by K. M. Raya
“Never,” I mutter, casting my eyes towards where I know the blue sky awaits. I listen for Shayde’s roar, but I hear nothing now.
A tsk sound passes from beneath the hood before suddenly, she shadow moves faster than my eyes can track—coming face to face with me, close enough that my breath fills the thin space between us in white little puffs. For the first time, I feel the gentle caress of a gloved finger as the thing lays its hand on my cheek. I want to jerk my head away as its touch leeches something from my body. I feel myself growing weaker. This feeling churns in my stomach making me want to vomit, but I hold myself still, straining my eyes to see past the mask of blackness
As if it were never there to begin with, the smoke disappears, along with the shadow figure. Light from the sun blinds me and my breath comes out in a rush as I drop to my knees weakly.
“Sera!” Wesley drops to his knees in front of me, using his large hands to grab my face by my cheeks, bringing my eyes to his.
Tears run down my face and his brown eyes flit between mine before his hands run down the length of my arms as if searching for wounds. “I’m fine—” I assure him, but it doesn’t matter. His handsome face is a mask of worry.
“Did it touch you?” Wesley asks frantically. “Tell me now, did it touch you?!”
Looking in his eyes, I can see that my oldest friend knows something I don’t. His panic is potent. Anger swirls within me and I yank myself from his grasp, but he refuses to let me go. On his knees, he practically crawls closer to me.
In all the years I’ve known Wesley Varin, I’ve never seen him look so afraid. Even that last day in my father's palace something in his gaze had seemed so scared at the time, but thinking back, I don’t think any of that fear was for himself. “You need to tell me if it touched your skin. I know you have no reason to trust me, but you have to know—”
“What, Wesley? What do I have to know?” I spit, eyes blazing. “What do you know that you refuse to tell me? Why does it matter if it touched my skin?”
Resolve clouds his eyes and his jaw clenches beneath all that brown scruff. He looks so conflicted. “The shadow controls death, Sera. He can kill you with a single touch to the skin.”
Fear seizes me. “How do you know this?” I whisper.
“I’ve seen it,” he admits with downcast eyes. “I’ve been there when it’s happened—I’ve seen the life drain from a man’s body and pulled into the shadow. I wasn’t lying to you when I told you that Sephrian kept me there. I saw it all, even the things I wish I could carve from my mind.”
Sounds of battle still rage from somewhere just beyond the trees we remain crouched in. His hand comes back up to rest on my cheek, but he pulls my face towards him and leans in. I hold my breath. Instead of kissing me like I’d anticipated, Wesley simply leans his forehead on mine and inhales deeply. “Please forgive me,” he pleads.
I reach out and grip his hand in mine and squeeze. “This is a discussion for another time, we need to help the others—”
We make for the clearing by the water. A shadow passes overhead and my body tenses, ready for attack. Shayde swoops through the air—scales glinting in the golden sun. His massive body twists and turns, narrowly avoiding the jaws of another shadow drac that I don’t recognize. This one is slightly smaller than Shayde with a wingspan of only half the size. On its head are four thick horns that match the ones lining its tail. I can only watch desperately as Shayde dodges the drac, out maneuvering it at every turn. But as much as I want to, I can’t stop to worry about Shayde.
A dozen mages have somehow turned into thirty in my absence and they seem to leap straight out of the trees. I attack, felling one after the other until I reach behind me only to find my sheath empty. Out of arrows, I pull out the sword my mother had gifted to me in me my first year in the Darklands. I’d always preferred my bow, but the sword still feels like an extension of my arm. With my free hand I blast battle magic at an oncoming mage. He or she falls to the ground, overcome by fire and sparks that they aren’t fast enough to avoid.
