very doorstep if you wish." A peal of mad laughter burst from her bloodstained lips as the torch light danced across her twisted visage. "You don't want to perish here on this pox-ridden island, now do you? Neither do I!"

"We can restore your body?" Ambrose asked, his brow furrowing at the capacity of magic.

"Yes! And it's easier than you--" Shala's strained voice was choked off again as Tsonia wedged the driftwood gag back in her disembodied jaw and then bound it there with a length of leather strap.

"Don't encourage its mad blathering," she scolded. "First we find Kelgore, then we will find a way off this island... If it even is an island. If we must bargain with a demon-kisser, we do so as a last resort when all other options are exhausted. Agreed?"

"Yes, of course," Joras acceded. "We should just bury the horrible thing. We can come dig it up if we need it."

"No, better to keep her close," Ambrose countered. "If we do need help, we may need it very quickly." Despite his misgivings, Ambrose was keenly aware that the odds were against them and their options might be exhausted much sooner than anticipated.

***

The gall of the red-haired bitch was a vexing humiliation, but one that Shala was prepared to suffer. Once she was reunited with Kelgore, her son would show Red Tsonia the true meaning of humiliation. Shala was patient. She could wait. And in the meantime she would watch and plot.

She had spent the night with the taste of salt-wood on her tongue watching the fop in the orange cloak splint the ankle of the buffoon and then fashion him a crude crutch while the bitch stood watch. The fop was too much in thrall to the bitch to be of any use. The buffoon, however, had potential. Shala could see in him a resistance to the bitch's authority and a desire for control. It was only his injured leg that kept him subservient to her.

The buffoon could be useful.

When the sun rose, her captors ate the scant food taken from the beastkin, and emptied their water skins. The bitch removed Shala's gag, carefully avoiding her teeth. She needn't have bothered though. While Shala did need blood to reform her body, it had to be pure blood, not the corrupted filth coursing through Red Tsonia's veins. If she could taste pure blood for seven days in a row, well then things would be different.

The bitch hoisted Shala by the hair and held her up to gaze at the jungle that grew up and away from the beach.

"You say you can sense your whelp," she said plainly. "So tell me, should we head towards the volcano or towards the flatlands?"

"Oh now you want my mad blathering?" Shala scowled. "I thought I was not to be trusted."

"Consider this a test of your good will," the bitch dared to challenge her. "If you don't want to help us find Kelgore, I'll just gag you again and--"

"Towards the volcano," Shala interjected. She was kept alive by the grace of her demonic masters and didn't suffer from many ailments of the flesh, but the driftwood was still uncomfortable between her teeth.

"You don't actually trust her, do you?" asked the fop.

"It doesn't matter," the bitch replied. "We were going that way regardless. The spring lies towards the volcano. We can refill our water and pick up Kelgore's trail there." With that, the wooden bit was roughly crammed in her mouth once more and secured there.

Tsonia was clearly cunning, but ultimately the bitch would be no match for Shala's guile. Shala was patient. She could wait.

***

When the first rays of the rising sun turned the ocean into molten gold, Tsonia, Ambrose and Joras emerged from their flimsy shelter. The incessant drumming had gone all night making it difficult to snatch a few hours of fitful sleep. The drumming continued unabated as they ate a paltry breakfast, the remaining scraps from the captured rations had them feeling better equipped for the task at hand.

The pain of Ambrose's wounds ameliorated somewhat with rest and with the help of Joras's crude cane, he managed to keep pace with the others along the stony swath between the treeline and the surf. At a thin brook that cut a narrow path to the sea, the flame-haired warrior turned, eagerly heading into the jungle which awakened to riotous life around them.

Birds and monkeys screeched in the branches overhead and larger bodies rustled in the shoulder-high underbrush. Occasionally, there was a low growl close by which put Ambrose's hairs on end but Tsonia didn't seem perturbed by the ominous sounds around them. And of course there were the drums, still rumbling sonorous, foreboding, in the distance. He was certain their cadence had changed.

Tsonia's palm against his chest stopped his musing and stride both.

"What is it?" Ambrose whispered. Tsonia tapped her nose and took a deep breath.

Ambrose sniffed. It took him a few tries, but then he noticed the tell-tale aroma of roasted meat.

"Someone ahead?" he hissed.

Tsonia nodded, dropping into a crouch. She readied one of her scavenged spears.

