I’m a masochistic idiot.
He could’ve been sitting on his balcony, wine glass held delicately betwixt finger and thumb, overlooking a Venaisin sunset. He could’ve been reading a rare copy of Balms and Ointments in an overstuffed chair, fireside, in the corner of his lavishly furnished lab.
But no, Eles was here. The Skull Marsh. As foul a place as could only be conceived by the truly evil.
They had sailed the wide, slow Eldris, south out of Venaisin, before sunrise. They spent the first day snaking through the Farosi lowlands, but soon the landscape transitioned into mostly bogs and marshes, so that at times it became difficult to determine where the sides of the Eldris river ended and the edges of the Skull Marsh began. The moss green waters eddied and bubbled as they sailed, periodically hinting at furtive activities under the translucent water’s surface. The blazing summer sun punished Eles, and as the wind died his rowing set fire to his back and arms. Sweat poured down his face and neck, an irresistible lure to the armies of mosquitos, gnats, and other blood sucking critters that constantly swarmed.
Relentless, the swarms never tired, inundating his nostrils and the corners of his eyes. Red, itchy bites covered his body. Had he the right ingredients in his bag, he could have concocted a deterrent that would’ve kept the vexing nasties at bay. It infuriated him. He knew how to keep them off but didn’t have the materials needed to do so. And so, he sat, a feeding station for countless bloodsuckers. Today’s bites bubbled on top of yesterday’s, and the arm still healing from the burn he received at Gi’s tower itched mercilessly.
This morning they had rowed away from the river proper and into the bogs. The Black Hills threatened to cut off their path to the White Owl Wood unless they got off the river and pushed southwest, through the Skull Marsh. Also, it was likely word had spread to Bloodford to lookout for Dargon. There was no reason for the Lord of Greyarch to be sailing south on the Eldris, but Keetie was a careful man who would leave no stone unturned. Slogging through the Skull Marsh proved slow and deliberate, and the bugs feasted worse than they had on the river, which Eles had not thought possible.
Morale reached an all-time low.
Very few people ever travelled through the Skull Marsh, and those that did often never returned. It was said to be a veritable nest of dangers. Sinkholes. Disease. Enormous snakes and lizards. Hungry denizens of all shapes and sizes. This natural border forever kept Ghault from leading a land assault on Faros (or vice versa depending on who you asked).
Dargon sat at the stern, sometimes rowing, sometimes guiding the tiller. Nadja stayed at the bow, as far from Dargon as possible. She swapped between sitting and standing, often using a ten-foot pole to keep the boat from running aground, or into any unyielding morass. Her critiques of Dargon’s navigation were withering and inexorable. At port, Eles sat and rowed when instructed (demanded). At starboard, Kelshar did the same, although at about half Eles’s speed since every stroke of Kelshar’s had the force of two or three of the alchemist’s. This resulted in verbal assaults from Dargon, which Eles suspected were pent up expulsions meant for Nadja.
Rakana sat at the center of the boat, mostly leaning on Kelshar.
The poor girl struggled mightily without her fix of Blue Depths. She shivered in the heat, looking pale and haunted. Her black and purple streaked hair, which had looked so regal set up in a high bun back at the Pleasure House, now hung limply down over her eyes and ears, damp with sweat.
And yet, her beauty didn’t wane.
Last night, Rakana struggled through a troubled sleep, often screaming out with unexplained visions. She clung to Kelshar for comfort and Eles couldn’t help but wish he was the one the girl clutched for security. It was foolish, of course. He was invisible to women now. He had come to peace with the fact that his energies had forever shifted from the pursuit of women to the pursuit of wisdom. And on most days, he was happy for it. But last night, with the stimulation of Rakana’s propinquity as they slept in the boat, he became painfully aware that a small part of him still craved the touch of a beautiful woman; he still craved to be looked at with longing.
But Kelshar shared that easy intimacy. They spoke softly to each other and helped each other with simple tasks like eating and dressing. Eles sometimes felt embarrassed to be near, as if intruding on some private moment.
The ease and care they showed each other seemed to only exacerbate the tension between Dargon and Nadja. Rare would an hour elapse without Nadja swearing vengeance on the lord or wishing some horrible pox on the scalps of his entire bloodline.
On the afternoon of their second day on the boat Nadja exclaimed, for the tenth time, “This is madness. It’s taking us so long to navigate this labyrinth of bogs, we could be walking faster.”
