The Call of the Crown (Book 1)

by T. J. Garrett

  The leaves began to rustle; the branches seemed to bend. The earth itself appeared to come to life. Then complete silence! A bird called out from the branches above. Then another. And another. Before long, the screeching and squawking was deafening. And then, as quickly as it started…

  A half mile away, the grey timber wolf raised an ear. Growling, it stood, heckles up, teeth bared. Its mate and the three other in his pack joined him. All five circled around the small clearing that was their den, snapping and thrashing at fresh air. Suddenly, as with the birds, they fell silent. Then as one, they leaped into the woods, an image burned into their minds, an image of the Salrians. Their enemy.

  “That should keep them busy for a while,” Olam said.

  Daric scratched his chin. “What—what did you do?”

  Olam swung his pack around his shoulders and picked up his staff. “I called some… friends to help us. But at this range, the bond will only last ten minutes or so. We should go.” Olam gestured towards the marsh.

  Daric shook himself back to the reality. “Oh yes, the ridge, of course.” He waved Grady forward. “Can you lead us down? I will keep the rear guard.” His friend nodded in agreement.

  Daric secured his own pack and waited for Grady to lead off. As he waited, he suddenly became aware of Gialyn. The look in his son’s eyes told him plainly that he was scared. He didn’t blame him. Rather than make too much of it, he gave Gialyn a reassuring nod. It will do him no good to treat him like a child. He turned back to Grady. “By your lead, sergeant.”

  Grady led the travellers out of the forest and south along the tree line. Darting in and out of every recess, he never strayed more than six feet from the trees. Every now and then he would point at something—a pothole, a hidden rock or downed branch—and then mutter a quiet, “Careful here,” to those following. The soldier in him was plain for all to see.

  After ten minutes, they reached the base of the shallow ridge. Grady set his position just inside the trees and waited for everyone to catch up. The travellers gathered quickly, crouching in a circle by the base of the ridge. Grady took out his waterskin. “Everybody, have a drink,” he said. “We will set off in five min—”

  Daric grabbed his shoulder and put a finger to his lips. “Quiet! I hear something,” he whispered. Gialyn, Elspeth, and Ealian ducked down, as though that might make them somehow quieter. A faint sound of scrambling came from the northeast, and every so often, the thwack of a blade against a branch or root. Daric turned and surveyed the area. “Seems our decoy has gone back to wherever it came from.” He nudged at Grady’s shoulder. “We could make a run for that crop of bushes there?” he whispered.

  “Maybe? What about that mound?” Grady said.

  “If you ask me, we sho—”

  “Not now, Elspeth,” Daric said.

  “The mound is too far north. They will see us! What abo—”

  Elspeth interrupted again. “Will you list—”

  “Elspeth. Not now,” Daric insisted. What’s wrong with the girl? She always wants her say. Doesn’t she know we’re running from armed men? He turned his attention back towards the marsh and was following Grady’s finger as he pointed at a small island when he felt a tug at his shoulder as Elspeth pulled him towards her.

  “Cross over the bloody ridge!” she said, squealing her demand through clenched teeth. “They won’t see us entering the marsh once we are on the south side, and it’s too steep for horses.”

  Daric turned to Grady, whose mouth was wide open. “Why didn’t you think of that?” He laughed.

  “Me? You’re supposed to be the captain, captain.” Grady shook his head and gave Elspeth a smile.

  “Right you are, Elspeth.” Daric gave her an approving look, too. “We will cross the ridge through the trees and follow its base into the marsh from the south side.”

  The next half hour passed slowly—too slowly. Daric knew if they could get to the edge of the ridge—a mile or more within the marsh—without being seen, chances were they would be free and clear of their Salrian pursuers. Nobody spoke while they ran. The only sounds were the shuffle of tired feet and the heavy breath of their weary lungs.

  The loudest by far was Ealian. He struggled with his pack across the ridge until Arfael took it off him—effortlessly cradling it under his arm. Arfael stayed with Ealian all the way along the base until they reached a small rock outcrop at the end of the mile-long ridge.

  To the north, east, and south, nothing but marsh lay before them. Flat, dank, and lifeless it seemed. Even the colourful flowers lay subdued by the overwhelming mass of pale, gray-green grass. The grass shone with a persistent dew that still lay upon it, even though it was hours since dawn. The travellers scanned around the marsh, making note of its still waterways, wet grass, and mud. Their observations brought them all to the same conclusion. We are going to get wet.

  “Do you think we should wait in here until dark?” Gialyn asked.

  “No. They will not be able to follow us on horseback. We are safe now. Just check your gear and we will be off.” Daric took a second to reassure Gialyn. “Are you all right, son?” he asked, putting a hand on his shoulder.

