In the Land of Hershel

by Rafael Hohmann

  In the Land of Hershel

  A Short Story from the World of SunRider

  By Rafael Hohmann

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  COPYRIGHT © 2017 RAFAEL HOHMANN

  This book or its images may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book or images constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

  For more information:

  http://rafaelhohmann.com

  For those who love the weird, the scary, and the strange. For those who wish they could enter their own dreams and witness an unexplainable phenomenon.

  Far North of Lyria, Capital of Lenova:

  —Circa 5,601 E.E. (Economic Era-The 17 th Era)—

  R ough stones and curving trees intermingled in tangled perplexing walls, forming a circular shelter from the creatures of the night. Branches splayed out, intertwining in the dark between the stars, creating a canopy. Grass crept shyly to the edge of the small grove and gave way to soft dirt. In the distance, a strange bird-like shriek echoed out, sounding sad and lonely, as if the animal was the last of its kind.

  The scene was bathed in the flickering warm light of a campfire: a safe haven from the cold dark that surrounded it. Spread around the fire, lounging against moss-covered logs, sitting on stones, and reclining on travel mats were a group of five men. Each man wore armor that once had been reflective and praise-worthy but was now dull with wear and age. They each sported a weapon strapped to their side: the closest companion they would ever know or trust.

  One man—who had armor a little too tight around his waist and a pink flush to his cheeks—walked to the fire with a metal tray boasting small loaves of bread and cheese.

  “Ey Timmon, ‘ow long you gonna put those vittles next to the fire? I like my cheese with a little chew left to it, you know? Not soft and runny like Redd’s trouser-bottoms,” The voice came from a sharp-faced man by the name of Millian. His twin, Mattus laughed uproariously as young Redd, still looking too young to be a knight, tossed a stone at Millian, annoyed by the comment.

  The overweight and kind-faced Timmon set down the tray near the flames and gave a small smile. Soft-spoken and pleasant, the knight was patient with the remark. “I’ll leave you to remove the tray when you feel it is ready Millian. I’ll not sully your supper.”

  The sharp-faced knight nodded in agreement and settled back against the dark log he rested on.

  “You say my trousers are soft and runny, yet you still haven’t got over your cold you’ve harbored for the last fortnight!” young Knight Redd retorted, chin sticking out.

  Millian snorted and spit, rolling his eyes. “Sof’ and runny will be you’ pants when next you cha’ge into battle. You’ll be pissin’ you’self in terror. Imagine you in the White Nothing with nought but a spear and a hunk of dried Crimling dung for kindlin’!”

  His twin Mattus, with a face just as pointy, sniggered and pulled out a knife, carving into a piece of wood he had collected earlier that day.

  “Call me a coward, will you?” Redd exclaimed, brow furrowed. “I’ll let you know the tale of how I was called forth to be a companion to this miserable group.” The young fighter sat up from his mat, spry frame limber and full of energy, ready to share his story. Kind Timmon raised a hand and stopped him. “Elric presides over this fire, young master. Don’t haste into action quite yet.”

  The twins, young Redd, and soft-spoken Timmon all looked to the one knight who had sat silent since the moon had peeked over the horizon. The elder man, resting his sore muscles on a flat stone, shifted his look from the fire up to his companions. He was an imposing figure for an aging war veteran and still sparked the stern air of authority. Others stayed quiet when he opened his mouth. He had been called Elric the Invincible in his younger days.

  Elric blinked once, then nodded to Knight Redd. “You may tell your tale. Thank ye Timmon, for maintaining military order at our evening respite.”

  Young Redd gave a smug smile, now knowing he was the center of attention.

  “It began at Cappertown in November.”

  “Hah, Cappertown! I knew there was a smell o’ tar to ‘im!” Millian chortled, interrupting without care.

  “Quiet, you vat-pig!” Redd spoke out in anger. “I haven’t even started, yet you see fit to bother me already?”

