If he had come across the rock island at any other time, he would have thought it a dreary, unwelcoming place and probably moved on in hopes of finding somewhere better. In the centre of the island, a few flat areas were large enough for a bedroll, but there was very little in the way of grass. Rocks of all shapes and sizes made up the rest – damp, oily, moss-ridden rocks – not much of anything to recommend it as a potential campsite. But right then, in that very moment, everyone seemed pleased to see it. Daric had to admit it looked as comfortable and as homely a prospect as their beds back in Albergeddy.
“Packs off, everyone. Rest where you can. And do not drink too much. There’s no fresh water around here.” Daric took off his pack and surveyed the area. It was good enough for now, but hardly ideal. He would have preferred to rest at the Am’ilean Oasis. But needs must, he thought, and an hour off his feet would be welcome. Though looking around, he did not much like the idea of resting there, exhausted or not.
“Can you reckon how far, Olam?” he asked.
Daric made his question sound like a casual query. He did not want Gialyn and the others thinking they would be lost if it were not for the wizard… he would never hear the last of it. Especially not from Elspeth, he thought.
Olam was standing in the centre of the only real clearing – small, as it was – stretching his back and legs. “Yes, we are two hours west of Am’ilean. You see that small hill above the mist; Am’ilean is by its northern slope.” Olam pointed with the butt of his staff at a short rise about three miles to the east. The outline of the ridge was barely visible amid the mist which clung to its base, and yet the view was clear enough – just – to judge the distance.
It was indeed only three miles away, but Daric knew well and good, three miles as the crow flies was meaningless in the Am’bieth. It could be closer to five by foot: two hours was optimistic, at best.
But still…
“Good news, I suppose,” Daric said. “At least we know where we are. The bad news, we have at least two more hours of this swamp before day’s end. It’s pointless stopping here with the oasis so close.”
Daric was about to turn and inform the others of the plan, when he heard a scream.
Elspeth dropped her bag and ran to Gialyn. Then dragged him from the boulder he was sitting on with such force that both landed in a heap at Olam’s feet. Elspeth stood quickly, pulling Gialyn up with her, all the while backing away from the rock where Gialyn had been sitting.
“Did you see it? Did you see it!” she cried. She waved her finger at the rock in a wide-eyed hysteria, then looked right and left for someone to answer her question.
The travellers gathered behind her.
Daric squinted at the rock but saw nothing.
He took a step closer. “See what?” There was nothing there that he could see. Gods, I hope she hasn’t started hallucinating. No, she’s not tired enough for that, not yet.
“That… black thing… It was right there, on the rock.” She pointed a shaky finger. “It was moving towards Gialyn’s hand.” Elspeth covered her mouth with her hands. “No! Don’t go any closer!” She grabbed Daric’s elbow and pulled him back.
Olam quickly moved to her side. He put his hand to her cheek and begged her attention. “Describe it, child. What did you see?”
“It was black. Flowing like oil, but not natural. It was round. Perfectly round! And crept up the rock where Gialyn was sitting, up towards his hand – straight towards his hand! I’m sure of it.”
Everyone, even Arfael, moved away from the rocks and stood in a tight circle at the centre of the small clearing.
Daric pondered Elspeth’s words and then remembered something he had heard a long time ago… something he hoped he would never see. Grabbing Gialyn by the shoulder, he turned him around so quickly it was a wonder the boy did not end up right back on the ground. Putting one hand under Gialyn chin, he used his thumbs to spread his son’s eyelids wide, and then peered deep into them. Please don’t be there. Please don’t be there. His mind spun and a cold ache filled his gut.
“Is it there, Daric? Can you see it?” Olam stood at Daric’s shoulder, bobbing his head up and down, trying to steal a peek into Gialyn’s eyes.
“What do you mean… it?” Gialyn asked, still with his father’s thumbs forcing his eyelid open. He looked scared.
“No, it’s not. I can’t see anything. Thank the gods.”
