by Kody Boye
You’ll have to pass through the Marshlands, Virgin had once said, his voice so real in Odin’s head that he felt his partner’s hands on his arms and their chests pressed together. You know what lays there.
With the threat of the rumored, mystical Wraiths, the possible presence of newly-awaken and magically-Gifted Marsh Walkers and the all-too-real likelihood of bandits, there was a very high chance he would run into trouble along the way, if not have to draw his sword to defend himself.
Sighing, not wanting to think about the troubles that lay ahead but more than aware of the fact that he had to consider them, Odin slowed his horse and looked to the west—where, upon the horizon, the Marshlands could be seen, frozen-over but wallowing at him.
“Well, friend,” he said, tangling his fingers through his horse’s mane. “It won’t be much longer now before we’re there.”
Where he would leave his horse he couldn’t be sure. Leaving the animal unattended would likely result in a long and frustrating walk back, as there was always the reality that predators could kill it before he had the chance to get back. He’d learned his lesson in the Abroen, when he’d left his previous mount near the pond expecting it to remain until he returned, and knew for a fact that leaving his stallion anywhere near the river would spell worse trouble than he could imagine.
Do Wraiths attack horses? he thought.
Though he had no concept of what a Wraith would do or how they lived, he knew a Marsh Walker, especially a group, would attack the creature if they managed to encounter one another.
With the knowledge that he would soon have to make a decision regarding not only himself, but his equine companion, Odin bowed his head and tried to clear his mind.
What, he wondered, would happen within the coming days?
Though he couldn’t know, he imagined it would be nothing good.
The forward flush into the Haunted Marshlands appeared in sight within the next few days.
A week into his journey and more than ready to do what he’d planned on for nearly a year, Odin led his horse along the skirt in the road where a city had once been planned and pressed them forward, toward the very place he planned to enter, and tried to keep his mind from faltering any further. His conscience a wreck, his heart beating so rapidly he thought it would stop, he took deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself but found any form of therapy did not work. In light of that, he bowed his head, bit his lip, then turned his attention back to the Marshlands, which lay so close he imagined it wouldn’t be no more than a few hours before they reached the entryway.
“You’ll be fine,” he whispered, shifting in his seat to gain a better perspective of his situation. “Come on. Don’t give up here.”
He’d gone through too much agony and frustration simply to give up near his ultimate goal. With no more than a few more hours and possibly another day’s worth of travel, it would be idiotic to cave in and go home—or, at the very least, back to Felnon to be with the man who’d so rightfully been his father his entire life.
Beneath him, his horse trembled, as if sensing not only his distress, but that of the Marshlands, and stopped, as if solidifying itself to the ground to keep from moving any further.
“Go,” he said.
The horse refused, even with an added kick to the ribs.
I knew I should’ve brought a blindfold.
He wouldn’t put up with this.
Rather than dissuade himself from his mission any further, Odin reached into the saddlebag and retrieved two of the darkest kerchiefs he could find. He spent the next several moments arranging the pair into as tightly-woven knots as possible before leaning forward and securing them around his mount’s snout. The equine, who did not approve of this in the least, whipped its head back and nearly struck Odin in the face, but he somehow managed to keep the construct intact and therefor blind the creature from seeing anything in front of them.
After spinning the creature in a complete circle three to four times, he tapped its ribs with the heels of his boots. Much to his delight, the stallion pushed forward, toward the Marshlands, without any response.
Now, he thought, sliding his tongue across his teeth. If only I could keep you this cooperative through the Marshlands.
He knew already that it would be difficult to navigate the cumbersome creature through the terrain. As such, he began to mentally prepare himself by clearing his mind and closing his eyes, peering into the ever-vast darkness of his conscience while trying to discern what he would do to keep him and his mount safe. His first preconceptions led him to believe that it would be better to feed the horse the last of his rations, tie it to a tree, then wander into the Marshlands alone, but with the ever-present reality of both bandits and Marsh Walkers, his attention was immediately diverted to the most-likely and straightforward solution—taking the horse into the Marshlands itself. While it would be difficult passing through due not only to water, but ice, holes covered by snow and the creeping willows that, though dead, may have some hold in halting their advance, something told him that would be the most effective route to keep them safe.
Sighing, Odin opened his eyes, set his attention to the Marshlands in the near distance, then tangled his fingers through his horse’s mane.
Everything would be just fine.
If he believed not only in himself, but his stallion, he knew there would be nothing at all to stop him.
Just take it one hour at a time, he thought. That’s all you can do.
He decided to stick with that logic and set his eyes on the overall objective—the Book, his father’s resurrection, and his eventual return to the capital.
Darkness thrust itself upon the world at a time when it seemed everything was working out perfectly. Clouds shrouding the setting sun, the beginnings of the night’s snow falling and the world silent, calm and at peace, Odin cast three magical orbs out ahead of him to light the path and found himself shivering—not from the cold, but the creeping apparitions of the dormant willow trees before them.
I didn’t expect it to look like this.