The ground beneath my feet rumbles. Some of the mages falter and that single moment of hesitation is all it takes for Thallan to trust his blade through more than a few hearts, swift as the wind while Rayne blasts them with power. Looking to the water and following the booming ripples in both sand and sea, I am astonished to see several giants running towards the shores. Massive blades are gripped tightly in their hands as they cross the space between us and their ships in several long strides, sloshing the waves and parting the water before one of them reaches out with his enormous bare foot and kicks a group of mask clad mages into the air as if they were nothing more than insects.
A few mages flee into the woods at the sight of the giants. ‘Cowards.’ Shayde soars overhead once again casting a shadow over what remains of the battle. I thrust my blade into the chest of a hooded mage and use my booted foot to push the body to the ground. Looking up when the ground shakes again, I watch in awe as Derrund himself leaps into the air—higher I would have thought possible for someone of his weight. He raises up his massive stone like arm and latches onto the strange, foreign shadow drac as it flies by with Shayde on its heels. The creature gives a strangled screech as though they know their death is imminent. Derrund locks his massive fingers around its silky, scaled neck and violently slams it into the ground with a bone crunching crack. The drac is dead and what's left of the masked mages flee into the woods.
Tainted Waters
Roark
Roark gestured for Belinda to lead as they stepped over the border into the Tainted Waters. Of course, Tainted Waters was not its real name—only a nickname given by those who were not welcome in its murky depths. In reality, the marsh had no formal name but was home to the Marsh Hags and their leader Dorethe.
Riehl and Solara followed behind—Solara with her wheat blonde hair and impractical dress trailing behind her in the muck made him grimace. He understood the necessity of bringing a healer along, but the young girl had never before left the safety of the Veil and was unprepared for the journey.
‘I’m getting much too old for this,’ he thought to himself and a joint popped in his spine. They sloshed through the mud that reached their bellies and attempted to ignore the stinging in their toes caused by the near frozen water settled at the bottom of the marsh, seeping through his boots.
A shriek pierced the air and Roark turned abruptly to see Solara disappear beneath the mud. Riehl stepped in to grab the healer woman but was quickly sucked under just as suddenly. Roark and Belinda looked at one another with apprehension in their gazes but they knew that they would have to save their companions. Blue sparks tickled his fingertips as his magic poured out, spreading the thick, muddy water in two—enough to see the ground beneath. A pale hand poked out from the surface and Roark grabbed it tightly before it could disappear again. He could feel something rushing by beneath the water and instinctively knew that grendels were on the loose.
The nasty little creatures could be felt winding around their feet and battering away at their legs. With a heave and a boost of magic, he pulled on the arm and yanked Solara from the muck and up to her feet. The healer woman sputtered and coughed as she sucked air into her lungs and spit mud out of her mouth. Belinda did the same with Riehl and Roark tried but failed not to laugh at how absurd they looked. He kicked at the grendels without seeing them, but he knew they were everywhere. The fawn sized creatures were horrific to look at, like walking, noise making bundles of marsh muck; they were less a creature and more of an object. Grendels were not living beings, but rather tiny golems created by the Hags in order to trick outsiders into fleeing. Roark had seen this trick one too many times in his life and would not be spooked by low level magic tricks.
“Be still!” Roark commanded the others and they listened. “Grendels can sense your fear, the Hags know we’re here. If we wait, they will show themselves.” The others looked dubious but heeded his words regardless.
Solara looked uneasy an
d quite worse for wear with her blonde hair in tangles and her dress caked in grey mud. He looked away and restrained a grin. Now was not the time for jokes and laughter. They had a mission and needed to stick to it. The sting of commander Tilda’s death had not left him, and it hurt more and more every day. He hoped that they would be successful in convincing the Hags to help them. They were powerful beings—disgusting creatures, yes, but powerful nonetheless. Marsh Hags were old magic. Legend had it that the soil birthed the women from its own essence as the sky once emptied its rains down onto the land for days without end thousands of years before. They say that out of the mud, the Hags were created but discarded due to their hideousness.
