One had coiled around the Ironhand’s chest, heaved her into the air. Now it held her there, shaking her viciously and squeezing—Through the rancid fetor of corpses, the wet bellow of the swamp, Linden sensed the lurker’s tremendous might. If the monster could not snap Coldspray’s spine or neck, it meant to crush the life from her body.

Coldspray flailed with her glaive; but the tentacle’s thrashing kept her blade from its target.

The lurker was powerful enough to kill her. Its clench should already have collapsed her chest, driven ribs into her heart and lungs, sent blood spurting from her mouth and nose. Yet she was not crushed. She still lived and fought.

For the moment, at least, her armor withstood the hideous pressure of the monster’s arm.

Another tentacle had taken the Staff. Wrapped several times around the shaft, the arm drew back from the contest. The inner surface of the arm was thick with small fingers: it could grip. And Cabledarm and Bluntfist were not near enough to assail it. Other tentacles held the Swordmainnir at bay.

But Stave clung to the Staff. In spite of the lurker’s efforts to fling him off, he gripped the wood with both hands. Bracing his feet against the heavy coils, he strove to pull the Staff loose.

He could not out-muscle the tentacle: not directly. To the lurker, his strength was a child’s. And the arm had too many fingers. But the Staff was small in the monster’s clutch, a mere twig compared to the tentacle’s thickness. Stave fought, not to break the lurker’s hold outright, but rather to haul the Staff free from one end.

He was succeeding. By increments so small that Linden could barely discern them, he dragged the wood out of the coils.

If the monster tried to shift its grasp, it would lose the Staff altogether.

Nevertheless Stave could not win. Linden saw that. The lurker would change its tactics. Another tentacle would arise to toss the Haruchai aside. Or he would be punched down into the water and mud, forced under until he drowned.

He needed help.

The Swordmainnir understood his peril as clearly as Linden did. With a Giantish battle cry, Latebirth charged into the marsh. Three against two tentacles, she, Bluntfist, and Cabledarm fought to create an opening so that one of them could reach Stave. An instant later, Onyx Stonemage abandoned her watch against the Feroce and rushed to Coldspray’s assistance.

In response, a fifth tentacle joined the fray.

Linden could not bear it. Covenant had told her repeatedly to trust herself. She can do this. The pain in her leg demanded deeds that had no name.

She was too weak to shout. Her lungs held too much water. Stonemage, Latebirth, and the other were too embattled to hear her. Trusting herself meant trusting her friends. It meant trusting Frostheart Grueburn.