by Awert, Wolf
And who could tell what they really mean? From one side, wildness, combativeness, freedom; from the other, guilt and repentance. I wonder what they’d look like from below, from the water? Nill knew that looks could be deceiving.
The uproar in Ringwall had not yet caught up to them; they had reached the border to the Waterways with no followers from Fugman’s Refuge on their tail. The rocky landscape here drowned beneath the tides. For a while, there had been a struggle between Water and Metal as the strength of the rocks had resisted the endless waters, and the indefatigable waves crashed into the stone, but once they passed the border, it was clear that Water was the dominant element here. The clear coastline that had separated hard from soft, dry from wet, ceased to be and gave way to a place where standing water and resting mud lived harmoniously alongside one another, with no rocks to split them apart. These were the swamps, where every step had them dragging their feet out of ankle-deep muck that did not relinquish what it grasped so easily. They had taken their boots off; it had happened too often that, in pulling a foot out of the ground, the shoe had been left behind. At first they had laughed at it, but soon the humor was replaced by a gray feeling of exhaustion. Ramsker had the worst of it; the coat on his belly sucked up all the muck and weighed him down.
“If we want to get out of here some time before we all die of old age, we’ll have to find more solid ground,” Brolok voiced everyone else’s thoughts.
So they turned their backs on the coast and as evening fell they reached slightly firmer terrain; a short while later they found a path actually deserving its name. It was still muddy and full of potholes, but it was nevertheless a recognizable path, distinct in the brown surroundings.
“Finally,” Nill sighed.
At that moment, Bairne grasped him by the arm. “Wait!” she hissed. “Someone ahead.”
Nill was surprised. It was the first time Bairne had touched him since she had begged for strength and warmth – a lifetime ago, it seemed to him. Her posture, too, had changed. She dragged him behind herself and pushed past Brolok. Nill closed his eyes and attempted to track any unknown auras, but could not find any.
“Are you sure?” he whispered. “I can’t feel anything.”
“You can bet on that. Bairne is a fen-witch. This is her home. If she sees something, it’s there alright.”
“What is it?” Nill breathed.
“Sorcerers or mages – certainly arcanists. More than one.”
“Let’s get away from here,” Nill said and the three hastily fled further inland.
“It’s like a curse. It’s like someone is doing everything in their power to stop me from getting to Woodhold,” Nill coughed as he and his companions stopped to draw breath.
“It’s not a curse. The people there were not troubling to remain hidden. Seems like more of a battue to me,” Bairne said. “No idea what their intention is.”
“What gives you that idea?” Brolok spat out a mouthful of mud and drew deep, heaving breaths. He was still not in the best shape.
“And who are the hunters?” Nill still hoped they were not the prey.
“At first I felt something like a hand groping around as if it was looking for something, then there was a sudden strong magical presence like a shield or force field, and then in that presence there were some different bodies. Five or six arcanists, if I had to guess.” Bairne’s voice was still quiet and even, despite the sprint that had got them here.
Nill looked into the young woman’s big eyes.
“Are witches so strong they can detect things a mage can’t? I met a warlock in Ringwall once, but he wasn’t too different from any other sorcerer. You’re the first witch I’ve met.”
Bairne lowered her eyes.
“Witches are, by nature, women. We hear much, we see much, and we feel much more than warlocks or sorcerers. That is our strength. Witches can curse and make others do things they might not want to. We can influence thoughts and emotions to a certain extent. But our spells are weak. No witch would ever accompany an army.”
She had never spoken as much in one go – Nill suspected it was some kind of record. He looked over at Brolok, who merely shrugged. “She never used her magic when we were living together. Not really necessary in Fugman’s Refuge,” he mused, looking a little lost as he did.
