by GARY DARBY
Alonya unlimbers her bow and notches an arrow, while Cara, who lost her quiver of arrows but not her bow in the sucking muck, catches an arrow tossed from Helmar and fits it to her bowstring.
Sliding out Galondraig, I lay the blade across my knees.
Phigby points at Scamper, who’s still voicing his displeasure, loudly. “Hooper, quiet your beastie. It will be hard enough treading quietly through the marsh’s muck without his alerting everyone that we’re coming.”
I wrap an arm around Scamper, pull him to my chest. “Scamp, you need to hush now and I need for you to keep the sprogs quiet, too. Understand?”
He gets an exasperated look on his face before he bounces out of my grasp and with a fierce expression sets himself in front of the sprogs. In answer, they hunker down and grow quiet.
I give a little wave to Phigby. “I think we’re ready here.”
“Good,” he answers and gestures to Alonya, who, like a sloop at sea plowing through ocean fog, strides off into the swirling mist. The rest of us fall in behind her, single file.
The fog swirls and curls around us and is so dense that I, for one, can’t see more than a few dragon lengths in any one direction.
The heavy mud makes a thick sucking sound as both Alonya and the dragons tread along and I understand why Phigby said it was going to be hard to move and be quiet in this quagmire.
At times, gnats swarm at us in thick dark clouds. When they do, their buzzing sounds are as loud as a hive full of honeybees. We have to spend so much of our time swatting at them that it’s hard to keep an eye on the trail.
Even bringing my tunic hood up over my head brings little relief. I glance back at the sprites riding on the golden’s back and peering at them gives me a notion of how to deal with the irksome midges.
I call out, “Phigby, hold up, I have an idea on how to deal with these pesky bugs.”
He swivels in his seat, peering at me as he swings at a could of the pests. “I’m listening.”
I explain my thought, even as I swat with both hands at another black swarm that descends on us. When I finish, Phigby shakes his head. “It’s too risky, Hooper, we’ll be seen for sure.”
“Phigby,” I return, “don’t you think that slurping sound the dragons make every time they take a step means that we’ll be heard long before we’re seen?”
“He’s right, Phigby,” Amil chimes in as he swats at the buzzing cloud around his head. “You may not want to alert whatever is in here to our presence, but it’s obvious that we’re not going to sneak up on anyone anytime soon.”
Just then, as if the clouds above had split apart under the load, an enormous swarm of black bugs sweep over us. Even the dragons start to snort as the midges get into their ears and noses.
With his arms whirling like windmills in the fog, Phigby swats at the maddening gnats and yells, “Hooper, do it!”
“Shine, Dazzle, Ember, Twinkle,” I call.
The four sprites spread their wings and come to hover close to me. “Fire up,” I instruct, swatting at the bugs, “circle around us and burn these pesky gnats before they eat us alive.”
The sprites flit away and moments later, they’re afire. Twinkle circles Golden Wind like a whizzing, yellow shooting star while the other sprites zip around my companions.
The swarms of gnats soon turn into tiny zits of fire as they fly right into the sprites’ flame. After a bit, it’s only the occasional gnat that bites at the face or hand, and the giant swarm of tiny black bugs disappears.
Phigby shakes several handfuls of midges from his robe. “Well done, Hooper.”
Cara turns with a broad smile as she brushes dead gnats from her auburn hair, “Thanks, Hooper, great idea!”
I give her a mock bow and return her smile with my own.
Minus our pests, we trudge along for a while, crossing meandering streams that seem to be more mud than water, pushing through and around small groves of decaying trees and rotted logs.
The moist air carries a musty scent that seems part mud and part rotten plants. We don’t see anything, but every so often come noises that sound like mournful wailing, which waft on the air, rising and falling before they fade away.
The pale sunlight begins to wane and though we can’t see the sun, only a brighter spot in the swirling gray, we can feel that it’s setting and that night will soon descend.
