by Kody Boye
When his dreams finally tore him from sleep, Odin found that the outside world had returned to some level of normalcy, in which the snow no longer fell and the sun had since revealed itself.
Time to go, his conscience whispered.
With no choice other than to pack camp, Odin crawled out of his bedroll, gathered it into his arms, then made his way out into the open, where he thrust his sleeping arrangements into the saddlebag before he dismantled the tent.
Beyond the thicket of trees, he could make out what was obviously the freshest patches of snow, glimmering in the light of the new dawn.
How much longer would it take for the men who would come from Ornala to catch him?
If he even sent for me today.
There was a high probability that Ournul would not learn of his disappearance for a few days—that was, unless Nova, Katarina or Ketrak reported it to the guards, who in turm transferred that information on to the king. Something, however, told him that neither of the three would do such a thing—that Virgin, so docile, would simply say that he had gone to visit his father and would return within the comings days.
Choosing not to think about the alternative likelihoods, Odin finished dismantling his camp, then mounted his horse to continue yet another day’s travel.
He couldn’t dwell on the possibilities.
Within the next few days, he would have to mentally prepare himself not only for the dangerous trespasses of the Haunted Marshlands, but his eventual meeting with the Ferryman.
He began to realize that someone was following him late that night, when, from beneath the cover of trees and bushes, he heard men speaking. What they were saying he couldn’t be sure, no matter how loud or close they were. It sounded, to Odin, that they were reminiscing on old times—one about his wife, another a child, the third his dog. No matter how disjointed the conversation seemed and regardless that it had nothing to do with him, their voices made the hairs on Odin’s neck stand on end.
Calm down, he thought. Just because there’s men on the road doesn’t mean they’re from Ornala.
For all he knew, the men could be merchants making their way from one of the Golden Cities or Villages making their way to Felnon or Dwaydor, but why there would only be a few of them he couldn’t be sure. Maybe there were more and the others simply happened to be asleep—or unable to talk, he pondered. However, as much as he wanted to entertain his fantasy that they were, in fact, not a danger to him, he couldn’t get his hopes up, and for that he rolled deeper into his bedroll and attempted to remain as quiet as possible, hoping to a God or the Gods that they would not see his horse.
All he needed was to be found.
Your swords are there, his conscience whispered, pressing against his back as if it were his lover returned from the depths of his sanity. You know how to use them.
Would he use them were these men to find him? He couldn’t be sure—knew in his heart that he would not lay harm upon an innocent person—but were the choice presented, and had he men ready to besiege him, he knew without a doubt that he would cut down any who tried to stop him, even if that meant facing a death sentence in the justice system.
While attempting to sleep, he tried to make out the sounds of each individual man’s voice and pinpoint what they were talking about.
“Shirley,” one of them said.
“What about her?” another replied.
“By God. That woman will never listen to a goddamn word I say.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“She won’t come back to Dwaydor with me.”
Refugees, Odin breathed.
“Hell,” the man’s companion said, his voice harsh and drawn-out, as if he were drunk or tired. “I don’t blame her. The only reason I’m going back with you is to get some of my belongings. You won’t catch me in that godforsaken town until the war is really over.”
“What do you mean? It is over.”
“So far as you know.”
Was it, Odin wondered? He couldn’t be sure, didn’t know for a fact whether or not there would be further assaults and if Bohren had even been recaptured, so to think blindly would only further deduce the quality of his thinking. Regardless of the northwest’s state, that didn’t mean the east had been reclaimed.
I hope so, he thought, rolling onto his back.
It was then and there, listening to the men’s voices and staring at the fabric that made up his personal safety, that Odin decided he would have to move as fast as he could.
At any given moment, the men from Ornala could be on him, thrusting him in bonds and relieving him of his weapons.
Though he highly doubted they had yet to come, he couldn’t help but fear for his safety.
Closing his eyes, he took one last breath and tried to drown out the voices.
It didn’t work.
He could still hear them.
Odin rose before dawn and packed as quietly as he could. His horse sated with a partially-frozen carrot, his conscience devoid of any fear in the twilight hours of the morning, he secured his belongings and mounted after pulling the iron nail from the ground, all the while praying that the men he assumed were merchants would not stir from their campsite.
Situated directly across the road in a small, semi-circle display, the group of five travelers whom he’d heard last night slept contently, as if there was no fear at all of walking on this road.
Rather than stare, Odin directed his stallion down the road and ground his jaw together for fear that the soft crunch of snow beneath his horse’s hooves would wake the men.
They’re merchants, he thought, relieving himself of a breath before taking yet another. They’re not going to do anything to you.
So far as he knew, there had been no word that the champion had fled his country yet again. It was even possible that Ournul hadn’t summoned himn.
He’s going to visit his father, the older Halfling would have said, raising his hands in the air to calm the small family of three and Carmen as he came down the stairs and looked each of them in the eyes. You have nothing to worry about. He’s homesick—that’s all.
