by N M Zoltack
Rase slumped his shoulders. He had given up on finding a job, but it hadn’t been for lack of trying. No artisans would train him without payment for loss of time at his craft. He had even asked tradesman if they would teach him, but they wouldn’t either. No one ever thought about anyone else but himself. To some extent, Rase could understand that. He only wanted to help his family.
Even though the moneyer’s son and only apprentice had died from a sickness, he refused to even consider Rase as a replacement. Minting coins would have actually interested Rase, but the man was grieving. He hadn’t just refused Rase. He wasn’t contemplating training anyone just yet.
Rase hadn’t lost anyone to death yet. Some friends were no longer in his life, though, and that felt just as upsetting. Darwin acted as if Rase was the one who was dead. Rase hadn’t seen his former friend in years. It still hurt to think about that.
Considering that the crown had raised how much the miller had to pay in taxes, the miller demanded an obscene amount of coins to take on Rase as an apprentice. Rase hadn’t even approached the goldsmith, armorer, blacksmith, and bowyer. Each of those had been family-owned businesses for many generations. They would never let a no-nothing peasant like Rase near their tools or have access to their brains and knowledge.
So Rase had given up, and he been doing much more than play with Rase or try to find berries or anything else they could eat alongside whatever Pa brought home. Time had gotten away from him, and Rase had become complacent.
Now, though, Rase was all the more determined to learn exactly what it was that his pa was up to. No matter what, he would not lose track of Pa again, not even if they went to the marketplace again.
22
Sir Edmund Hill
Fortunately, the need for a watch proved unnecessary, and Edmund and Tatum reached Stokeford Swamp five days after leaving Atlan behind. They could only spend a few days here before they would have to return. Tatum had already described the herb she needed in great detail so that he might be able to seek it as well as her.
“Blue petals, more purple toward the center. Spokes that appear like pure light will rise out of the center,” she had said a few nights ago after she had roused him for his half of the watch.
“If it’s that bright and illuminous, shouldn’t it be rather easy to discern from within the dank, gloomy swamp?” he had asked.
“One would think so, but, alas, that flower hardly ever opens up.”
“So we will need to look for its closed bulb,” he had mused.
“Ah, yes,” she had admitted sheepishly. “It should appear as a black, withered bulb and perhaps even smell of decay. Only those with the purest of intention can get the flower to bloom, and if it is plucked while shut, the herb is useless.”
“Then I will be sure to call you over to each dark bloom I locate,” he had assured her.
“You do not think yourself pure?”
“I am a man,” he had grunted.
The female alchemist did not seem to notice that he was attempt, pathetically admittedly, to make a joke. “We do have to be careful,” she warned. “The Wink of Life looks rather like the Kiss of Death. That, too, is a black bulb, but if one of us were to cause the Kiss of Death to bloom—”
“We’ll die,” he had jested.
Tatum had not blinked. “We very well might.”
Edmund had wished to ask her if there was any means to differential between the two, but he had lacked the heart to.
As they approached the entrance to the swamp, the first thing Edmund notice was how dank and gloomy the place was, but that was only secondary to the stench of decay and rot. The smell of briny algae stung his nostrils, and whatever had been causing his nasal congestion cleared up, unfortunately, as he would much rather have not been able to smell any of this.
He glanced behind them, at the brightly shining grassland they had just emerged from, and shuddered. The swamp seemed to suck up the light and convert it into darkness.
Water dripped and splashed from somewhere in front of the duo.
Tatum stood beside him. He hadn’t even realized they had halted until now.
“Are you ready?” she asked him. “You seem…”
“I’m fine,” he said almost too quickly.
“I am not,” she murmured. “All of the dangers here…”
“What exactly will this herb of yours do?” Edmund asked and then rushed to add, “Forgive me for prying. That is none of my business.”
“If you wish to know, I will tell you once we have left this place,” she whispered, her tone still soft. “For now, the dangers of this place… Let us try to find the flower and be gone.”
Edmund moved forward first, carefully eyeing where to place each step, not wishing to sink into a puddle of the swamp waters. Black-trunked trees grew so tall, their bare branches so thickly entwined that no light could filter down through them. Moisture clung to everything, water dripping down the trunks, and when he stumbled and braced himself against one of those trunks, he grimaced at the feel of the harsh bark and the shockingly freezing water.
Underfoot, he could not always avoid stepping on rotting vegetation. The scummy water was thick and opaque. He could hardly make out what might lurking in the rippling waters beneath the curling mist.
A soft hand touched his, and he stilled, glancing slightly behind him at Tatum while still mindful of their surroundings.
She pointed off to the right. A few paces away, almost hidden by a tree leaning over the water, was a small raft.
Edmund stiffened, and his hand automatically reached for the hilt of his sword. “Someone else is here.”
“Someone… or something.”
While he doubted he knew about every legend or myth, one immediately sprang to mind.
“The Green Men,” he muttered. “Might they be real?”
“I’ve heard enough tales about them that something has given credence to the idea,” she whispered.