As we round a grove of thin, moss-draped trees, the fog thins a bit and we stare at what seems to be a large, sluggish bog, covered with green slime. The mild breeze shifts so that it’s in our faces and we all choke and gag at the smell of moldy, decaying onions; a whole marsh full of rotten, smelly onions.
Alonya gazes to the left and right, but there doesn’t seem to be any way around the thick muck. Though reluctant, still, she steps off the bank into the ooze and sinks to her knees.
She struggles forward, each step a fight against the grip of the bog’s muddy bottom. One by one, the dragons follow and splash into the murky water, which surges almost to their belly scales.
Our passing churns the bottom mud and in addition to the moldy onion smell now comes the nauseating odor of foul, weeks-old eggs.
Alonya toils across the quagmire until she reaches the other side and pulls herself up the bank. Her breathing is heavy and labored as if she’s been carrying several of her Amazos warriors on her back all the way across the stinking marsh. She lurches over to a moss-draped tree, puts her back to the trunk, and slides to the ground to catch her breath.
The dragons slog up the embankment and come to a halt. We slide off our mounts and with wary eyes survey our surroundings. Phigby grabs his bag and strides over to Alonya. He kneels beside her as she reaches down and unties one legging.
I take one look and blanch at what I see.
Blood-sucking leeches, the color of a dried-up prune, cover Alonya’s legs. She unties the other legging and it’s the same.
She lifts her kiltlike skirt partway, and to our relief, the bloodsuckers only go up to her knees. From his bag, Phigby brings out a jar and unties the leather cover.
Grasping a small nearby stick, he dips it into the pasty white cream, and applies a liberal amount to each leech.
In moments, though full of blood, the leeches fall off. Once they land on the ground, they begin to dissolve, leaving red, fleshy splotches on the ground. Once all the vermin are off, Phigby dips a cloth into the jar and brings out a large glob of the substance.
“I’m afraid that this will sting a bit,” he says to Alonya as he not only dabs the tiny red rings where the leeches had attached themselves, but spreads it on her legs, as well.
“But hopefully, it will provide a little protection from those blood-suckers the next time you have to wade through the muck.”
As he finishes, the rest of us start to gather around but just as we do from behind us comes a distant roar that seems to shake the air.
The dragons whirl to face in that direction only to spin around as to our front comes a similar bellowing fury that seems to fill the swamp.
Whatever made the thundering growls sounds big, nasty, and hungry.
And we seem to be caught between the two angry, unseen beasts.
32
“Uh, Phigby,” Amil suggests in a firm voice, “as night is coming on, this might be a good time for us to take a little break and give those things a chance to move away . . . Far away from us.”
“Assuming they will,” Alonya replies as she swings her bow from side to side, peering into the swirling clouds.
“Whatever they are,” Cara shudders, “that was the most deafening sound I think I’ve ever heard. Even louder than a dragon roar.”
Helmar turns to Phigby. “I think Amil is right, we should hold up here for a bit. I’d rather those things come to us than for us to walk right into them.”
Phigby glances around at our surroundings. “Perhaps you’re right,” he acknowledges and gestures at the moss-covered trees to one side, “and I suppose this is as good a place a
s any.”
“At least it’s dry,” Amil notes. “Meaning, the mud is only ankle deep.”
“Yes, there is that,” Phigby agrees. “However, this cannot be a long respite. Remember, we have to keep moving, even at night. But yes, a bit of rest will do us all good, especially as we didn’t get a lot of sleep last eve.”
“We should pair up for the watches,” Amil suggests. “With the fog so thick, I don’t think just one of us can cover the whole camp.”
“A good idea,” Alonya replies. “I’ll—”
“No, you won’t,” I hasten to say. “This time, I’ll take the first watch. You’ve had to come all this way pushing through the sludge while we’ve been riding. It’s your turn for a long rest.”
“That’s right,” Cara declares, glaring at Helmar as if daring him to protest, “and I’ll take the first watch with Hooper.”
Amil and Helmar agree to take the second shift and after that, we’ll load up and be off again. We set the dragons down in a tight circle with ourselves on the inside.