Daric realised the sheer relief in his voice would have done nothing to ease his son’s mind; it had likely made him worry all the more.
But there was no time for explanations.
He set about pulling all their backpacks into the grassy circle at the centre of the island, away from the rocks. He grabbed each one with his thumb and forefinger, making sure to look behind before taking a good hold.
Grady, who had looked as confused as the others did, suddenly raised his face to the heavens. “You can’t be saying… No, you must be wrong; our luck can’t be that bad.”
“What’s going on?” both Elspeth and Gialyn asked the question – if in varying degrees of authority.
“The Black,” Olam said. He, too, was looking around self-consciously at the rocks. “Or the Dead Man’s Vein. It has other names, depending on who is doing the telling.”
“And what exactly is the Black?” Elspeth asked. “And for that matter, why are we just now hearing about it? Come to think of it, why are we even in this godforsaken swamp where such things exist? Why did we not go the southern route? And, yes, Gialyn Re’adh, I know you are the one who was in danger. No, Ealian, I will not calm down. This is ridiculous. You brought me… us… into this place, with such… horrible… whatever they are. I mean, how can a pool of goo even be alive? One of you two should start explaining yourself. Quickly.”
Daric stood, scratching his chin. He felt the crease of a smile on his lips. A grim smile. He had not wanted to tell them about the thing until they were safely away, but Olam had put paid to that idea.
“I heard about it once, years ago, but I don’t know much more than tales and gossip. Maybe Olam can explain better while we make sure the packs are clean. I do not want to take that thing with us,” Daric said.
Olam clasped his hand in front of his chin. He gave Daric a nod then turned to Elspeth. “Child, I would be happy to explain,” he said while nodding graciously. “It is an old story—”
Daric interrupted. “Tell it while you’re checking your pack, please.”
Olam pointed at Arfael…
“Oh yes,” Daric said, remembering they had one pack between them – huge, as it was – and Arfael was busy scrutinising it.
Olam continued, “It is an old story, my dear. Some say the Black is the essence of evil men who, centuries ago, came to a bad end here in the marsh. Some say the Black belongs to the earth and that it is a remnant of the dark times from before the beast of Fae’tusan crawled out of the sea. Whichever story you believe; the Dead Man’s Vein is very dangerous. It will enter the body by any means – any means – and once there, it will seek to control the mind. Turning a good man to evil ways… so the story goes. It was lon—”
Daric interrupted. “Check your pack, Elspeth; I want to be gone from here.”
Elspeth raised her hand in protest, but Daric was having none of it. “Stories can come later, once we’re clear of this place.”
“I still say we should never have come through this marsh, not if you knew that thing was here.”
Elspeth returned to her favourite pose, standing with her hands on her hips while staring down her nose at anyone and everyone who did not agree with her. She could give mules lessons on stubbornness.
“Elspeth… your pack?” Daric said.
Elspeth scoffed, and then kicked her pack over so it was lying flat on the ground. She began prodding it with one of her daggers.
“My child,” Olam said, “it only spawns once or twice in a generation, and then not for long. It lives deep within the rock for the rest of the time.” Olam st
ood up from fixing the strap on his and Arfael’s pack, then pointed down at the rock where Elspeth had seen the Black. “You see those tiny black flowers? Those are its sign.” The old man picked up his staff, stood straight, and sighed deeply. “But you are right, child. We should have made sure it was safe.”
“Thank you, Olam. Thank you for admitting that much.” Elspeth raised a haughty chin to Daric and Grady.
“So… stay away from rocks, and we’ll be safe?” Gialyn asked. He was already loaded up and ready to leave.
Olam was helping Arfael shoulder their pack. “Yes. It cannot survive on the ground. It sinks through the earth and disperses harmlessly. Have you noticed, every so often, we come across an area of black soil?” Olam stopped and looked around for a moment. “Over there, by that bank, do you see the dead earth, about the length and breadth of a man?”
