by Tora Moon
Blazel thought back on the incident with the angulete yesterday. He’d been a man when it had attacked him yesterday, hadn’t he? He remembered having to shift to his wolf form to fight the flying serpent. Yes, he’d been a man. But how long had he been in that form? Tracing his activity, he discovered he had only been in man form for a couple of octars yesterday, and that had been the first time in days, if not chedans. He lifted his canteen of water to his mouth. He was shaking so badly he couldn’t hold it still, and the water dribbled down his chin.
He needed to the leave the swamps. He needed to be in the company of other people to remember what it meant to be a man. He looked down at his dirty clothes and body. He needed to bathe. No Posair would accept him into their company in his filthy condition. He dug in his pack until he found a small sliver of soap.
First, he’d eat breakfast. He had saved some roasted twisted rabbit from his dinner; a few seeds rounded out the meal. Eating helped to ease his shaking. He was able to take a long drink of water, grimacing at the stale taste. He hadn’t refilled his water container in days. He placed the bottle with the soap near the entrance. Looking at the mess of his living space, he decided to clean it before bathing. No use getting clean just to get dirty again.
He piled up the scattered bones, took them outside, and stepping carefully over his ward boundary, carried them to a sink-hole. He dumped them in and watched as they sunk below the mud where predators wouldn’t be able to track them back to him. On his way back, he cut off a tree branch and tied twigs to it to make a broom. Leaves swirled out of the trunk opening as he swept out the remains of his wolf bed. His dirty and tattered clothing was strewn all over. It looked and smelled like he’d washed his clothes the last time he’d bathed. He bundled them into a bag along with the last of his soap and his water bottle.
He looked around his now clean home. By the time he bathed, washed his clothes, and waited for them to dry, it would be too late to leave the swamp today. Even he didn’t tempt fate enough to travel the swamps at night. The nocturnal monsters were much worse than their daytime cousins. He’d need a fire tonight to remind himself he was a man, not a wolf. The last of his kindling and wood had been used up in his recent fires.
Walking carefully, testing each step to determine the ground’s sturdiness, he crossed the glade. Seemingly dry ground gave way under him and he sank to his knees in muck. “Blasted stinking mud!” Blazel cursed. He caught himself just before shifting into his wolf form. It would be easier to walk the trails with his weight distributed over four feet instead of on two. “No,” he said firmly, his voice creaky. “I need to stay in my natural form without shifting today. I am a man!”
He climbed several trees to find enough dead branches that were mostly dry. Once he had enough for the night, he returned to his home and laid them in a single layer on the ground a few feet away from the cypress tree. He used his fire magic to send gentle heat into the branches—not enough to ignite them, just to dry them out. When the wood was finally dry and no more steam rose from it, he stopped heating it. Even with the swamp’s humidity, it would stay dry enough for his fire that night.
With nothing left to clean in the tree cave, he grabbed his bundle and made his way to the fresh-water pond. The afternoon light shone brightly on the water. A tree draped with brilliant green moss stood sentinel over it. Blazel searched the tree branches for any hiding anguletes or other nasty creatures, but only a few harmless birds were disturbed from it.
He then crouched low and silently watched the pond, looking for any telltales of the reptilian predators that liked to lurk just under the surface. An ibis dropped to the water and waded along the shore, looking for insects and small fish. When the ibis had stalked its own prey for some time without becoming prey, Blazel deemed the pond free of predators for now. He could wash his clothes and bathe.
Blazel stripped. It always amazed him when he shifted from man to wolf, or even to warrior and back to man, that he returned in the same clothes he had on when he shifted. His clothes might be torn or dirty from whatever fight he’d been in, but he’d have clothes. He’d once asked the Supreme about it and found out it was an aspect of the spell that had gifted men with the ability to shapeshift. Personally, he was glad he returned to human form clothed. It would be hell to try to find clothes deep in the mountains or in the swamp when the fight had taken him measures from where he had first shifted.