He’d expected the Marshlands to look less omnipresent—surreal, terrifying, all-knowing and catatonic in appearance. The trees, tall and strong, extended their branches and dangled their leaves in front of them, while beneath their embrace lingered absolute darkness that Odin found terrifying despite the fact that his magicked orbs showed there was nothing lingering beyond them. That, however, did little to ease his worries, as in that moment he had to decide whether or not he was venturing in alone or without his mount.
“All right,” he said, sighing, then reclaiming the breath of air as he dismounted and led his horse to the first tree. “Here’s what we’re going to do…”
As if waiting for a response, he allowed his sentence to trail off before turning his attention to the horse, who pressed on simply because of the blindfold that lay over his eyes.
To leave it, his conscience whispered, or to not.
Judging by how long the willow trees’ leaves dangled down and created an impenetrable shield of ice, there was no way he could dismantle every tree to lead his horse forward, as it would exert too much mental and physical energy for him to even consider it. He needed all the strength he could have, especially when he would soon be casting magic that was said to crack mortal men and bend them to its will.
With a brief bow of the head, Odin disengaged the reins from the tack, reached for the nail that would hold his mount in place, then secured the two together before stabbing the nail into the ground. He took extra care to press it into the earth as hard as he could.
After pulling from his saddlebag the last of his provisions and feeding them to the horse, he turned his attention toward the shadowed depths of the Haunted Marshlands and willed his magicked orbs of light into the darkness and whatever lay beyond.
Immediately, several pairs of yellow eyes looked back at him.
The hairs on Odin’s neck stood on end.
Is this what I’ll have to deal w
ith? he thought, shivering as the creatures scattered into the darkness.
Though he wasn’t sure what he’d initially anticipated, he hadn’t expected there to be animals out, much less so many in the frozen weather.
“I’ll be back in a little while,” Odin said, running his hand along the horse’s neck and extending his fingers over his shoulder, where the obvious lack of fur displayed where the Marsh Walker had attacked. “Don’t worry, boy—everything’s going to be fine.”
The horse grunted and tossed its head, completely unaware of its surroundings.
Odin sighed.
The orbs of light beneath the sagging willow trees trembled, as if replicating his very unease.
You can do this, he thought, nodding, reaching down to take hold of the hilts of his swords. This is where it all ends.
“And begins,” he whispered.
He stepped forward, into the Marshlands.
A faint wind droned on.
Beneath the canopy of willow trees whose leaves extended from the highest parts of the sky to just above his head, Odin wandered a world completely unimaginable and mystical in all respects. The rivers frozen, cast in shades of white and mirrored in hues of blue; the bog covered in snow, resembling something of lumbering giants hunched down to sleep for the night; the trees fallen angels, whose bodies craned forward as if bowing for the final applaud—in walking through this place, toward the very part of the Marshlands that ended and eventually led to the forked Ela ‘Alna River, Odin found himself completely enraptured in both his surroundings and feelings, which seemed to placate him like some disease that wanted nothing more than to stop him from completing his objective.
You can do this, he thought, shivering, both from the cold and the reality of the situation. Just remember—you’re strong.
To have come all this way with the fear of persecution and loss of sanity was a feat most ordinary people would not have been able to accomplish, for men were weak and ignorant in heart, mind, and soul. He, however, was not weak—in heart, mind or soul—and for that he carried upon his shoulders the burdens of the world and the fate of an entire race, one of which had succumbed to madness shortly after performing magic that he himself would soon be meeting head-on.
In choosing not to think on his current situation, Odin found himself developing a sense of unease that seemed completely unnecessary in this current frame of time.
“Is this what happens,” he mumbled, “when you enter a haunted world?”
Though he knew not the answer, something told him that this, indeed, was the feeling thrust upon men when they entered places that should not ever be touched.
For the next long while he continued on in perpetual silence, following the lead of the three magicked orbs which shimmered back and forth and cast shadows of horror across the scenery, and for the time being he considered himself all the more secure in his actions and purpose, as it seemed that nothing was going to go wrong. Even the shadows, which at times seemed to dance as if alive, did little to shake his person, which surprised him considering his enlightened frame of mind. He should’ve been afraid—knew this because as a child he had heard stories of Marsh Walkers and Wraiths that were said to steal children’s souls—but with the knowledge that he would walk out of here alive and, possibly, with his father, he found that absolutely nothing could deter him.
“Don’t get cocky,” he whispered.
Ahead, something shifted.
Odin paused.
The orbs of light halted their advance.
Reaching down, Odin thumbed the clasp on his black-bladed sword, then reconsidered over his father’s silver-coated blade.
Beneath a bowing angel of a tree, blanketed to the sides by nothing more than an absolute clearing, hovered what appeared to be a concentrated shroud of darkness—cloaked, suspended several feet off the ground, and producing its own ethereal aura that resembled smoke and ash ebbing from a dying fire. It first shifted, as if reacting to his presence, then fell back, nearly pressing itself flat to the ground before rising to meet Odin’s full five-foot-six-inch height.