Homesickness would have been the perfect way to describe his feeling, and while he longed to return to Felnon to try and lure Ectris back to Ornala, he had a feeling that his father would refuse even if he offered him all the gold in the world.
“Stubborn old man,” he whispered.
His horse grunted and tossed its head, as if attempting to free itself of some mortal confine.
“Are you all right?” he asked, running his fingers over the tack to make sure no clasps or hooks were misaligned. “What’s wrong? Why are you acting like this?”
The horse whipped its head to the east—where, in the thicket of trees Odin had camped before, a disturbance rattled the bushes.
It’s just the wind, he thought, shivering, reaching down to thumb the clasp that held his sword in place. You know it is.
If that were the case, why was his horse acting so skittish?
Rather than dread on the possibilities, Odin tapped the stallion’s ribs and ushered it forward, down the road that would eventually lead to the Y that led either to Felnon or Dwaydor.
Behind them, something shifted.
Odin drew his sword.
The black-bladed weapon shined in the white light piercing down from the sky.
“Come out,” he said, eyes straying first to the thicket, then the merchants who still slept. “Show yourself you fucking bastard!”
The bushes shifted once more.
Nearby, one of the merchants raised his head.
In that moment, Odin imagined it must’ve been quite the sight—he, atop a horse, sword drawn, talking to a bush, shifting back and forth as if rolling with the incoming tide. For all that merchant knew, he could’ve been a madman ready to strike him down. But if that were the case, then surely the man would’ve woken his friends, wouldn’t he?
Unless he knows I’m a mage.
However unlik
ely that was, Odin couldn’t help but entertain that idea as the bushes continued shifting and the men rose from their campsite. Some shouted to him, asking what he was doing, while others merely stayed quiet and waited for whatever was to happen.
Odin bit his lower lip.
Had he sunk his teeth in any further, blood might have spilled down his face.
“Everything’s going to be just fine,” he said, reaching down to grip, then turn the reins aside, so he could continue down the road and toward his destination. “Don’t you worry.”
A crash behind him forced Odin to turn as fast as he possibly could.
From the bushes emerged a bear—dumb, stupid, and with blood staining its snout.
“Just a bear,” Odin laughed, lowering his blade but grimacing as his horse whinnied, flipping its head in an attempt to free itself. “Stop it, boy.”
In the camp, the men drew weapons—some bladed, some blunt.
The bear stumbled forward.
Odin’s eyes fell to its stomach.
Gutted, the creature’s entrails spilled onto the ground and stained the snow red.
Shaking not from fear, but awe, he turned his head up just in time for the real threat to emerge.
It could have been considered something of an anomaly at this time of the year, what with the weather conditions and the fact that most, if not all of its brethren were hibernating in beneath the frozen mud. Its purpose wasn’t marked, its location not set, its goal not as of yet revealed. However that happened to be, the Marsh Walker stepped out of the thicket to reveal itself in all its glory. Not green, but blue, a color not unknown to creatures of its kind who were exposed to chilling temperatures, it dripped with blood from its recent kill and craned its head to examine Odin with a pair of eyes that seemed completely benign to its type—pure-white and seemingly frosted-over with snow.
“Stay back!” Odin cried, thrusting his sword toward the merchants, who cowered as the eight, possibly nine-foot creature stalked toward Odin’s horse.
The creature opened its beak and uttered a shriek that sounded something akin to a falcon diving toward its prey.
Odin shot a plume of flame toward the creature.
It raised one long hand, parted the magic, then stepped forward.
What the—
Before he could finish, one of the three-fingered, razor-tipped hands fell toward him.
Odin dodged.
The nails bit into the horse’s flesh.
The stallion screamed.
Odin twirled his sword up and around him before slicing into the creature’s flesh.
Blue blood sprayed the air.
Odin watched, awestruck, as it sailed through the air and stained the ground below him.
Injured, afraid, and possibly angry beyond compare, the creature reached up to nurse its wound with its right, three-fingered hand, then launched itself forward.
The horse reared up on its back legs.
A hoof struck the emaciated Marsh Walker’s face.
Blood and spit flew through the air.
When the creature’s claws lashed out in an attempt to not only grab the reins, but the rider himself, the horse whipped its head back around and struck the Marsh Walker with its neck, vaulting its body through the air in several summersaults before it crashed to the ground—stunned, chirping, and feebly pushing its limbs out under to push itself to its feet.
This is madness, Odin thought, throwing a glance over his shoulder to survey the men, who crept forward with weapons bared and faces alight in fright. They can’t do anything to help me.
If this creature really did bear some magical Gift, then surely it would use it.
“Stay back!” Odin screamed. “Back I say! Back!”
A flicker of movement to the south drew Odin’s attention.
Moments later, a sliver of ice flew through the air and skirted directly past its head.
The Marsh Walker, now standing on its own two amphibious feet, held within its hand a formation of snow that spun over its palm and eventually created a swirling mist about the air.
No.
Odin threw his hand forward to create a shield just in time for the ice to collide with it.
