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.
"-- eucalyptus leaves," Tas finished vacantly. "But suit
yourself."
Woodrow pointed the horses toward a distant grove of trees.
Holding the horses by their bridles, he kept his eyes on his feet as
he picked a path through the bogs and the bush-topped cattails. Muck
and mud latched onto him with each step. He curled his toes inside his
boots to keep them on his feet. Humidity was high in the wake of the
previous day's rain and heat. Woodrow's dirty-gray tunic clung to his
wiry frame, the hem hanging ragged where he'd ripped a strip of cloth
to use as a sweatband.
Between swatting at flies, kicking at water snakes, and staying
on his feet among the slippery bogs, he was keeping busy.
Tasslehoff sat next to Gisella, who held the reins and made a
show of steering the horses, despite the fact that Woodrow led them.
The terrain alternated between marshy areas that looked
deceptively dry and large expanses of shallow water. Ahead about five
hundred yards was a low expanse of shrubs and trees, which everyone
hoped meant the end of the swamp.
"I'd like to know where all this water is coming from," said
Gisella. "We haven't seen any lakes, or even any streams since we
passed Que-shu."
Tas rolled out his map. "It's got to be coming from a stream in
this small mountain range just north of Xak Tsaroth," he said,
pointing.
Gisella snorted indelicately. "I wouldn't trust that piece of
junk," she said, thumping the back of the map, "for anything more than
wrapping mackerel
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