  Millian rolled his eyes. “Usin’ Western insults as a retort. My, you are intimidatin’.” He turned to his twin. “Mattus, you think Redd was born in the West? He ‘as the look of a former slave.”

  Mattus guffawed, and even kind Timmon tried to hide a smile. Redd’s face turned purple, and he stomped a leather boot down on the dirt. “I have half-a-mind to draw on you Millian! Pray to the Gods that we’re on the same side!”

  Millian, sporting a large toothy grin, waved his hand dismissively. “Go on youn’ knight. I jest. Go on.”

  Redd cleared his throat. “In Cappertown during November, I found myself wandering through the streets alone at night when—”

  “Ey Mattus, I reckon Redd here wanders alone quite often. Not a single woman would dare stroll wit’in ten meters of ‘im! ”

  The camp filled with laughter. Even Elric released a chuckle.

  “I am done! I won’t share my story with you!” Redd steamed, jaw sticking out. He sat back on his mat and crossed his arms.

  Millian stood and walked to the fire, wrapping his hands in leather gloves. “Good! Ah was worried you’d chat mah ears off!”

  He grabbed the now hot tray. The bread was well toasted; the crust was dark yellow and gleaming. The cheese had softened but not fully melted and teased the knights with the scent of rosemary, oats, and spiced peppers. Millian took a knife and portioned the food, distributing the tray around the camp.

  “Well, we can’t have the evening silent without a tale.” Timmon said, accepting his share of the meal. His face was easy to read—he wished his portion had been bigger. The large knight bit down on the hot bread, scalding his tongue. He grimaced for a moment, then gave a satisfied smile. Sitting on a mat, the knight looked over to Elric.

  “Will you tell us a story, Sir?”

  The other knights watched Elric, eager eyes full of respect. The elder man licked his lips and grabbed a wineskin made from the bladder of a winter Roan-elk. He took a swig of cold water and stared at each of his men. They were rowdy, but loyal. He knew what story to tell them. His mind had been fixated on the memory of a dangerous quest. Why was it difficult for him to remember it? Had old age finally caught up? It took a moment for the thought to distill clearly. When it had, he looked about the grove. The night was still young, the fire warm, the food delicious, and the water fresh. A good night to spin yarn.

  “I shall,” Elric said, much to the delight of his men.

  Each fidgeted and adjusted, settling in their positions. Millian flicked a small pebble at Redd and the young knight bared his teeth. Mattus continued to carve, eyes fixated on Elric’s face. Timmon licked a finger and dabbed at a crumb on the metal tray. Putting it to his mouth, he made a sucking sound. Elric cleared his throat.

  “What are the traits of a true Lenovan knight? ”

  The men were quiet, refraining from answering. They would rather hear it from the senior knight.

  “Bravery and pride—at least those are the traits that come to the minds of the common. But there are other traits as well that are
just as important. Virtue and self-restraint, for example. Skill, determination, stubbornness, and sheer grit. But the most important trait? Obedience to an order. However blind it may be. It’s that lack of questioning and blindness that keeps a knight moving forward when all others would falter. Now I ask, is that a good thing?”

  None of the knights answered, each frowning at what Elric had said. The elder knight continued. Elric tore at a piece of bread, each knight in the grove hanging to his every word. They waited as he chewed, then swallowed his morsel.

  “It was a hot summer. I found myself in the company of a score of soldiers standing on the edge of what looked to me as the most treacherous terrain one could conceive. Hundreds of kilometers of swampland—maybe thousands—stretched in front of us as far as the eye could see. It was no ordinary swamp. Strange non-reflective waters mixed with what we had first assumed mud, blanketing everything. Sparse willows dotted the area here and there, each spread far, as if they dared not survive within a hundred feet from their next kin-member. Moss the color of light mud floated in large dense patches throughout the land, with bulbous yellow pustules growing from them like stunted fruit. Tiny flies swarmed in small clouds so thick they could clog a man’s lungs. What seemed like quick flicks from black tentacles disturbed the surface for one second, and then…gone, as if never there. The stench was that of wet clay and decay.”

