Brotherhood Saga 03: Death (107 page)

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 th
at 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 t
hrough 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 a
n 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.”

H
is 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.

You
’ll have to pass through the Marshlands,
Virgin had once said, his voice so real in Odin’s head that he felt his partner’s hands on his arms and their chests pressed together.
You know what lays there.

With the threat of the rumored, mystical Wraiths, the possible presence of newly-awaken and magically-Gifted Marsh Walkers and the all-too-real likelihood of bandits, there was a very high chance he would run into trouble along the way,
if not have to draw his sword to defend himself.

Sighing, not wanting to think about the troubles that lay ahead but more than aware of the fact that he had to consider them,
Odin slowed his horse and looked to the west—where, upon the horizon, the Marshlands could be seen, frozen-over but wallowing at him.

“Well, friend,” he said, tangling his fingers through his horse
’s mane. “It won’t be much longer now before we’re there.”

Where he would leave his horse he couldn
’t be sure. Leaving the animal unattended would likely result in a long and frustrating walk back, as there was always the reality that predators could kill it before he had the chance to get back. He’d learned his lesson in the Abroen, when he’d left his previous mount near the pond expecting it to remain until he returned, and knew for a fact that leaving his stallion anywhere near the river would spell worse trouble than he could imagine.

Do Wraiths attack horses?
he thought.

Though he had no concept of what a Wraith would do or how they lived, he knew a Marsh Walker, especially a group, would attack the creature if they managed to encounter one another.

With the knowledge that he would soon have to make a decision regarding not only himself, but his equine companion, Odin bowed his head and tried to clear his mind.

What, he wondered, would happen within the coming days?

Though he couldn’t know, he imagined it would be nothing good.

The forward flush into the Haunted Marshlands appeared in sight within the next few days.

A week into his journey and more than ready to do what he
’d planned on for nearly a year, Odin led his horse along the skirt in the road where a city had once been planned and pressed them forward, toward the very place he planned to enter, and tried to keep his mind from faltering any further. His conscience a wreck, his heart beating so rapidly he thought it would stop, he took deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself but found any form of therapy did not work. In light of that, he bowed his head, bit his lip, then turned his attention back to the Marshlands, which lay so close he imagined it wouldn’t be no more than a few hours before they reached the entryway.

“You
’ll be fine,” he whispered, shifting in his seat to gain a better perspective of his situation. “Come on. Don’t give up here.”

He
’d gone through too much agony and frustration simply to give up near his ultimate goal. With no more than a few more hours and possibly another day’s worth of travel, it would be idiotic to cave in and go home—or, at the very least, back to Felnon to be with the man who’d so rightfully been his father his entire life.

Beneath him, his horse trembled, as if sensing not only his distress, but that of the Marshlands, and stopped, as if solidifying itself to the
ground to keep from moving any further.

“Go,” he said.

The horse refused, even with an added kick to the ribs.

I knew I should
’ve brought a blindfold.

He wouldn
’t put up with this.

Rather than dissuade himself from his mission any further, Odin reached into the saddlebag and retrieved two of the darkest kerchiefs he could find. He spent the next several moments arranging the
pair into as tightly-woven knots as possible before leaning forward and securing them around his mount’s snout. The equine, who did not approve of this in the least, whipped its head back and nearly struck Odin in the face, but he somehow managed to keep the construct intact and therefor blind the creature from seeing anything in front of them.

After spinning the creature in a complete circle three to four times, he tapped its ri
bs with the heels of his boots. Much to his delight, the stallion pushed forward, toward the Marshlands, without any response.

Now,
he thought, sliding his tongue across his teeth.
If only I could keep you this cooperative through the Marshlands.

He knew already that it would be difficult to navigate the cumbersome
creature through the terrain. As such, he began to mentally prepare himself by clearing his mind and closing his eyes, peering into the ever-vast darkness of his conscience while trying to discern what he would do to keep him and his mount safe. His first preconceptions led him to believe that it would be better to feed the horse the last of his rations, tie it to a tree, then wander into the Marshlands alone, but with the ever-present reality of both bandits and Marsh Walkers, his attention was immediately diverted to the most-likely and straightforward solution—taking the horse into the Marshlands itself. While it would be difficult passing through due not only to water, but ice, holes covered by snow and the creeping willows that, though dead, may have some hold in halting their advance, something told him that would be the most effective route to keep them safe.

Sighing, Odin opened his eyes, set his attention to the Marshlands in the near distance, then tangled his fingers through his horse
’s mane.

Everything would be just fine.

If he believed not only in himself, but his stallion, he knew there would be nothing at all to stop him.

Just take it one hour at a time,
he thought.
That’s all you can do.

He decided to stick with that logic and set his eyes on the overall objective—the Book, his father
’s resurrection, and his eventual return to the capital.

Darkness thrust itself upon the world at a time when it seemed everything was working out perfectly. Clouds shrouding the setting sun, the beginnings of the night’s snow falling and the world silent, calm and at peace, Odin cast three magical orbs out ahead of him to light the path and found himself shivering—not from the cold, but the creeping apparitions of the dormant willow trees before them.

I didn
’t expect it to look like this.

He
’d expected the Marshlands to look less omnipresent—surreal, terrifying, all-knowing and catatonic in appearance. The trees, tall and strong, extended their branches and dangled their leaves in front of them, while beneath their embrace lingered absolute darkness that Odin found terrifying despite the fact that his magicked orbs showed there was nothing lingering beyond them. That, however, did little to ease his worries, as in that moment he had to decide whether or not he was venturing in alone or without his mount.

“All right,” he said, sighing, then reclaiming the breath of air as he dismounted and led his horse to the first tree. “Here
’s what we’re going to do…”

As if waiting for a response, he allowed his sentence to trail off before turning his attention to the horse, who pressed on simply because of the blindfold that lay over his eyes.

To leave it,
his conscience whispered,
or to not.

Judging by how long the willow trees
’ leaves dangled down and created an impenetrable shield of ice, there was no way he could dismantle every tree to lead his horse forward, as it would exert too much mental and physical energy for him to even consider it. He needed all the strength he could have, especially when he would soon be casting magic that was said to crack mortal men and bend them to its will.