The gigantic roars come again, only this time, they don’t seem to be quite so close. We wait, listening and then from even farther away the growls sound through the swamp.
We all breathe a little easier and while the others find places to rest, Cara comes up to me and points at the sprogs who are making a bit of a fuss. “Should we let them out for a while?”
Hesitating, I say, “I’m a little nervous at doing that. It’ll take our attention away from guarding the camp. Maybe when everyone’s up and awake in a while, we can let them down for a long drink.”
Cara nods in agreement. The sprogs disagree with our decision and continue to screep at us for leaving them confined.
Scamper, on the other hand, seems content to stay close. For once, it appears, the forbidding nature of our situation, along with the bleak landscape troubles him enough that he’s willing to stay within the circle of dragons and not go sticking his nose into anything and everything he can find.
That suits me just fine as it means that I won’t have to worry about him and can concentrate on guarding the camp.
There’s no dry wood to be found for a campfire, so I set Shine in the center of our little camp and have him bring up a low glow so that we have a little bit of light. Since the swamp is hot and humid, I keep his light down as we don’t need a fire for warmth. Still, his mellow light is comforting to both body and spirit.
With everyone, including the dragons, settled in, Cara and I survey the camp. I point to a nearby tree that has a twisted trunk that seems to wrap around itself. “I’ll cover from that tree around the bog’s edge to where Wind Glory is sleeping.”
Cara nods in agreement. “And I’ll take the other half. Do you want to carry Helmar’s bow?”
I shake my head. “No, I’m bad enough with a longbow as it is, but in this fog if I tried to hit anything I’d just be wasting arrows and we certainly don’t want to lose any of the few we have left.”
“Suit yourself,” she returns and notches an arrow in her bow while I draw Galondraig and ask, “Ready?”
She nods, gives a little wave and off she goes on her part of our guard route. I pace over to the misshapen tree and gaze out over the marsh. The fog wafts and curls, though right now, there is little wind to disturb the misty haze.
Wiping at the sweat that’s gathered on my brow, I move a little farther on until I’m next to Golden Wind.
Scamper is curled in a small ball and asleep against her skull sheath, the sprogs are restless but hushed, and Dazzle, Ember, and Twinkle sleep on her back.
Phigby and the others seem to be asleep, too. For now, the camp and the swamp are quiet. Turning, I peer at the wetland and for a moment, Phigby’s story of Ukur comes into my thoughts.
Shaking my head, I murmur to myself, “We’ve been in this place for only a few hours, and it’s been miserable. How could anyone spend a lifetime here by choice or otherwise?”
I turn as Golden Wind stirs behind me. “Indeed, and sad as it seems, Ukur is not the only one who has spent his days and nights in torment, and not of his making.”
“You mean like captives of slavers?” I reply.
“Yes, those poor souls come readily to mind,” she answers. “And slavers are some of the most wicked among us. And Vay is the most evil among them for she would enslave a whole world.”
She sighs. “And then there are those who through their own bad choices, or wrong decisions, or corrupt lives, enslave themselves, sometimes spending a lifetime in their own tormented swamp.”
Pausing, she raises her head up a bit as if she could see through the murky mist to the clear skies beyond. "The greatest of all freedoms, Hooper, is the ability—no, the right to choose your attitude, your beliefs, your life’s course.”
She turns to face me. “To choose what to make of oneself, to decide which path to take or not to take, to be able to rise each morning with the knowledge that today you can set your feet on whatever journey you wish to take.
“That is to be cherished and fought for eternally, if need be, and never, ever, taken for granted.”
After she finishes, I nod at her. “Well, it seems to me that the gods put the wrong person in this place. It shouldn’t have been Ukur, but Perseon who deserved this. After all, she’s the one who deserted him.”
“Tell me, Hooper, you’re familiar with the stars and constellations, are you not?”
“Somewhat, why?”
“Is there any star or constellation in the heavens named after Perseon?”