Except that this time, Dargon finally relented, “I agree. Travelling on foot will now be faster. Time to lose the boat.”
“His Highness has spoken! And so shall we worthless and insignificant subjects obey his every command,” she said with an exaggerated bow. “Don’t you ever tire of it?” she asked Eles.
Eles didn’t dare answer. In truth, he mostly appreciated Dargon making the decisions. Taking the lead. The chastising, though, he could do without, he admitted to himself.
“Do you know where you’re going?” Nadja asked.
“Yes,” Dargon said.
“Would you admit it if you didn’t?”
Dargon didn’t take the bait.
Eles hated that miserable boat, sure, but from here on, their journey would be on foot. He looked back at the boat with nostalgia as it disappeared from view. Miles of swamp still required navigation, followed by miles of the White Owl Wood before they would reach Lormar’s Hill. The Crown. The place in Rakana’s dream. The Crown sat a half day’s march northwest of North Guard and they had only a few days if they wanted to arrive before the great eclipse. Rakana had seen the eclipse in her dream, convincing Dargon they must arrive in time for it.
Travel through the Skull Marsh slowed considerably. Discerning where the path ahead stayed solid, and where it dropped off into some watery death, became vital. Nadja kept the pole they had used in the boat and would often stop the party so she could poke the mossy earth ahead and avoid any sinkholes. A wide variety of ferns and drooping conifers brushed at their shins and shoulders. One never knew if disturbing a branch might bring a bright green or yellow tree snake dropping down. They seemed to be lurking at every turn. The march included two equally unpleasant varieties: a punishing walk on top of hard, uneven roots, or a draining slog through calf-high swamp water.
When they stopped for the night, they collapsed, exhausted, soaked, starving, and miserable from the unrelenting bites and stings.
The smoke from a small fire seemed to provide a tiny discouragement to the bloodsuckers, and the relief, along with the nourishment of a roasted meal, allowed the group to sit still for a meal for the first time in days.
“You should come back with us to Greyarch,” Kelshar offered, with Rakana huddled close.
Rakana looked up at Nadja hopefully.
Nadja took a long swig from her flask before responding. “Is that right? And why do you think that?”
A trap if Eles ever heard one.
“You’ll be safest there,” Kelshar explained, “we can protect you.”
Nadja scoffed and shook her head, peering over the fire at Dargon before turning her attention back to Kelshar. “Even if I believed that were true, which I don’t, I don’t need your protection and I certainly don’t want it.”
Kelshar scowled. “Don’t be foolish.”
“And how, pray tell, would you protect me? Would I live in Lodern Castle? Locked away in the Forgotten Bowels, lest one of Dargon’s political enemies discover that the former bedmate he banished is back in Greyarch? Or would you assign one of your battalions to follow me around, night and day, to assure protection from Venaisin assassins?”
“There are options,” Kelshar offered, unsure.
“I’m sure. And Rakana?” Nadja asked, “How do you propose to protect her? Will you swear faith to this courtesan from Venaisin? I can’t wait to see how that plays in the council room. More likely Rakana will have the privilege of living in secrecy, locked away somewhere, never to see the light of day, waiting to serve your every whim at sundown.”
Rakana shifted uncomfortably in her seat as she considered the possible realities of a future in Ghault.
Kelshar stiffened. “You have a sordid opinion of me, it seems.”
“I have no opinion about you at all.”
“I’ve done nothing to deserve your contempt.”
Nadja looked away and shifted her attention. “You’ll notice how quiet Dargon is. You see, Dargon is always thinking several moves ahead of everyone else. He’s played all the scenarios in his head, and he can’t come up with one in which bringing Rakana and myself back to Greyarch makes sense for him.”
“Dargon,” Kelshar said with steely resolve, “they should come with us, yes?”
All eyes turned.
“Yes.”
Nadja’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t think so. I’ll take my chances with a new start in Anduir.”
“That’s reckless,” Kelshar snapped. “Why would you put Rakana’s life at risk?”
“And it’s not in Greyarch?”
“She’s right,” Dargon cut in. “We can’t guarantee anyone absolute security. There will be risk wherever you go. And if you go to Greyarch you probably will have to hide for some time. At least until Keetie can be dealt with. But I think you’ll be much safer with us.”
“Safer for you. Rakana, if you think you won’t be dreaming for him, you’re mad. And don’t become inconvenient for him, or you’ll join the rest of his political enemies at the bottom of the Bay of Serpents.”