  “Sir,” interrupted Millian. “non’ of us have e’er ‘eard of such a place. What terrible wonder it must’a been.”

  “Ah, t’was in the Land of Hershel, Millian. A forbidden land,” Elric explained.

  “Forgiv’ my intrusion, but you mention’d that the waters were strange in the swamp? ”

  Elric thought for a moment, mind trying to recollect the story. “Ah yes, the waters were strange. To be true, it was not water that made the swamp, but some form of accursed liquid prison.

  “The score of men—including myself—were in search of an ancient ruin that had been rumored to exist at the heart of the evil land. No one had traversed the terrain in thousands of years, and so none of us knew what fate would befall us. Alas, our folly The first one of us to step into the swamp was also the first of us to die.” The knights around the campfire sat up, eyebrows raised. Elric continued, “The victim was an eager knight. Foolish and thoughtless. The man took a step forward, and his foot connected with the top of the milky gray waters as if he stood on rock! It didn’t splash down, it didn’t get wet. To the amazement of myself and the rest of my company, the man took another step forward, and another, walking across the top of the liquid! We were astounded! It was as if the man had been bestowed with a gift from the Gods! Imagine: walking on what looked like water, yet felt like land. The man turned, stopping his movement, tongue loosened to proclaim the miracle, and sank to the sound of wet squelches and moist gurgles. I thought I even imagined his eyes growing wide at the last minute, but I doubt it to be so; it happened too fast. One moment he stood on top of the swamp, and the next he had sunk beneath its surface, never to rise up again”

  “How can that be?” young Redd exclaimed in horrified wonder.

  Elric grabbed a slice of softened cheese and put it to a piece of bread. He ate monotonously, the flavor lost in the repetition.

  “I wondered it myself. I took a step forward and knelt in front of the swamp water. Grabbing at the brown, thick substance was impossible. It was as if my fingers hit solid stone. Only when I rested my hand on the surface and did not move it, that it suddenly suctioned downwards. It was as if shades from beyond the abyss had grabbed my appendage. My entire arm was yanked forward by the strength of the swamp. It squelched and sucked, like a carnivorous beast starved for meat. In terror, I cried out, believing I would surely drown in the solid-liquid. I was only saved because the entire company of men grabbed at me, and using all of their force, pulled my arm out. It took the strength of nearly twenty men to pull me from the cursed swamp as I flailed in panic, grabbing at all and nothing. Nearly twenty men. Had there been one man less, I doubt I would be here telling this tale.

  “In fact, my arm had dislocated at the shoulder in the violent pull to save my life. Quite painful it was. It was reset by the one practitioner we had at our disposal, a man I held close to heart.”

  Redd stood, head shaking in amazement. “How have we not heard of this place? Did any of you even continue onwards in your quest?”

  “How coul’ he?” Millian said in annoyance, tossing another pebble at the young knight. “They all ‘ould ‘ave died tryin’.”

  “Indeed we continued forward,” Elric stated with a nod, again trying to search his brain for what happened next in his tale. Why was the story difficult to recall?

  “And you haven’t heard of this place, young Redd, because the land is a forbidden secret. Now settle and listen.”

  Redd sat back on his mat, humbled.

  “We were obedient knights,” Elric continued. “We were on a quest and would never give in when faced with but our first challenge. All we needed was to bolster our courage. The company sat, waving away at the fly swarms, and we spent the rest of the day discussing how we would move on.

  “It finally came down to the one possible solution: we would have to go forward, without stopping and without respite, until we reached the ruin we sought. To stop or rest would mean death by drowning in the thick viscus liquid. We all knew our limitation. Knew how far we could go before collapse. Six of us decided to wait at the edge of the swampland in hopes the rest would reach our goal and return. I was one in the group that decided I was fit enough to continue. In addition, I felt as if this was but a logic problem—we had but only to walk, not run—to maintain footing upon the surface of the swamp-water. And if walking was all it took, I felt confident I could last a hundred kilometers if needs be. The rest of the men that would go with me felt the same confidence. So off we went. ”

  The four knights licked their lips and stared at each other, firelight flickering in their faces. The sound of a bird-cry, the same sound from earlier, echoed out. Elric cleared his throat.