Slowly Blazel stepped into the pond. He didn’t want to attract attention to his presence. He slid under the water, relishing the warmth. He liked this pond because it was always warm even in winter. Blazel picked up a lock of his dirty, matted hair and his lip curled in disgust. He briefly considered cutting his hair, but to get rid of all the tangles he’d have to shave his head and that wasn’t an option. He’d never seen a bald man. The color of a man’s wolf and warrior pelts was the same as his hair. Blazel didn’t want to chance shifting into a naked wolf from shaving his head. He dropped the lock of hair and decided he’d wash the twisted coils and see what they looked like clean.
It took several times soaping both hair and body to remove all the dirt. Running his hands over his face and feeling the coarse hair of his beard he considered shaving, but here in the swamp, shaving was dangerous. The scent of blood from even a tiny nick would draw predators in moments. Instead, Blazel used the last of his soap to clean his clothes.
He climbed out and spread his now clean clothes out on bushes to dry. He could dry them with fire magic, but he’d already used quite a bit of his reservoir for drying the wood. He envied the Reds, the female fire Talents, and their ability to work greater magics and their larger magic stores on which to draw. He glanced up at the sky, there was enough sun left to dry his clothes and himself.
A quick search provided Blazel with the plants needed to create a ward boundary. He strewed them on the ground in a circle and fed a touch of his earthy Brown Talent and his Red Talent into the herbs. Shaping the spell in his mind, he formed a bubble of fire and earth where the herbs touched the ground, and extended it into a dome that would protect him from attack from above as well as from the side. It wouldn’t guard him against monsters from the water, but from land or air they wouldn’t be able to cross his wards. No one had taught him the spell; after years of wandering alone in the wilds, he’d learned it to protect himself.
As safe as he could be outside of his tree cave, Blazel stretched out on some soft spongy grass. It had been a busy morning and the afternoon sun felt good on his naked skin. He’d just lie here until his clothes dried a bit.
Blazel’s mind wandered as he lightly dozed—a part of his mind still aware of potential danger—and he remembered how he had ended up wandering and living in the swamps.
“Blazel you have to leave,” Chariel had said.
“What?” He shook his head at the non-sequitur. He’d been telling her about one of his adventures deep in the mountains. “Is someone coming who isn’t supposed to see me?”
“No. You have to leave the Sanctuary.”
“But I just got back two chedans ago. Is the Supreme angry at me? I swear whatever it was, I didn’t do it.”
“Go to the swamps.” Chariel’s voice had changed into a deep monotone and a silver sheen had covered her eyes.
Chariel was an anomaly. Her hair and eyes were such a deep charcoal-gray that some who saw her thought she was a weak Black. She wasn’t, but she wasn’t just a Gray, one who midwifed births and deaths, either. She was a prophetess. Chariel’s prophecies always came true. Now she was having a vision of him. He listened closely.
“Immerse yourself in the swamps. Travel and explore every swamp in the land. Learn all you can of what is hidden there. It will save us.”
Save us? Blazel wondered what she meant, but once in the oracle trance she wouldn’t hear or see anything but the vision unfolding for her. And once the trance was gone, most times she had little recollection of the vision.
“Do not come back until you are called. When you a
re, the madness will be approaching.”
Blazel waited for more. What madness? How could the evil in the swamps help save them? Who? The priestesses? All the Posairs?
Chariel blinked her eyes to clear the vision. “I did it again, didn’t I?”
“Yes, but this time it was about me. And I have to admit, Chariel, some of it was scary. What does going to the swamps have to do with saving us? Us who?”
“I don’t know. This one was weird. I don’t remember the vision, but the fear of it lingers. Whatever is coming is awful.”
“How long before I have to leave?” he asked.
“Now. Do not tarry.” Her eyes glazed again. “There is so little time. Hurry, hurry, hurry. They are coming.”
Blazel had left the Sanctuary that afternoon. He had traveled the length and breadth of the continent of Lairheim, exploring every swamp he came across. There wasn’t a twisted beast or horrendous monster he hadn’t fought—and won. He knew the flavor of a malignant magic pool, and the taste of it in the air could lead him to it. He had tested and cataloged the effects of thousands of plants. He knew which were poisonous—most of them—and which were healing—few of them. He didn’t believe there was much more he could learn from the swamps.