“Yes, I do. And now you mention it, I have seen quite a few,” Elspeth said, and Gialyn nodded.
“Some believe that those marks are where an evil man – or woman – laid down to die, and his essence, the Black, sank through the soil, poisoning it for eternity. But that is likely an old wives’ tale. Nobody really knows much about it, apart from maybe the Crenach’dair. And they are not going to tell anyone.”
“You know I’m going to ask, Olam.” Elspeth had her arms folded. She still had not shouldered her pack.
“Ask your questions while you walk, girl,” Daric told her. “Or do you want to be left here? Two minutes and we’re going.” He could not believe she was screaming at the thing not five minutes ago.
Olam gave Daric a stern look. The man had the patience of old fisherfolk.
Daric listened while he answered Elspeth’s question. “The Crenach’dair, or Cren, as the folk around these parts call them, are Woodsmen from the Kingdom of Crenach’coi. To be honest, I thought you would have heard of them.”
“And why would they know anything?” Gialyn asked.
Olam chuckled to himself. “Where there is evil, there is always good… The Balance of Ein’laig… and the other gods, I suppose.”
Elspeth snorted as she hefted her pack over her shoulder. “And what precisely do you mean by that? Honestly, a straight answer, that’s all I want.”
“The White,” Olam said, as if it was obvious. He did not look at all annoyed at Elspeth’s tone – the man definitely had more patience than Daric. “It endows its host with the Wisdom of the Ages, eventually, and gives them an enlightened sense of the land, and all contained therein: animals, plants, herb lore… everything. I have heard the Woodsmen harvest the White. Apparently, they infect themselves with it to gain wisdom. However, the details are far from clear. They are a very secretive people.”
Everyone was ready, Daric noticed, he ushered Arfael out onto the path and gestured at Gialyn to follow. He could not help but ask a question before he moved on, though: “Excuse me, Olam, but how do you know so much?”
“It is a story told around these parts, a tale I heard… an old… fisherman… years ago.” Olam’s voice suddenly changed. He sounded like a man who had said too much and wanted to change the subject.
Elspeth sighed and flapped her arms in the air. “Argh, for the love of… This is getting worse by the minute: secret nations, tales from old fisherfolk; next you’ll be saying there are dragons in the Karan Ridges. Let’s just go.”
The travellers followed Daric out of the rock island, mindful – very mindful – of staying away from the rock.
Elspeth looked back. “Come on, brother, we’re moving on.”
* * *
Ealian stared at the small green frog trapped beneath his boot. The animal squirmed, its shiny green arms flailing about in desperation. Ealian felt a grin crease his lip. He was taking pleasure in watching it suffer – he was enjoying it. He did not know why; the feeling was… wrong… But he did not care. He felt his heart quicken, and for a moment, he could have laughed out loud.
He heard Elspeth calling.
“Coming,” he shouted in an oh-so-natural voice.
He pushed his weight forward onto the ball of his foot, squashing the frog to death. He smiled, and as he did so, he felt a cold rush wash over his eyes. A dark curtain drew across his vision. It lingered for a moment and then disappeared, soaking away like the darkness before a new dawn. He turned, shuffled his pack securely onto his shoulders, and ran to catch up with the others.
* * *
It was late afternoon. The sun warmed the already stagnant pools that lay away from the main waterways. The smell was putrid: a mix of oil and rotten vegetation. Some of the larger pools smelled so bad they caused Elspeth to retch.
“Is it going to be like this all the way through?” she asked, one hand on her stomach the other over her mouth. Gods, Gobin’s pigsty doesn’t smell as bad as this.
“The middle of the marsh is not so bad,” Daric said. “It slopes away south to the Am’firth; there’s not as much standing water.”
Daric did not appear to mind the smell… or if he did, it did not show.
“Ugh… How long?” Elspeth asked him.