  “Ah, in the Land of Hershel. We moved in a line, shoulder to shoulder, as we trudged forward. At first our hearts hammered quickly, but soon relaxed to the regularity of our pace. We each made sure to keep our footfalls heavy, so as to not risk sinking. The swamp was as dangerous as it was intriguing; how could we walk across the top, yet see hints of slithering beasts swimming about as if they were but in water? Only in this place: in the Land of Hershel.

  “Shoulder to shoulder we went, not stopping for drink, food, nor breath. If a man had to relieve himself, well t’was best to do so while moving, lest they die with their pants around their ankles.”

  The men around the fire chuckled at Elric’s remark.

  “Don’t laugh, my friends!” Elric warned. “Because that is exactly how we lost our second man.

  “We had marched forward for maybe an hour, when to my left, a ways down, one soldier proclaimed he needed to—for lack of a better term—shit. The rest of us told him he absolutely couldn’t stop moving, and if he really had to go, he was to go while walking. He complained, obviously, and we just teased him all the more for it. Eventually he could not hold it anymore and passing his gear to a companion, unbuckled his pants and lowered his trousers. It was quick—the incident that is. The trousers hung around his ankles and he tripped forward. His hands slammed onto solid liquid, not yet sinking due to the movement. He froze, knowing all-too-late what was to befall him. The rest of us couldn’t even slow our pace to help. He screamed out once: a protest of indignity and fear echoing out alongside the squelching and sucking before silence met our ears. I couldn’t even turn around without fear of tripping and facing the same fate. A horrible way to go.

  “From the score of men that had arrived in the land of Hershel, one had died right away, six had remained behind, and another was then lost. Counting myself, that left twelve men to trudge forward across the swamp.”

  “What a way to die…�
�� Millian whispered to himself. Timmon and Mattus both looked pale. Redd swallowed visibly. Elric nodded gravely.

  “In the Land of Hershel there was no mercy for any man.

  “In fact, in the Land of Hershel all we were to expect was death. Well, we walked on. Hour after hour our feet landed on the surface of the liquid and bounced back up as our noses were met with the pungent smell of decay. Near the shore of the swamp where we had begun were many willow trees, but the farther we went, the less of them we saw. It gave the sense that we were heading deeper into a land of death, a place where nothing grew and shadows whispered from the dark. What made it most difficult was the mental strain the land had over us. Stop and die. Trip and die. Hesitate and die. Every second and every movement could be death. The men tried to sing a marching tune but the air stole our voices away from us. Our sounds were carried away and suppressed. Instead, the swamp replaced music with a cacophony of strange animal noises that had no origin. Shrieks from afar, what sounded like a child’s cry from right behind you—so faint you couldn’t tell if it was imagination or reality—and the wet sliding sounds of the occasional black tentacle that would appear above the surface.

  “All day we heard that. The sounds pierced into your very head and lodged there, mixing and swirling without end, like dancing demons chanting right around a corner. It was enough to drive a man mad. Louder and louder it got the further from shore we walked. We had not even heard the noise at the start of our journey.”

  Elric shuffled in place as the four knights sat in quiet wonder at the story painted for them.

  “Night befell us, but fortunately by then we had found a rock outcrop jutting from the solid-liquid like a lone sanctuary. The dozen men left—counting myself—did not hesitate to take advantage of the stable platform, climbing and sitting; adjusting ourselves comfortably to rest our feet. It was bliss after a full day of walking, even though the fly swarms thickened around salt marks on our sweaty necks. We were all foot-sore, tired, and well-deserving of the break. We each made small talk, I with my friend the practitioner. The swamp was the only topic that parted from our lips.