I think for a moment, trying to remember. “I don’t think so, but I don’t know them all.”
“Then I’ll answer for you,” she replies, “there isn’t. Even the gods know the difference between true love and love in the moment.”
“I don’t understand,” I reply.
“Because Perseon abandoned her supposed one, true love, she is not enshrined in a constellation for all to see and admire, nor will she ever be. Her only legacy is this miserable marsh and not the shining stars above.”
“Some legacy,” I reply, “a swamp.”
“Indeed, and for some, instead of being a shining star for all to see, this is the equivalent of what they’ll be remembered for, and nothing more.”
She turns away, lays her head down on her forelegs and closes her eyes. As softly as I can, I tread over to the murky pond’s still waters.
The mud pulls at my boots, making it difficult not only to walk quietly but also to hear anything other than the sucking sound that my boots make with each step.
So I pace a short distance, halt, and listen. The monstrous roars have stopped but several times, I hear mournful moans, some so deep it almost sounds as if someone is sobbing his heart out, but I don’t see anyone.
“Must be the wind moving through the moss,” I mutter to myself as I can’t think of anything else that would make the woeful sounds.
I’m almost to the end of my route when I see a dark shape moving through the haze. I halt and grip my sword a little tighter before I recognize Cara’s lithe form.
We come together until we’re shoulder to shoulder. “See or hear anything?” I whisper as I let my gaze roam across the swirling mist.
Cara shakes her head at me, her long, now mud-slicked hair sliding across her shoulders as she does. “Only those dreadful wailing sounds,” she answers in a small voice, “but it’s so hard to see anything through this murk.”
“I know,” I answer back, “the fog seems so thick it’s as though I could make slices of it with my blade, like slicing a loaf of bread.”
She grins at me. “If you do, make mine extra thick, loaded with butter and honey. I’m a little hungry.”
“I’ll do that,” I answer with a lop-sided smile, just as my stomach growls at the thought of a warm slice of bread with honey and butter.
She chuckles as my stomach rumbles, pats me on the arm, and starts to turn away. She stops in midstep and gasps.
“Hooper,” sh
e gurgles, “what is that?”
I spin in the direction she’s facing. My eyes grow wide and I forget to breathe.
Shapes.
Just at the edge of the fog, dark, wispy forms rise from the ground. They swirl up into ghostlike figures with red, glowing eyes and with them comes a low moaning as if they are in deep, horrible pain.
I grip Galondraig tight just as Cara raises her bow and takes aim at the closest cloud shape.
“Don’t, Cara!” Phigby’s voice comes from just behind. “You’d just be wasting a perfectly good arrow.”
“Like Cara said,” I snap at Phigby, “what are those things?”
“No time to explain,” Phigby huffs, “get behind the dragons. Now!”
I pull at Cara and together with Phigby, we retreat behind the dragons to stand bunched with the others.
Phigby reaches up and pulls Helmar’s bow down just as he takes aim at the nearest wavering shape. “Against those, neither bow nor swords will do any good. Hooper, we need light, now.”
“Shine, Dazzle, Ember, Twinkle!” I call out. “Glow bright!”
The four little sprites burst into a brilliant, shining radiance that spreads just beyond where the dragons mark the edge between us and the ghostly apparitions.
“So, Phigby,” Amil growls as he steps forward, his ax raised ready to strike, “what is it that we face? More Jallhugr?”
“No,” Phigby answers. “Though you’ve already named them once, Amil. I’m surprised that I would have to remind you of what they are.”
“I did?” Amil responds as he twirls his blade.
“Are you saying that these are Amil’s fire ghosts?” Helmar demands.
“In a way, yes,” Phigby replies. “Though some might call them a will o’ the wisp of the night, or phantoms, or lost souls. Though unlike the Jallhugr, these are true ghosts, or rather, the spirits of those that died in this swamp.”
At that, I take a step closer to the others, even as more ghosts rise from the swamp and float over the bog until we’re surrounded.