The sickness was rolling up to her throat. Any moment now, she thought she would be making her own contribution to one of those pools. Swallowing, she tried to breathe through her mouth. That’s what they say: “Breathe through your mouth.” It did not help.
While holding back an especially strong urge to vomit, Elspeth noticed Olam walking in her direction. He was pouring liquid from a small bottle onto a cloth that he had taken from Arfael’s pack. He reached out to her with the cloth in hand and told her to tie it like a mask around her face.
Elspeth took a whiff before doing so. The relief was immediate. “Oh, praise the gods, Olam. That’s better.” She tied the cloth over her mouth and nose, all the while breathing deeply of the sharp, almost spicy, aroma. “What is it?” she asked.
“Kalli root. It is oil used to alert the senses, usually for when one is tired or in need of a clear head. But it is also strong enough to hide foul smells.” Olam bowed. “Do not keep it on for too long. Ten minutes on, ten minutes off.”
“Thank you so much,” she said. Her mind quickly cleared. The effect of the kalli root lifted her spirit and brightened her senses. Even her steps seemed to lighten a little.
* * *
Ealian ground his teeth as he watched Olam prancing about like some wise man of old.
Come to the girl’s rescue, would you, Raic’tien.
Part of him knew the hatred he bore the old man made no sense, but the other part thought it as natural as breathing. The part that still liked Olam did not understand his lack of conscience. But the part that hated him was certain of it. His loathing was primal – feral, even – like a gash in his soul.
Whose soul?
He bore a powerful urge to attack Olam. He could barely resist the temptation. Yet somehow he knew what he those feeling were wrong.
Still too weak. Must wait!
He carried on walking, breathing deeply of the marsh air as though it were nectar. So deeply he would stagger to the side, unbalanced and dizzy. Arfael—
I know you, Cinné’arth. Don’t think you can hide from me.
—Arfael offered a hand in support, but Ealian refused, brushing him off with an uncouth, “Leave me be,” muttered under his breath. Ealian did not know what was happening to him, but he was sure he neither needed nor wanted any help… especially not from Olam or Arfael. It was hard to look at his sister without wanting to push her into the water, but those two… those two he wanted to kill.
But why? There was no explanation, no reason. He could not draw up a memory of some deed they might have done to cause such hatred. His thoughts scared him – no, not thoughts, feelings; he felt like he knew them – especially Olam. Looking at the man, he felt the bile rise in his gut and the taste of sour milk lingering in his throat. Yet, it was not Olam, not the man. It was something else causing those feeling, something inside the Eurmacian.
Patience; you’ll have y
our chance, a voice said.
Ealian got the distinct impression the voice was his. But how could that be?
* * *
Before long, and seemingly to their mutual relief, the travellers reached Am’ilean Oasis, a rare copse of sturdy, ancient trees within an otherwise barren Ambieth Marsh. They threw off their packs at the first sign of flat, dry earth.
The trees were of alder and sycamore. Both species loved the wet conditions, and both had broad, dark leaves and thick trunks and long branches beneath them… all of which helped create the perfect hooded sanctuary. The tails of pale white flowers – their stems reached down through branch and root, clinging to the water’s edge like leaching tendrils – hung from the branches, filling the air with a sweet, welcoming aroma. Dry moss and thin, patchy grass covered the ground and gave a sure sense of solid earth beneath their feet. Once inside, the travellers could be forgiven for thinking they had somehow turned themselves around and were back at Herann’coi. No sign of that drab, dreary marsh anywhere, except maybe the smell, but even that was faint.
Daric gave instruction to clear the ground for a fire. Elspeth saw to that, while Gialyn and Olam collected some fuel from broken branches and the dead thicket. Ealian sat on his pack, apparently oblivious to their toil, gazing at the scene as though bewildered by it all.
“Can you collect some stones, Ealian? For the fire base,” Elspeth asked him.
Ealian gazed at her, slack-jawed and eyelids drooping. He looked bemused, unable to comprehend her words. Daric wondered if he could even hear her.
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