“What are you?” Odin asked, pointing his sword to maintain a hold on the shield. “Creatures like you can’t use magic.”
Unless—
Common man knew little of Marsh Walkers. They were difficult to examine in the wild—so dangerous, in fact, that any scientist who attempted to study them was killed—so to say these creatures did not bear the Gift of the Will was so ignorant that Odin found himself staring at the creature as it cocked its head to the side and began to chirrup—first softly, like a rodent, then increasingly louder, to the point where Odin felt his ears ringing and his body trembling.
The creature lowered its hand.
Odin’s eyes instinctively fell.
The Marsh Walker lunged into the shield Odin had erected.
When the creature stumbled back, Odin thrust his sword forward, formed the shield of concentrated air around it, then fired it directly into the misplaced Marsh Walker’s chest.
Instantaneously, it was cut in half.
Its upper body spilled onto the ground, arms twitching.
Blood, guts and entrails soon followed.
“Sir!” one of the men cried, rushing forward. “Sir! Sir!”
“I’m all right,” Odin said, lifting his head to regard the five men who ran to greet him. “Don’t worry about me. Everything’s fine.”
“Your mount.”
“I’m a mage.”
“What?”
Odin lit his palm and ran it across his horse’s wound. Beneath his touch, the skin began to mend, as if he were a master tailor attempting to sew the greatest garments together as fast as possible.
To the side, the merchants stared in awe.
“Who are you?” the man asked, turning his head to look Odin in the eyes.
“No one important,” Odin replied, turning his horse and directing it down the road.
“But wait! At least tell us your name!”
Odin chose not to reply.
Instead, he kicked his horse’s sides and thrust it into a full-out run.
They ran for what seemed like hours before the horse began to lose its fervor. Eventually, its all-out run died down to a slow but stable trot and its breath began to run ragged. Grunting, as if pained by the wound on its neck and shoulder Odin had healed as carefully as it could, it whipped its head and cast its mane over its shoulder, instilling within Odin a sense of unease he couldn’t help but shiver at.
It’s all right, he thought, tangling his fingers through the creature’s mane and running his hand along its neck. You know it’s going to be.
Instantly, his thoughts fell to the creature he had deterred earlier that morning, the exact moment which seemed to play in his head over and over again.
A short moment later, a thought began to occur to him.
No. It couldn’t be.
Could it, though? He wondered in absolute terror as he slowed his horse to a brisk walk and trained his eyes to the west—where, on the horizon, the tip of the Felnon Providence could be seen extending to the north. It seemed impossible to be thinking such thoughts, let alone considering them, for it was said that such behavior in semi-sentient creatures was not common unless something had disturbed them from their natural paterns.
Slowly, it began to dawn on him.
Odin closed his eyes.
Could the war, the resulting disbanding of Dwaydor and the constant back-and-forth movement of refugees have disturbed the Marsh Walkers from their winter hibernation?
“That’s not possible,” he laughed, tightening his hold on the reins until his knuckles popped so loud he thought a hammer had struck a piece of wood. “It can’t be. It just can’t.”
Then how, he wondered, had this Marsh Walker stumbled so far from its native territory, let alone in the cold and snow? Had some force uprooted
it from its encapsulated egg, thrusting it into a world of pain and misery and forcing it to live through the hellacious winter? And what, he wondered, could have made it come so far north, if not prey or some migratory instinct?
My God, Odin thought, drawing his cloak around him.
If what he believed had happened, then there would surely be more Marsh Walkers to contend with on the way to Sharktooth Island.
Don’t think about it.
But how, he thought, could he not, when in no more than a few days he would have to travel the Marshlands to reach his destination? It was foolish to think that he could disregard the thought of danger, especially in his circumstance, and it was even more foolish to believe that only one lone Marsh Walker had been disturbed.
Then how, he thought, then stopped before he could finish.
Had he the will of strength to continue, he would have asked himself how a creature such as a Marsh Walker had been Gifted with the power of the Will, let alone the ability to use it in such an engaging manner. It took a mighty person to be able to use magic—a strong, devout mind and an even more practiced study—so to know a creature with little more than the intelligence of a wolf could perform such arts astounded him to no end.
Unless…
Unless, he thought, Marsh Walkers were more intelligent than the common man thought them to be.
“Whatever the reason,” he whispered, closing his eyes, “you can’t worry about that now. Keep your eyes on the prize.”
His horse trembled.
Though he pitied the creature and its struggle, he couldn’t help but wonder how he would make it through the Marshlands.
The next three days led him past Felnon and toward the crux in the land where the Haunted Marshlands tapered out and eventually led toward the Ela ‘Alna River, which lay much further southwest and toward the break in the land that separated the Elnan Peninsula from the rest of the continent. His sights on cutting through the area that eventually flourished along the river, his heart content with the knowledge that he was far from home and even closer to a prison sentence, Odin pushed his horse off the path and toward the place he could see only as his life’s true conquest and his heart’s ultimate desire.