The Hags were left to rot in the wilderness—forgotten and abandoned. Over time they grew bitter and even uglier, secluding themselves from the rest of the Darklands and society altogether. They were all female, adding truth to their origin. Roark refused to think about what it meant for them to be the very same Hags, thousands of years old and growing older and more decrepit. Ancient beings were complicated, and he loathed being the one responsible for gaining their aid.
Skinny trees were scattered around them, sticking up from the mud like reeds. It was a forest in its own right, and a place where sunlight was unlikely to shine. Even in the perpetual night, Roark could see the ripples in the thick water and knew that the Hags were coming.
“They’re here,” he warned his companions. He could see Belinda and Riehl place their hands on their swords, just in case. Solara was shaking, and not from the icy waters.
Lumpy heads poked out from the surface, revealing long dark hair that hung in ropes and skin the color of dried moss. The Hag’s faces were flaky and their eyes inky black with no whites to be seen. Their limbs were longer than a human’s with knobby joints that resembled a spider. They traveled through the water swiftly on the backs of their marsh sabers. The sabers—which looked similar to a storm sabre with their long-scaled bodies and sharp teeth, had webbed feet and eerily enough—no eyes. Their forked tongues slithered in and out of their mouth as they smelled their way to Roark and his companions.
One Hag in particular stood out from the rest with her sharp, black, talon-like claws and matted hair adorned with sticks and scavenged, uncut jewels. Her eyes were not black, but pure white and seemed to glow in the darkness. Dorethe was a frightening sight to behold. Roark had met with the Hag only once in his early years as a liaison for a shadow drac colony. He had not exchanged words with the Hag crone himself, but he would never forget that empty stare and the smell of dead things that permeated the air.
“Why have you come here, Roark?” hissed Dorethe.
“You know me?” He gasped, startled and now much more uneasy than he had been moments before.
Dorethe, who was flanked by two smaller Hags with the blackest eyes he’d ever seen, smirked at him—if you could call the expression a smirk. Her teeth poked out from behind her thin lips, showcasing their double rows of razor-sharp edges. “Do not ask me questions you already have the answer to, Roark Bludwan.”
“Of course—” he stammered. “We have come to speak with you regarding an important matter, I ask for entrance to your marsh with peace in my heart.”
Dorethe smiled that watery smile again. “Peace in your heart, you say?” She blinked vacantly. “Peace... in your heart—” The other Hags chuckled. The gravelly sound made his chest constrict. “If you have come to my marsh in peace, why then does this human hold his weapon to tightly?” she asked with a nod towards Riehl.
Roark glanced at the human warrior and frowned. “He means no ill will, I assure you, your grendels may have spooked him is all.”
“Indeed,” she replied before turning her Sabre around and heading back the way she came.
Roark sighed audibly and hung his head in shame. Had he been too sure of his negotiation abilities?
“I’m going to assume you’re following me, that is… if you’re serious about this little quest of yours,” she called out as her and the other Hags began to disappear though the marsh mist that clung to the waters.
He followed.
~~~
Roark sat at a long wooden table that looked to have grown straight out of the mud beneath them. Dorethe and her horde led them through the marshes and into her personal hod.
A ‘witches hod’ as it had often been referred to, was much like a cave only unnaturally created from muck and sticks of the marsh. It was round in shape and wet—so wet that he was astonished that it had remained upright at all. Water even pooled at their ankles as they sat in creaking wooden chairs. The ceilings were low, and candles were lit all around them, casting eerie shadows on the filthy walls but the cold was still there, it seeped into his bones and made him feel hollow. Dorethe sat at the head of her table and stared. Her white eyes were sightless and yet he could not hide from her.
“You expect me to leave the safety of my hod—my precious marsh to what?” she almost laughed as she said it, he really couldn't tell—her voice wasn't much more than a raspy gurgle. “To save your little village?” She scoffed. The Hag reached out and grasped an iron goblet in her bony hand and viciously drank its contents in one go before continuing. “I think not.”