The Green Men were men whose skin was unlike any others. They were said to breathe underwater as if part-fish, and they fed on the flesh and drank the blood of anyone who dared to charter a boat, or raft, or vessel of any kind on their terrain.
“Leave it be,” he said, eager to move on.
“Or should we destroy it?” Tatum asked.
“Why would we do that?” he asked, annoyed that she would suggest such a thing. How would they accomplish that? The moisture in the air would make creating a fire nearly impossible, and if he had to hack at the raft with his sword, any and all creatures lurking nearby would hear and come racing, crawling, swimming over to them as fast as their slimy legs could carry them.
“To remove temptation from any others who seek to come here,” Tatum continued, perhaps noticing his reluctance.
The thought of young persons coming here on a dare, locating the raft, and perishing for their rash and impetuous behavior caused Edmund to hesitate.
“If we find the herb and have time to before we must depart,” he relented, “but only then.”
Tatum smiled broadly, the only bright spot in the entire swamp. “Then let us continue on,” she said, stepping slightly into the swamp water to walk ahead of him.
Edmund’s hand remained on his hilt as they traversed deeper and deeper into the swamps. It was just as well that he had not worn his entire suit of armor as they quickly reached a point where they had no choice but to walk through the swamp water. The level rose to their knees and then almost to their waists.
The female alchemist moved fluidly, never faltering. Soon, she rushed ahead of Edmund to the point that she was almost a shadow that he could hardly see.
“Tatum,” he hissed, but she did not slow or seem to hear him. “Tatum!”
Abruptly, she headed left and then right a few paces, and he wondered if she might have finally found some vegetation that might not be decaying. He nearly tripped over a slime-covered rock under the swamp water in his haste to try to catch up to her.
“Tatum!”
She hesitated a moment and then plunged straight through the swamp clear through to the other side even though the water reached up to her neck. As soon as she reached the far bank, she disappeared from view.
Muttering a curse, Edmund chased after her. He tripped, his hand smacking against some kind of creature, and it took several more steps before he could right himself. By the time he climbed to the other side, Tatum had disappeared.
Edmund glanced around wildly, and that was when he saw it—a faint glow light, perhaps a tiny ball of flames.
And Tatum was heading straight for that light.
The Lights of the Doomed did just that, doom those who saw them, leading any and every to the depths of the swamps so that they became hopelessly lost. Stories claimed that those who followed the lights turned into lights themselves, and the cycle would continue for all time.
Edmund squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath. Slowly, the sounds of the dripping water, popping water bubbles, frogs croaking, flies buzzing, and other animals swimming or rustling underfoot all faded away. The only noise that reached his ears was that of the soft splashing of water from Tatum.
The knight cautiously crept forward, allowing his ears rather than his eyes to guide him. Gradually, despite his closed lids, he could see the glowing fiery light. He reached out, hoping to grab Tatum when abruptly, the light disappeared, and instead, faint music could be heard.
“Come to me,” a soft voice sang along to the melody. “Be with me. Forever and ever until the end of time. Yes, come to me, dear. Dive down, deep down, and have no fear.”
Edmund’s eyes flew open. A water spirit stood on a glistening rock. His skin was a faint green hue, and slits along either side of his neck fanned out as he spoke. He strummed a violin, playing, his red eyes fixed on Tatum.
The lights had drawn Tatum to the water spirit.
“Swim. Dive down, and you will never have cause to frown,” the water spirit urged. His voice was lyrical, and magic and might flowed through each word.
Tatum was struggling to resist the urge to obey.
The water spirit either did not care about males or had not noticed Edmund. He eased through the water, trying to creep around the rock to the water spirit’s backside. Just as he drew his blade, Tatum’s will faltered, and she dove beneath the swamp water.
Edmund plunged his sword into the back of the fiend. With a strangled gasp of surprise, the spirit turned into a puddle of water at Edmund’s feet, rolling off the rock to meet the swamp water.
The knight sheathed his blade. Why hadn’t Tatum resurfaced yet?
He leapt off the rock and dove into the water. Tatum was yanking a plant from the bottom of the swampbed. Red, not black, and not the one they had come here for but at least she was now swimming toward the surface.
She glanced at where the water spirit had been and grimaced.
“A Vepo Grimme,” she said with a rare scowl. “I never thought I would fall to one’s preying ways, but… thank you.”
“It didn’t even see me coming.”
“No,” she said dryly, “he wouldn’t have. They only go after ladies and girls. They have no need for males.”
“The lights—”
“Yes.” Tatum sighed. “It is said that alchemists have a closer tie to magic than most other people. Given that magic is mostly gone from the world and has been since the dragons all perished, I hoped that most of the talk of monsters and the myths and legends were from back before. Those with magic, however, are preyed upon worse than those without when it comes to Stokeford Swamp.”
“Which is why you asked me to be here.”
“Yes,” she murmured, “but I had always hoped that it would have been an unnecessary request.”
“I am happy to assist you,” he said.
“And I am happy you are here,” she returned, but she did not smile. “Eat some. It should help to protect us from any dark magic in this place.”
Edmund grimaced at the slimy texture of the flower she had just plucked from the swamp bed, but the taste was not altogether terrible.