  Gialyn smiled. “Yes, I’m fine, just a little confused, and maybe… angry.” Gialyn smiled at his father, a nervous smile that reminded Daric of the kind of forced bravery he himself had often needed.

  Daric allowed him his dignity by not persisting with his fatherly concerns in front of the others. He knew Gialyn wouldn’t like that.

  “Are we all ready?” He didn’t wait for an answer. Nodding to Olam to take the lead, they slowly, cautiously, made their way into the Am’bieth Marsh.

  CHAPTER 11

  Secrets of Am’bieth

  When all was said and done, the first few miles of the marsh were surprisingly manageable. The travellers had to be mindful of their footing and not stray from the path, but for the most part, they made quick progress. It was not until they passed the first tributary of the Am’firth River—the river running south through the centre of Am’bieth—that things started getting tricky.

  The Speerlag Cliffs broke away from the Bailie Mountain as a sheer rock face, reaching for the sky in an almost vertical gradient. By the time its rocky arm reached the Am’bieth, the pitch had relented, turning the Speerlag Cliff into a steep hill, and a collection plate for every drop of water that fell north of marsh. By this time—the late spring—the Torrents of March caused by the seasonal ice-melt had subsided, leaving the northern marsh riddled with dozens of choked streams and waterways. There was no set path for the travellers to follow, only the educated guidance of Olam and Daric—and maybe Grady, if he could be persuaded to take an interest. He hated the marsh.

  The centre ground was much softer, once past the first tributary—the tributaries were too numerous, and unpredictable, for anyone to bother naming. They seemed to form wherever the need arose. On every side lay the dismal prospect of damp, muddy progress, no sun-baked paths here. The heat of the noon sun forced swirling mists to form above the pools. The marsh fog, as it was known, clouded their view, until only the moderately brighter glow of the southern sky gave them proof of an easterly bearing. The travellers continued for some three hours, crossing streams and soft mires, mindful of every footfall, occasionally stumbling, always testing for firm ground before trusting their weight upon it. By mid-afternoon, the mist had cleared somewhat, allowing Olam and Daric to see ahead for maybe two or three miles.

  “There are some rocks over there,” Daric said, pointing southeast towards a lone island amongst the mass of watery channels. “Is that Am’ilean already?” He looked at Olam, unsure of himself, as by his reckoning they had not travelled far enough into the marsh to reach their first campsite oasis. In truth, he had little idea where they were, but he wasn’t about to admit that.

  Olam stuck out his bottom lip and shook his head slowly. “I do not think so, but it looks a good place to rest for an hour, at any rate.”

  Daric scanned the land
around the rocks. A wide area of damp but firm grass lay between them and the island. “I don’t think you’ll get much argument, Olam. It looks easy enough to reach.

  He turned to the others. “We have around four hours of daylight, and we need to find a camp in no more than three. Make for those rocks over yonder.” He pointed to the small island. “We will decide what plans are to be made once we have rested a while.”

  “If you ask me, we should just camp there and be done with it! It’s been a long day,” Elspeth said. Her opinion was echoed in the nods of the other two youngsters.

  “I’m with her,” Gialyn said in a surprisingly forceful voice. Daric’s son looked more tired than at any time during the trip. His eyes had become transfixed on the three feet of earth directly in front of him. His stride was sluggish and his mouth forever open—apart from when he was drinking, which he did far too much for Daric’s liking.

  “Me too,” Ealian said. If anything, he was in worse shape than Gialyn. He was pale in the face and constantly swallowing as though his throat were dry. It was the nerves, of course; Daric knew that much for certain. The poor lad had not yet recovered his wits after the morning’s ordeal.

  “Maybe,” Daric said as he hitched up his pack and began to lead the travellers towards the rocks. “We will see what to make of things once we’re there.” He looked over his shoulder at the others. All but Arfael looked to have taken their fill of the marsh for one day. “This is going to be an interesting few days,” he muttered quietly, though Grady heard and nodded. Maybe the rock island would do for a campsite.

  The day wore on. The skies ahead cleared to a deep blue on the eastern horizon. The traveller’s spirits appeared lifted by the prospect of resting at the ever-closer island of rock. Gialyn and the other youngsters had quickened their pace and were all but on the heels of Daric and Olam. On more than one occasion, Ealian’s eagerness to rest, together with his current state of weakness, very nearly landed him in one of the pools. Arfael, who had apparently taken the mantel of Ealian’s guardian, kept him on the straight path, occasionally dragging him by the shoulder back onto the right footing. Daric was glad of the big man’s help. He didn’t think he could muster the strength to pull Ealian out of a pool. The prospect of rest was becoming all the more enticing to him, too.