I think you couldn’t be more wrong, old friend, Nill thought. His view on Bairne had completely changed. His time in Ringwall had taught him of the gentle, magical fingers of arcanist women. And there they were again, Tiriwi’s huge eyes in her thin face. Nill remembered well how Tiriwi had once freed him from one of Ambrosimas’ spells. He had not forgotten, either, how some mages had once tried to poison him. He had survived only narrowly. And Ambrosimas himself… he had had great fun appearing to Nill as a pitiable creature, as a friend with a warm heart, as a complete monster and whatever else he could think of. All the while he had not changed his appearance. Nill knew the power of thoughts and feelings. It was a magic not easily slurred over.
The sun was no more than a bright spot behind the dark, rainy clouds, but it was enough for Brolok to find the direction they needed to head in. After the brief respite the solid path had given them, they found themselves again in a draining morass that sucked at their feet. It was small comfort that the earth beneath the mud was still relatively solid; this advantage was taken mostly by the plant life that lived there and spread its roots all throughout the firm ground.
It was a wearisome march for Nill and his friends. They had succeeded in avoiding the hunting party, but now they had no choice but to give the men a wide berth and return to the coast later. They would make a decision then, but it was too late today. Their camp would be an uncomfortable one. There was no place to rest without muddy water seeping through their clothes and stealing away the last warmth, and there was no dry wood to start a fire, even a small one to boil the water pure and soften the dried meat they had. As trained sorcerers, it would have been a simple matter to make the wet wood burn, but the smoke would have given them away; even if they had been able to conceal the smoke, the mere presence of Fire magic would have betrayed them.
“So what do we do now?” Nill asked his companions. “We can’t march in the darkness and we can’t rest in this place.”
Brolok watched the last light of the sun vanish beneath the horizon with displeasure and uttered a quiet oath. “Well there’s one good thing: whoever’s hunting has to deal with the same problems as us.”
“Some help that is,” Nill retorted. “Really, I feel safe and sound.”
“We’ll rest over there,” Bairne said, indicating a nearby low thicket.
“Do you mean to cut a hole into the bushes?” Brolok asked. “The only thing we have that can cut is Nill’s dagger. It’ll take ages.”
“Men always think about cutting and smashing and breaking. Women know how to fix things, how to weave and spin. The branches will be our twine.”
Bairne picked out a few bushes that stood close together and pulled the thin, whiplike branches to a bundle.
“Most branches in the swamps are pliable. You can knot them together without breaking them.”
Once Bairne had done so to the stronger branches, she wove a slight spell into the twigs. Nill and Brolok saw the branches slowly glide together and touch, then they wrapped around each other and stopped.
“If you get up here on that stump you can lie down on the branches. They’re softer than any feather bed you’ll find in a city.”
Brolok was not so sure of this and he thoroughly expected to crash through the bushes and land in the mud. To his relief, the branches and twigs bore his weight like a hammock.
“There are a few more bushes over there. Nill, you can sleep there. And for you, Ramsker, I will ask the bushes to lay their blanket on the ground.”
While the bushes were indeed soft, neither of the young men slept much that night. Fear of breaking their improvised beds held them motionless like statues, their ears keen for any sound
in the night. On top of everything else, the clouds had descended from the skies and now lay low over the marsh.
Water and water, Nill thought as the mist came slowly to earth and melded with the moisture in the ground. Mist is a mysterious thing. It takes your eyesight and your hearing so you can’t see an attack coming until it’s too late, and at the same time it makes you hear things that don’t exist. Or perhaps they do, far away? I don’t know.
It took a long time for sheer exhaustion to lull them into an uneasy sleep from which they were woken several times. Nill jerked upright in the dead of night; he could have sworn there were riders nearby, splashing through the swamp. But as he looked around, he saw no torches and heard no sounds. He must have imagined it.
“Someone passed us last night,” Brolok said the next morning. “I couldn’t make out who it was.”
“A troop of riders, right next to my camp,” Nill agreed.
“Riders, yes; next to you, no. They were back there. I saw the lights.”
“You mean they had torches?” Nill asked, confused. He had seen no such thing.