“Hello?” he asked.
The creature—which, at this point, Odin could only deem as a Wraith and the darkest of the Fae—shifted, extended the tattered skirt of what he could only call a cloak, then came forward, its pulsating center expanding and contracting with grey light that appeared to reflect the essence pouring from the white orbs hovering before him. When it progressed to the first of the orbs, Odin watched it pause, then lean forward before covering it with its amorphous body.
Slowly, it absorbed the light into its body, imparting upon itself an aspect of the Will Odin imagined it was not used to having.
Odin drew his silver-bladed sword.
The Wraith raised what Odin could only assume was its head and expanded itself until its entire being lay stretched before him.
“Stay back,” Odin said, raising his father’s sword and pointing it directly at the source of the creature’s body. “Don’t make me hurt you.”
A deep, almost-silent chuckle resounded from the creature’s body.
How do you kill something like this? he thought, holding his sword steady as he lit his left palm afire.
Could, he wondered, he use his black-bladed sword to fend the creature off? He knew not of its properties—didn’t know, for a fact, of its composition, of the materials used to make it—and with the knowledge that such creatures were mortally-wounded by iron, it could create an ample opportunity to use the weapon and dissuade the creature from attacking him.
Another chuckle sounded from the Wraith.
Does it even want to hurt me?
Either way, it was blocking his advance, which meant he could have nothing to do with it.
Reaching down, he unclasped his black sword and pulled it from its sheath.
Almost immediately, it began to hum.
Sibling blades, he thought.
The Wraith shivered and hovered a few steps back, away from the remaining orbs of magicked light.
Odin frowned.
He tapped the swords together.
Once more, the blades hummed, this time in unison, like baby bells struck to create a sound sweet and serene.
As before, the Wraith shifted and fell back beneath the weeping willow.
“Get away from here,” Odin said, “and I won’t hurt you.”
A third chuckle sounded.
Several more figures emerged from the darkness to join their companion.
Shit.
Odin slammed the blades together.
The resounding hum nearly deafened him.
Together, the creatures retreated into the darkness, but hovered in the foreseeable distance.
Slowly, as if treading on frozen waters, Odin began his advance, first tapping his swords, then nodding as the faint but audible sounds drove the shadowy creatures into the darkness. Several disappeared entirely, while some continued to dance around the radius of light that surrounded him as he cast three more orbs behind him. Those who happened to remain seemed stubborn and would likely not leave anytime soon.
Briefly, in the moments he watched the first and largest Wraith advance toward the circle of light, Odin wondered just how they killed their victims, if they even did at all.
Do they suck the life out of you? he wondered. Or do they drive you mad with fright?
He couldn’t remember the legends, but at that given point, he didn’t think that was an issue, as knowing would likely drive him to fright.
With no choice but to continue, Odin pressed on, maintaining his orbs and tapping his swords.
They seemed to follow him throughout the night and into the early hours of the morning. When, above, the world began to brighten in hues of dark blue and grey, the creatures appeared to disperse and slink away into the fading corners of darkness that still shadowed the world. Where they went beyond that Odin couldn’t necessarily be sure, as he knew nothing of a Wraith’s behavior, and while he didn’t care eit
her way, it didn’t ease his thoughts to know they might be able to disappear then reappear at any given time.
If they’re leaving now, he thought, then they might not return until nightfall.
Would it take him yet another full day’s travel to reach the river, and if so, would the Wraiths return? Unable to know, he continued to tap his swords together and persevered despite the fact that his mind wanted to slip into the world of dream, all the while watching the outer rim of the circle of light to make sure none of the Wraiths were drawing forth.
When the sun rose and brightened the horizon in white, all source of the Wraiths disappeared.
There we go.
Sheathing his swords, he set his eyes into the brightened world and tried to decide what he would do with his daylight hours.
You can sleep, his conscience whispered, or you could continue.
Would sleeping in these Marshlands be the best idea? He wasn’t necessarily afraid of bears or any other wild animals, as he could easily fend them off without so much as a flip of his wrist, but if there happened to be more Marsh Walkers in the area, especially those that could use magic, that presented a difficulty that would be hard to maneuver around.
“Find a nook,” he whispered, “and rest.”
Though he was highly unlikely to find such a space, he could at least hope.
In the hours that followed, and in the time Odin thought he would simply collapse, it seemed that the marshlands would never falter. Endlessly, they continued—the bogs frozen, the willows arduous, the snow thick and boot-high. He considered vaulting into one of the many trees and sleeping in one of the highest branches, but when he considered those actions, he found that stopping would leave him defenseless.
“Just keep going,” he mumbled. “You’ve done this before.”
In the Abroen, whilst forced to run from the Elves that pursued them, and before he entered the Haunted Marshlands, when travelling down the road from the Golden Kingdom—he was no stranger to going for long periods without sleep, but were it to truly take a whole day and night to traverse the Marshlands, would he be able to make it back without sleep?