"Maybe survivors," Ambrose offered. "We should greet them accordingly."

"You do that," Tsonia said. "I'll make sure we don't stumble into an ambush. The natives carried flint and steel." She unslung the crude pack from her shoulder and, quiet like a shadow, she slithered into the foliage. Ambrose tossed the pack over his shoulder. The head within grunted in annoyance. Grasping his driftwood cane with his free hand and, with Joras just behind, he pushed forward.

He entered a large glade shadowed by overhanging branches. The early morning light glinted off the surface of a serene pool. A crude campfire had been erected next to a sturdy sea chest, the jungle wood causing more smoke than actual fire. Nevertheless, some skewers had been prepared, chunks of meat roasting over the flames. Two figures scrambled to their feet as Ambrose and Joras broke their cover. Long, curved blades glinted in the sunlight. One of the men, long-haired and sporting a thick, pointy beard, suddenly cried out in joy.

"Captain!"

Ambrose recognized the caller as Montu, one of his veterans. The other, a long-limbed, bald Xhastrian with ritualistic scars running down his arms, shot his companion a worried look and fell into a combat stance, his blade ready to strike.

A shadow emerged behind the Xhastrian. Sunlight broke on flaming hair as Tsonia snaked an arm around his neck, a muscular leg slid between his and with an almost playful tug, the fierce warrior plucked the gleaming sword from his grasp, gently dragging the unbalanced man to the grassy ground. He was too surprised to offer much of a struggle, especially when Tsonia caressed his naked chest with the blade she had just wrested from his fingers.

"Who's your friend, Montu?" Ambrose asked.

"Captain, that's Sethos," Montu said, sword down and hand open in a placating gesture. "Please, don't hurt him. He was one of Kelgore's, but without him, the bottomless sea would have claimed me twice over."

"Why didn't we see you before?" Joras asked suspiciously over the din of the distant drums. The artist walked around the campfire, stopping at the large trunk. He raised the lid and peered inside. Within he saw weapons, tools, ropes, nails and other useful things. "That's a Quartermaster's Chest, isn't it?"

"That chest carried us both through the storm and then nearly broke our bones when we got tossed onto the shore a ways over there," Montu gestured towards the distant beach, then grimaced, massaging his ribs. "We cracked it open to see if there was anything edible inside. When we heard the drums, we thought we might be able to trade with the natives, so we dragged it with us along the beach looking for water and found this spring. Someone had already been here though, killing two..." His gaze darted towards the edge of the glade. Something, hidden by the thick undergrowth, chewed on bones.

"Two what?" Joras asked.

"Two green-furred... creatures," Sethos added. "Heads like beasts, claws like daggers, long tails. Someone stabbed them good." He offered a grim smile. "Your handiwork, eh?" His eyes sought Tsonia.

"They left me no choice," Tsonia grumbled. "I suspect they are the natives whose drum we hear. They wore crude clothing and carried tools so they have some savage culture."

"They seem quite proud of their music, at least," Joras mused, casting an annoyed look towards the unceasing drum beat. Ambrose frowned at the quip. The drums were becoming tiresome, and he wouldn't mind a chance to stab the drummers himself.

"Sethos and I were just discussing what to do next, Captain," Montu said, breaking Ambrose's reverie. "We have water, game, some tools and plenty of wood. We could start building a ship to get home. But maybe we should look for other survivors first."

"I've seen no signs of other survivors on the beach," Ambrose said. "I doubt there are many of us or Kelgore's men left." He gazed at the towering trees surrounding the glade. "With only the five of us and the tools in the chest, building anything seaworthy would take months. And I'm not much of a shipwright."

"But what other choice do we have?" Sethos asked. "Who knows if other ships even pass by this forlorn shore?"

"Kelgore survived," Tsonia snarled, fingertips touching her own cheek and lips as if she was wiping away some horrid stain. "I saw him myself here at this spring last night. I'm here to pick up his trail and I won't return to Xhastria without his head as a prize. If the natives have taken him, we'll need to deal with them as well."

There was a muffled chuckling only Ambrose heard. He jostled the pack to shut up the insolent head of the undying witch. Shala seemed to disagree with Tsonia's assessment and uttered another guttural noise.

"Provided they are willing to listen. Or hand over Kelgore," Ambrose said. "Don't forget, they tried to kill you."