Brotherhood Saga 03: Death (106 page)

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 conscienc
e 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 ro
ad 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 fl
ed 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 unlikely
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 force
d 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.