“No, not torches, deadwood. It glows slightly. But you need the eyes of a fox to see anything in their light.”
“I couldn’t feel any magic, either.”
“That’s because they weren’t mages,” Brolok said. “Riders from Fugman’s Refuge, I’d wager.”
“Great,” Nill groaned bitterly. “Mages beside us and warriors ahead. At least the way back is still free.”
Brolok laughed. “I don’t think Talldal-Fug only sent out one pack of bloodhounds. We can’t go back. We should follow these riders at a safe distance. If there are more searching parties in the swamp, they’ll meet sooner or later, and that means either they’ll join up or there will be a disagreement. Then we’ll know what’s happening. He should hurry. The riders have a head start on us, and they’re much faster.”
The newly dawned day was precisely like the previous one: cold, gray and wet. As long as they were moving, it was bearable, but the moment they stopped to take a break the cold crept into their bones through their feet. Nill felt dead beneath his knees. But they had to take breaks; they were not like animals, trained their whole lives to run all day. Along with that, their pauses gave them the chance to listen and trace signs of magic. The animals in the swamp were silent. Their silence said more than quiet sounds could: not only in their vicinity, but in the distance, there must be people.
The sun was already low when the ground finally began to harden and rise beneath their weary feet. They would have to forgo a warming fire again tonight, but at least their camp would be dry. Nill daydreamed of warm beds, warm soup and a mug of warm mead – but the pleasant vision was interrupted by distant sounds. Brolok and Bairne had stopped.
“What is it?” Nill asked
“I think the better question is who is it. It’s voices – I’d say someone singing. More than one, several. They’re singing loudly.”
“They must feel safe in this place,” Brolok hissed.
“Safe enough to sing,” Nill agreed. “Do you smell that?”
Brolok nodded. “Smoke. And roasting meat. Hopefully a good glug of drink.”
Nill was amazed. “They’ve got a huge fire going as if nothing in the world could scare them.”
“Maybe it’s the exact opposite and they’re terrified of Nill, the Marsh Monster,” Brolok laughed. “The fire and the singing are there to keep your bloodlust at bay. Come on, let’s take a look.”
They crept closer to the camp until they could make out distinct voices. The fire burned high. Several large joints of meat were roasting on a spit, droplets of fat oozing from them and dropping into the fire with a hiss. Nill’s mouth began to water. He swallowed audibly.
“Greetings, fair warriors!” Brolok called out. “Might there be a spot by your fire for weary travelers?”
The men by the fire turned their heads calmly in the direction they supposed Brolok’s voice was coming from, and a giant of a man got to his feet.
“Come here,” he called back. His voice was deep, rumbling and steady. “More than one spot, I daresay.” He had the hard face of a man who lived in the wild, and the scars on his arms told the story of countless fights.
Brolok slowly made his way through the dark bushes, Bairne close behind him and Nill bringing up the rear. Only Ramsker stayed behind. Brolok did not miss the looks the men gave them. The giant looked from Bairne to Nill. He took no notice of Brolok.
“Help yourselves, there’s enough for everyone.” The giant sliced a couple of pieces from the roast and handed them to Brolok, Bairne and Nill. “You’ll find hot drink over there.” He casually indicated a long, spindle-shaped pot.
Roughly ten men were gathered around the fire. Some of them had stepped away from the warmth into the shadows to make space for the new arrivals. Brolok squinted. He did not like being unable to see half of the people there. Although they did not look dangerous, they greatly outnumbered three young people and a ram.
Only one of them looked like a warrior: he wore a chainmail hauberk and had a short sword and shield lying next to him. His features were rough, his hair light like a leonpedon’s mane and just as matted. The others were, apart from their gigantic leader, unremarkable, equipped like Brolok with light weaponry and boiled leather and furs. But Brolok did not allow the laughing, singing and joking to take away his caution. Despite their noise, the men barely moved. Their motions were sparse. It took them two steps to get a piece of meat from the spit, and when they drank their eyes looked over the rim of their cups. Brolok flashed a warning look at Nill, but he was lost in thought, chewing his slice of meat.