  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 appeared to be 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. We cannot fill up from these still pools, so drink sparingly until we find a flowing stream.” Daric took off his pack and surveyed the area. It was good enough for now but hardly ideal. He would have preferred to be resting at the Am’ilean Oasis. But needs must, he thought, and an hour off his feet would be welcome. Though looking at it, he didn’t much like the idea of sleeping there, exhausted or not.

  “Can you reckon how far, Olam?” he asked. He made it sound as official as possible. He’d have little control of the youngsters if they thought he was lost. He wasn’t so sure it wasn’t the truth.

  Olam was standing in the centre of the only real clearing—small as it was—stretching his back and legs. “Yes. We are about two hours west of Am’ilean. You see that small hill above the mist? Am’ilean is by the north slope.” Olam pointed with the butt of his staff at a short rise about three miles off. The outline of the ridge was barely visible amid the murk and mist yet clear enough to judge its distance.

  It was indeed only three miles away, but Daric knew well that three miles as the crow flies was meaningless in the marsh. Two hours would be good going. “Well… good news, I suppose: we know where we are. Bad news: we have 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, dragging him from the boulder he was sat on with such force that both landed in a heap at Olam’s feet. Elspeth stood quickly, pulling Gialyn up with her, all the time backing away from the rock where he had sat.

  “Did you see it? Did you see it!” she cried. She waved her finger at the rock in wide-eyed hysteria, then looked right and left for someone to answer. The travellers gathered behind her. Daric squinted at the rock but saw nothing.

  “See what?” he asked, taking a step closer. 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 while staring at Daric with a pitiful gaze. “No! Don’t go any closer!” She grabbed his elbow and pulled him back.

  Olam moved quickly to her side. He put his hand to her cheek and begged her attention. “Describe it, child. What did you see?” His words were desperate and tense.

  “It was black, flowing like oil, but not natural. It was round. Perfectly round! And crept up the rock where Gialyn was sat, 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 spun his son around so quickly it was a wonder he didn’t end up right back on the ground. Putting one hand under his chin, he used his thumbs to spread Gialyn’s eyelids wide. He peered deep into them. Please don’t be there. Please don’t be there. His mind spun and panic filled his gut.

  “Is it there, Daric? Can you see it?” Olam stood at Daric’s shoulder, bobbing his head around, brow creased, trying to steal a peek into Gialyn’s eyes.

  “What do you mean… it?” Gialyn asked, still with his father’s thumbs forcing his eyelids. He looked scared.

  A flash of anger coursed through Daric’s veins. What business was it of Olam’s? “No, it is not, Olam. I cannot see anything, thank the gods.”

  Gialyn looked all the more frightened. Daric realised the sound of relief in his voice would do nothing to answer his son’s questions. However, there was no time for explanation. Immediately, he set about pulling all their backpacks into the grassy circle at the centre of the island, away from the rocks.

  Grady looked to the heavens. “You cannot be saying… You must be wrong!” he said. “Our luck can’t be that bad.”

  “What is going on?” both Elspeth and Gialyn asked the question—if in varying degrees of authority.

  “The Black!” Olam said. He, too, was looking round 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 that was in danger. No! Ealian, I will not calm down. This is ridiculous. You brought me… us into this place with such dangers as I have never heard the like of before. One of you two should start explaining yourself. Quickly.”

  Daric stood, one arm around his waist, scratching his chin. He felt the crease of a smile on his lips. Grady had already turned away; doubtless he was laughing silently. They could always count on Elspeth’s rants to lighten the mood, even if she didn’t think on it that way. “I was about to explai
n, Elspeth Tanner, if you would only stay quiet long enough to listen.”

  Elspeth’s eyes widened; her jaw dropped. She stood, both fists planted squarely on her hips, stuttering for a reply.

  Olam clasped his hand in front of his chin. He gave Daric a stern look before turning to Elspeth. “Child, I would be happy to explain,” he said while bowing.

  Elspeth nodded, but not before making one eyebrow at Daric.

  Olam began. “It is a long 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, before man or beast walked the land. Whatever story you believe, it 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 and eventually driving him mad with it, so they say. It was lon—”

  Daric interrupted. “Gather your things. We’re leaving.”

  Elspeth raised her hand in protest, but Daric didn’t care. “Stories can come later, once we’re clear of this place,” he said.

  “I still say we should never have come through this marsh, not if you knew that thing was here.” Elspeth went back to standing with hands on hips, while all around her was busy packing.

  “My child,” Olam said, “it only spawns once or twice in a generation, and then not for very long. It lives deep within the rock for the rest of the time.” Olam stood up from fixing the strap on his and Arfael’s pack and pointed down to the rock where Elspeth saw the Black. “You see those tiny black flowers? There at the top, those are its sign.” The old man picked up his staff and sighed deeply. “But you are right, child. We should have checked for it first.”