“Shall we continue on then?” he asked once he swallowed.
Tatum finished her bite. “Yes. The sooner we can leave this foul place behind, the better.”
Edmund agreed. Whatever this Wink of Life was, he certainly hoped it was worth risking life and limb for.
23
Prince Marcellus Gallus
Marcellus’s father was meticulous to a fault, which most likely would play into their hands. For weeks now, they had redoubled their weaponry training. Since the age of three, all boys and girls were schooled in the art of fighting. Vincana was a militant people first and foremost. They protected their own and each other. Honestly, Marcellus had never understood why they had allowed that King Jankin Rivera to declare himself their king as well as that of Tenoch.
Tenoch Proper. Marcellus turned his head to the side and spat in the grass.
Flavius Calvus struck his spear into the grass. “Pay attention, boy,” he said gruffly. “You cannot lower your guard ever. Tenoch does have knights and guards. They will fight us. We will not be able to march on their castle and claim it without a battle.”
Marcellus brought up his spear and feigned an attack to the left, squatted down and slide to the right, bringing down and then up with this weapon. Flavius blocked and parried, but he did nod. The blond-haired thirty-year-old was in charge of the army, and Marcellus’s father had tapped him to give Marcellus extra training and preparation now that Marcellus was prince.
Marcellus still could not accept that title for himself. Him a prince. Without a crown or a throne. Not that either was truly needed so long as the people believed and had faith in him.
Did Marcellus even want the title? He hadn’t time to even consider that. His father was one of the most powerful and well-respected men on the island. It was not a shock at all that the people had rallied behind him in an instant. Would they do the same for Marcellus once his father died? Certainly, Marcellus did not wish for his father to feed the crows, but he would not be surprised if his father did die on the battlefield in pursuit of the crown.
Then again, perhaps it would be Marcellus who would falter and die if he did not begin to take his training more seriously.
The two went round after round, first with spears then swords and then axes. Eventually, even the commander’s blond hair was soaked with sweat.
Flavius frowned but nodded. “Your focus is poor. You lack discipline, but when you do try, you are more than capable. What is weighing you down? What thoughts are troubling you?”
Marcellus grimaced. He did not feel as if he could ask this question of his father for fear of angering him, but perhaps Flavius would know the answer.
“Are we to merely rage war to gain our freedom and separation from Tenoch?” Marcellus inquired. “Or are we trying to establish a new empire, that of Vincana Proper?”
Flavius flashed him a smile. “That time will tell. Your father and I have only briefly discussed this. All I can say is that no decision has been made as of yet.”
Marcellus nodded.
“How goes it?” a deep voice boomed from the nearby hill. With arms open wide, Marcellus’s father stalked toward them. He had taken to wearing lavish robes, and this red velvet one fluttered behind him as he descended.
“There is always room for improvement, Antonius,” Flavius said.
“Always, always,” Marcellus’s father agreed. “Have you finished with my son?”
“For now,” Flavius said. He turned to Marcellus. “Same time tomorrow, same place.”
Marcellus nodded, and the commander walked away, leaving father and son to their conversation.
“Come with me,” his father said, draping his arm across Marcellus’s shoulders.
“Where are we off to?” Marcellus asked.
“You shall see, my boy.” His father patted Marcellus’s chest. Even that simple gesture packed some punch, and Marcellus nearly coughed
.
Without another word, his father led Marcellus northwest, to the coastline. There, already formed, where the three skeletal hulls of what would soon be massive ships.
“Not ships,” his father said as if reading his thoughts. “Or, rather, not merely ships. Warships.”
Marcellus nodded, doing his best to seem impressed but not shocked even though he was both awed and confused.
“We have plenty of ships already,” he said.
“Yes, indeed, but we do not have to march immediately. We have time to plan and prepare and then attack. We have enough time to construct the ships. We will need every warrior if we are to march on Atlan.”
So very many people. Could they dare to leave Vincana so vulnerable? Marcellus would not ask yet, at least not yet. He suspected that such a question would only serve to frustrated his father.
“Will we sail around the edge of Tenoch to travel a far shorter distance on land?” Marcellus questioned. “Or will we sail directly north and cross the land and river to reach Atlan?”
“Those details have not been finalized yet. Patience, my son.” After squeezing Marcellus’s shoulder and then a long, awkward pause, his father asked, “What would you counsel me if you were my advisor?”
“I suppose…” Marcellus said slowly, “that we should fight for our independence first. Then, we should reconsider our options, taking into account our losses and our fleet.”
“We will have the fiercest of fleets.” His father clapped Marcellus’s shoulder. “We will, my boy. You will see. Once the monsoon season passes, we should be ready. We can set sail, and the war can begin. Can you not smell freedom in the air?”
“I can,” Marcellus said, and he meant it.
The next day, Marcellus watched Flavius instructed thousands of men at once, guiding them through stances and lunges and parries and cuts and blocks and counterblows.
It was truly a mesmerizing, wondrous scene, and Marcellus smiled. Their army would be incredible. No one in Tenoch would be able to withstand their might, and it would prove to be a decisive victory in short order, of that he had no doubt.