It had been three years since Chariel’s vision. Maybe the danger had passed and wasn’t coming. Sometimes events would change and the oracle visions wouldn’t happen.
He shook his head. For other Grays maybe, but never for one of Chariel’s visions.
He stood up and quickly gathered his clothes. They were still damp, and he fought the urge to shift to wolf to return to his tree cave. Grimacing, he put on a shirt and a pair of trousers. Maybe he could find somewhere to get a set or two of good leathers, supple and tough like the Reds wore to fight the monsters. His training at the Sanctuary hadn’t included how to tan skins to make leather.
He crouched at the edge of the pool to fill his water containers. Looking at his reflection, he decided he liked the tight locks of hair when they were clean. As the bottles filled, his skin began to twitch. He looked around and sniffed. No predators or monsters were around, but the small hairs on his body stood at attention. He repressed the need to run. If predators were watching him, running would only attract them.
He remembered Chariel’s vision and was filled with a sense of urgency telling him to hurry. But to where? He was so nervous he was ready to jump out of his skin. It had been a long time since he’d recalled that vision. Why today? Why this sudden need to leave the swamps? Was this a message from Chariel, calling him back to the Sanctuary?
Home! Homesickness rushed over him. The loving faces of his mother and grandmother rose in his mind’s eye. It surprised him when he realized he was tired of being alone.
He was ready to leave the swamps. He was ready to go home.
The dusky mist of twilight deepened the swamp as Blazel made his way back to his tree cave. A large swamp rat darted across the path. A quick flick of his dagger, and Blazel had dinner. Swamp rats looked ugly but they were good eating. His step was light as he crossed the boundary into his refuge.
While the rat roasted over the fire, he dried his clothes with a little fire magic. Then he gathered his few possessions and packed everything in his backpack. His hands touched, then caressed the smooth wood of the flute he had made years ago while in the Deep Mountains. He lifted it to his lips, realizing it had been a long time since he had played. This too was the dominion of man and he played until his dinner was cooked. After he ate, he played long into the night. The sound soothed his itchy skin and his lonely heart. Finally, he wrapped up in a blanket and curled up near the fire.
Blazel awoke at dawn from a dream about Chariel. Even awake, he could still hear her calling to him. Calling him home. In a matter of moments his bedroll was tied to his pack.
He appreciated the safe haven the tree had given him, so he made sure the fire was completely smothered. It wasn’t good manners to repay the tree by setting it on fire. He ate some of the leftover swamp rat and saved a small portion for his lunch. When all was cleared inside the tree, he scattered the herbs that formed the ward boundary around it. Now others could find the haven he had enjoyed in the tree.
Without another glance, he settled the pack on his back and strode away heading north.
Home. He was going home.
Chapter 2
Blazel carefully followed a dry path through the swamp. Cypress and alder trees towered over him, moss dripped between their branches. Deep-throated frogs croaked and a fish plopped in the water. His stomach growled in hunger. He turned off the path and carefully crossed the roots of an alder until he stood over the edge of the water.
Another fish jumped and Blazel stared at the ripples wondering if he could catch a fish as a human. He knew he could as a wolf. Another twist of hunger made his decision and he called on his magic. The wolf settled over him in a heartbeat. He intently watched the water and quickly ducked his head. When he lifted it, a fish was clamped in his jaws. Saliva filled his mouth and he tilted back his head to gobble the fish down.
And stopped.
He must eat as a man if he wanted to retain his humanity. The fish thudded to the ground and a whine escaped him as he looked longingly at it. A shiver went through him from nose to tail. Taking a step back, Blazel reached for his magic and willed the change to man. It stuttered, then zapped him, and he pulled for more. A few moments later he stood rubbing the twinges of pain from his arms. When the pain passed, he squatted down and carefully cleaned the fish, wincing at the holes from his wolf teeth.