“That’s enough.” Dargon’s voice was low but sure. “Some barbs I may deserve, but I won’t suffer that kind of accusation.”
“You’ll suffer more than accusations before I’m through,” she warned before taking her flask with her out of the firelight. She disappeared from sight well before the sounds of her pushing through the grasses diminished.
“I never understood how much she hates you,” Rakana said with a hint of pity.
“Neither did I,” Dargon admitted, “but tis for the best.”
“Still?” Rakana asked.
Dargon picked at his meal before answering in a whisper, “Still.”
They picked at their roasted lizard and roots, soothed by the undulating cacophony of swamp cicadas, until the chorus was disturbed by a colony of bats that went flittering overhead. The bats dove so close, Eles ducked to avoid being hit. The bats disappeared almost as soon as they arrived.
“Someone else who wants my blood, no doubt,” Eles joked to Rakana.
“Shhh!” Dargon commanded as he listened, “They are fleeing something. Step back. Step back!” he ordered as he drew his longsword and stood peering into the darkness. Kelshar followed his lead, standing beside him, ready.
Eles barely heard it. Something slogging through the brush. Sloshing over the wet ground. Approaching. Hunting. If Dargon hadn’t quieted them, he would never have heard it coming.
Eles and Rakana stepped back even further as Dargon and Kelshar positioned themselves so that the campfire flickered between them and the approaching intruder.
Then it stormed their camp.
At first, only a head came into view: a shield-sized, green-scaled lizard head attached to an elongated, sinuous neck. Its forked tongue darted forward, picking up the scent of a sizeable meal. Its eyes reflected the firelight as it peered at them with unsettling cunning.
Then he saw another.
And another. And another.
By the time its body came crashing into view, Eles counted six heads, bobbing and weaving, snapping jaws, and flicking tongues in the night air.
Mottled green and brown scales that blended in perfectly with the surrounding swamp protected its body, larger than a hippo.
A hydra.
Eles heard reference of them in his youth. Parts of a hydra were very highly sought after by alchemists.
Rakana gasped and stumbled backward, falling into the muck.
Dargon and Kelshar took defensive stances and swung their blades in wide arcs, more as a warning than an actual attempt to deliver a substantial blow.
“Begone!” Dargon shouted, nicking the snout of one of the more aggressive heads.
Kelshar wielded a blade in each hand and held her ground. But there were too many heads for Dargon to handle, and they lashed out lightning quick. One of the heads thrust inside Dargon’s defenses and grabbed hold of his cloak and violently thrashed him about. Dargon flopped like a ragdoll, got pulled off his feet, and slammed into a nearby tree.
Eles did the only thing he could think of. He grabbed his bowl of roasted meat and threw it at the hydra. The carcass briefly stuck to its back and then fell to its feet.
One of the heads bit. It must’ve liked the idea of an unarmed meal because it turned and started gobbling up the food.
So Eles did it again with Rakana’s meal. And again, with Kelshar’s.
“Here! Take it!” Eles hollered as he threw.
The meat went sprawling, distracting multiple heads of the terrible lizard. With only the head that currently gripped his cloak to contend with, Dargon slashed away in a panic, avoiding getting ripped to pieces.
Kelshar caught the head to the far right with a slashing blow. She focused her swings, and deftly moved her feet, desperate to prevent any of the heads from getting behind her.
A crossbow bolt whipped over Eles’ head and into one of the middle necks of the muddy beast as Nadja came bounding into camp. With three of its heads suffering painful blows, the multi-headed beast must have decided there was easier prey to be had because it hissed in warning as it released Dargon’s cloak and backed away, retreating into the blackness of the swamp from whence it came.
They stood in silence, long after the creature could no longer be heard thrashing away.
Finally, Dargon spoke in a low voice. “No more cooked meals.”
Several people replied at once, “Agreed.”
“No more raised voices,” Dargon continued.
“Agreed.” Surprisingly, it was Nadja.
“We take turns sleeping. Someone always on watch.”
They all nodded in assent. Rakana spoke up, “I’ll take first watch. And a long one. My sleeping hasn’t exactly been restful.”
Eles was glad for it. He knew it was selfish, but he was decades older than anyone else here, and he his body ached as if he was decades older than that. After having nearly been eaten, he hoped he could come down enough to sleep. Tomorrow, he suspected, would be a long, long day.
That balcony in Venaisin seemed very far away. Masochistic idiot, indeed.