Roark frowned. He was still upset that he’d been tasked with fetching her but to come all this way only to be laughed at? ‘A little village?’ The Veil? It was absurd. But he wouldn't dare challenge her in a moment so precarious. He raked a mud caked hand through his sweaty hair. The hod was stiflingly warm but again he would never comment.
“Hear us, Dorethe, I beg you—” he urged. His words were clipped, but polite. He couldn't help but notice the damned Hag’s brittle thin lips turn up at the corner ever so slightly. She really was an awful creature. “Amaranth, Karn and Zegrath are on the brink of collapse, Dorethe…the Veil will surely be next.” he warned. “Sephrian has someone else pulling the strings. Surely he’s resurrected the necromancers and they’re coming for us.”
Dorethe’s head snapped up, blank eyes capturing his. He could feel the others beside him tense. They had yet to utter a single word and it was probably for the best. Even Belinda held her tongue, which was unusual.
“Again, mage, why should I concern myself in the affairs of the Veil when its inhabitants have done nothing for me or my horde?” The amusement was gone from her face. His time was running thin.
“I knew this was a bad idea, Roark,” snapped Belinda from beside him and Roark cursed her internally. Their gazes locked. “We should leave,” she pleaded.
A sickening cackle made him wince and he knew they were in trouble. Before he could apologize for his comrade’s outburst, the mud around them bubbled up until one by one, grendels descended upon them. Dorethe watched in silence as Roark’s body was tossed into the wall of her hod and held there by a sentient pile of mud and sticks. He didn't dare fight the grendel, knowing it would be worthless to try. The others watched in terror as Dorethe stood from her seat and approached. His mind was spinning, and he could feel his heart pounding. Dorethe was not one known for her mercy.
He allowed his mind to drift for a moment to Tilda. He was here for Tilda—to avenge her murder and he refused to fail. His lifelong friend was worth that much. The Hag stood before him, sopping wet and smelling of mildew. Her hair dripped around her like old marsh grasses, sticking to her skin and cracking with soil. She was human in appearance, but it was only a facade. She reached a hand out and caressed his bearded face. It took all his will power not to flinch and he could see the amusement on the old witch's face.
“Tell me why I should let you leave, disrespectful little mage,” she whispered, and a chill snaked down his spine. “You come into my marsh unannounced and demand my services...and for what?” she spat. “What shall I receive in return?”
Roark leveled her with a hard stare, challenging her for the first time. Her white eyes stared back. Empty. Soulless. “Sephrian and his followers grow more powerful every day and yet the land is still dying. We'v
e managed to ignore it—content to let them rot while we build a new life in the Darklands. Death magic is leeching the life from the kingdom, and what do you think will happen after that? If we do nothing, do you not think the rot will spread to your marshes?” He gritted his teeth in frustration. “Their shadow has already killed our General. Without her, we are floundering.”
Dorethe’s eyes widened for the first time since he had entered her hod. The blank mask she had held steady was cracking. “Shadow?” she snapped. “Tell me of this shadow before I decide to finally rip out your throat and tip the scales in their direction,” she growled and the grendel pushed him harder into the side of the wall. She controlled them well, as an extension of her own emotions. But emotions were exposing her.
Roark knew he’d stumbled upon victory. “It came in the night, during the final hours of celebration. Tilda was murdered in her chambers by a shadow. I suspect it to be one of Sephrian’s assassins no doubt—one of our prisoners confirmed it. Why it chose to attack a fellow Kindred remains to be seen.”
“Did you see this assassin with your own eyes?” She was no longer looking at him. Her gaze was riveted on the hod wall, as if she were trapped in another time, another place.
“I did not. It was Tilda’s daughter—Sera who found the General dead while her chambers burned around them.” He shuddered. Tilda's death had not been easy. Least of all on that poor girl.
“You speak of a dead girl.” The hag clucked her tongue.
“I speak of truth, Dorethe. Princess Sera Draegan lives. Some might even say that she’s more alive than she’s ever been,” he added, knowing that she would understand.