Now and then someone rose to carve off more meat or fetch a mug of drink. But Brolok was wrong about Nill. As silently as he sat, his senses were strained – Nill felt magic in this group. Bairne’s aura outshone everything, but that was to be expected from a witch. Brolok, too, was distinct. But there was something else Nill could not quite put his finger on. Too many of these humans’ auras were unusually strong for common people, and they were strange, like the magic he felt. There was some of everything here: the five elements, the Other World, and something he did not know.
One of the men broke into song, and a second and third soon joined before the armored warrior held up a hand.
“Our guests can’t sing along. They don’t know our songs. And they’re hungry. We should wait until they’re full.”
“Don’t let us stop you,” Brolok said through a mouthful of meat. “A warm fire, good drink and a jolly song are more than we’ve had in days. We’ve come from Metal World, straight out of the mountains. We thought we’d find some metal there, where other people haven’t looked yet. Our journey was marked by a huge lack of success. We want to try our luck in Woodhold next. Do you know Woodhold?”
Brolok bit into his joint again.
“Do we know Woodhold? I’ll say,” the giant laughed. “Born in the treetops, raised between the trunks and buried under the roots. But we’ll take our time before we get to the third part.”
“Aye,” the armored warrior agreed. “We want to have some fun before then.” He took his sword, thrust it into the ground and pulled himself to his feet. “If you sit too long your bones forget how to move,” he shouted as he stretched. He tugged his sword from the earth and pointed it first at Brolok, then Bairne. “You’ve eaten our food and drunk our mead. I want your armor and I want her. You, milord, are safe,” he gave a mock salute to Nill, “but we’ll have our fun with the whore and the boy.”
The warrior had a chilling grin on his face as he spoke and left no doubt that his polite tone had nothing to do with his plans.
“If you honestly believe I won’t help my friends, you’re even dumber than you look,” Nill replied calmly.
The giant leaned on his club and laughed. “There’s more than three times as many of us as there are of you. Put down your weapon and run. You might even survive.”
Nill drew his dagger.
“Oh, a magical blade. It won’t help you. My spell will hit you anyway.”
As he spoke, the giant’s pale, lifeless aura exploded and hit Nill. It was nothing too strong, rather like being jostled in a crowd.
So that’s the source I was looking for, Nill thought. He appraised the giant coldly; he was picking strings of meat from between his teeth.
You’ve got no real magic, friend, he thought. That might impress a muckling or scare a bird, but not me.
Nill felt a second blow, stronger than the first, this time with definite tones of Wood and Earth. The giant’s outline faded; the huge figure disappeared and reappeared in another spot. There was a short bang and he felt a sharp blow just above his ear.
A bit of everything, but enough is enough.
Nill’s patience had been stretched too far. He sent a light Earth shock through the ground to grasp the giant and shake him through the air a little. But his grip went through the dissolving body like sand as the giant materialized a few feet away. The magic of the Other World won’t save you either, Nill thought and shot a bolt of Metal at his adversary. The giant leapt into the Other World and Nill followed. His spirit twitched as he felt a pull on the connection between his body and spirit. He leapt back into his body – and to his horror it did not take him. His spirit bounced off and was flung back into the Other World. A sharp pain shot through his mind and suddenly his body stood next to him. For the first time, Nill had entered the Other World with body and spirit. He had little time to marvel at this new development, as the giant was now raining punches down on him. Nill had little difficulty in dodging the big, slow man’s attacks, but his body and spirit were not in unison. His spirit was fighting while his body stumbled around drunkenly. His enemy was a single entity, and he was now relying more on his club and knife than on his pathetically limited magic. Nill was surprised for the second time in short order. He had not known that weapons could be used in the Other World.