His meal cooked and eaten, Blazel sat in front of the fire that pushed back the night. He pulled his flute from his pack and played, ignoring the gleam of eyes staring at him from across the light. His wards would protect him. The mellow notes of the flute soothed his restlessness. ‘Hurry, hurry, hurry’ ran through his mind, day and night. This was the first time he’d stopped to rest and eat in four days. The pull to get home tugged him mercilessly.
He moved quickly through the swamp the next five days. As he jogged along the path, his senses jangled. Slowing, his eyes darted around him, trying to find the danger. His next step broke through the thin dirt and his leg fell through the new hole up to his thigh. Cursing and struggling to pull it out, he didn’t notice the silence drop over the swamp. His fine-tuned instincts screamed at him and he jumped back, ripping his trousers and leg just as a jallopitar’s jaws snapped where he had been.
The reptile’s long body covered the path, its tail disappearing into the water. Its red eyes followed Blazel as he scrambled away from the water’s edge. A tree blocked his retreat. He grabbed his magic, let it flow over him, and willed the change to warrior. He released the heady rush of power and strength with a roar. The jallopitar hissed back, showing his jaws full of teeth, and took another sliding step onto dry land. It released a pulse of energy attempting to disorient and paralyze its prey. Blazel jumped, caught a lower limb, and pulled himself out of the energy’s path. The tree shuddered and leaves rained down.
Blazel leaped to the ground, flexing his six-inch claws and releasing the venom under them. He ripped into the reptile’s side, pumping venom into the wound. The jallopitar squealed, bent nearly in half, and snapped its jaws at Blazel. The sharp lower tusks grazed across his leg. Snarling, Blazel leaped, landed on its back, and clamped his arm around the snout, locking it shut. His other hand reached under its jaw and ripped the soft tissue to shreds. The reptile bucked and thrashed, its movements growing slower as Blazel’s venom ate into its insides. Soon it lay still.
Three or four of the beasts shared territory and the others would quickly come to investigate the death of their mate. Blazel—still in warrior form—ran and kept running until he was far from the jallopitar’s pool. His gait slowly turned into a limp-hop and by the time he stopped, mud coated his legs, and the gash was oozing and stunk of infection.
Exhausted, Blazel stood, panting and looking around the clearing. The pool was fresh
, there was wood for a fire, and a hollow cypress provided shelter. He waded into the pool and washed the mud, blood, and residual venom from his pelt. Once clean, he closed his eyes and let go of the magic that held him in his warrior form. It sloughed from him with ease and in a moment he was standing shivering in wet clothes.
Now that he could see his wound, he found his warrior’s pelt had stopped most of the jallopitar’s thrust. The gash was long, but not too deep, and continued to bleed while he gathered firewood.
The sweet smell of lengo drew him deeper into the clearing where he found a large patch of the herb. He harvested a double handful of leaves, dug up some roots, and returned to his camp. One of his few remaining shirts was torn into bandages. He then smashed the lengo leaves onto the gash and tied them on with the strips. The leaves would stop the bleeding and the boiled root made into a poultice would fight the infection from the swamp creature.
He marveled how someplace like the swamps could produce such a healing herb as lengo. He put the leaves and roots he hadn’t used into his pack along with samples of other plants he’d collected in the swamps. A few of them were beneficial, but mostly, they were baneful. He looked ruefully into his pack to see it was filled more with plant specimens than clothes, and the clothes he did have were threadbare.
The next three days were uneventful as Blazel made his way through the swamp, always traveling north. When he stopped to rest that afternoon, the infection was gone and only an angry red welt remained of the gash. The path ahead of him disappeared into a dense tangle of vines and he halted, tilting his head as his eyes narrowed. Long runners covered the ground, thorns stuck out in sharp angles, and enormous leaves waved in the breeze. Only there wasn’t a breeze. A long, cylindrical leaf shivered and Blazel heard a muffled squeal. A skinny tail dangled from the leaf—a swamp rat caught by the carnivorous vines. A quiver in the vines, and leaves turned to face him. A runner began to snake toward him. Blazel pulled out his helstrablade—wishing again he could feed fire magic into it like the Reds did—and faced this new foe.