Brotherhood Saga 03: Death (108 page)

With a brief bow of the head, Odin disengaged the reins from the tack, reached for the nail that would hold his mount in place, then secured the two together before stabbing the nail into the ground. He took extra care to press it into the earth as hard as he could.

After pulling from his saddlebag the last of his provisions and feeding them to the horse, he turned his attention toward the shadowed depths of the Haunted Marshlands and willed his magicked orbs of light into the darkness and whatever lay beyond.

Immediately, several pairs of yellow eyes looked back at him.

The hairs on Odin’s neck stood on end.

Is this what I
’ll have to deal with?
he thought, shivering as the creatures scattered into the darkness.

Though he wasn
’t sure what he’d initially anticipated, he hadn’t expected there to be animals out, much less so many in the frozen weather.

“I
’ll be back in a little while,” Odin said, running his hand along the horse’s neck and extending his fingers over his shoulder, where the obvious lack of fur displayed where the Marsh Walker had attacked. “Don’t worry, boy—everything’s going to be fine.”

The horse grunted and tossed its head, completely unaware of its surroundings.

Odin sighed.

The orbs of light beneath the sagging willow trees trembled, as if replicating
his very unease.

You can do this,
he thought, nodding, reaching down to take hold of the hilts of his swords.
This is where it all ends.

“And begins,” he whispered.

He stepped forward, into the Marshlands.

A faint wind droned on.

Beneath the canopy of willow trees whose leaves extended from the highest parts of the sky
to just above his head, Odin wandered a world completely unimaginable and mystical in all respects. The rivers frozen, cast in shades of white and mirrored in hues of blue; the bog covered in snow, resembling something of lumbering giants hunched down to sleep for the night; the trees fallen angels, whose bodies craned forward as if bowing for the final applaud—in walking through this place, toward the very part of the Marshlands that ended and eventually led to the forked Ela ‘Alna River, Odin found himself completely enraptured in both his surroundings and feelings, which seemed to placate him like some disease that wanted nothing more than to stop him from completing his objective.

You can do this,
he thought, shivering, both from the cold and the reality of the situation.
Just remember—you’re strong.

To have come all this way with the fear of persecution and loss of sanity was a feat most ordinary people would not have been able to accomplish, for men were weak and ignorant in heart, mind, and soul. He, however, was not
weak—in heart, mind or soul—and for that he carried upon his shoulders the burdens of the world and the fate of an entire race, one of which had succumbed to madness shortly after performing magic that he himself would soon be meeting head-on.

In choosing not to think on his current situation, Odin found himself developing a sense of unease that seemed completely unnecessary in this current frame of time.

“Is this what happens,” he mumbled, “when you enter a haunted world?”

Though he knew not the answer, something told him that this, indeed, was the feeling thrust upon men when they entered places that should not ever be touched.

For the next long while he continued on in perpetual silence, following the lead of the three magicked orbs which shimmered back and forth and cast shadows of horror across the scenery, and for the time being he considered himself all the more secure in his actions and purpose, as it seemed that nothing was going to go wrong. Even the shadows, which at times seemed to dance as if alive, did little to shake his person, which surprised him considering his enlightened frame of mind. He should’ve been afraid—knew this because as a child he had heard stories of Marsh Walkers and Wraiths that were said to steal children’s souls—but with the knowledge that he would walk out of here alive and, possibly, with his father, he found that absolutely nothing could deter him.

“Don
’t get cocky,” he whispered.

Ahead, something shifted.

Odin paused.

The orbs of light halted their advance.

Reaching down, Odin thumbed the clasp on his black-bladed sword, then reconsidered over his father’s silver-coated blade.

Beneath a bowing angel of a tree, blanketed to the sides by nothing more than an absolute clearing, hovered what appeared to be a concentrated shro
ud of darkness—cloaked, suspended several feet off the ground, and producing its own ethereal aura that resembled smoke and ash ebbing from a dying fire. It first shifted, as if reacting to his presence, then fell back, nearly pressing itself flat to the ground before rising to meet Odin’s full five-foot-six-inch height.

“Hello?” he asked.

The creature—which, at this point, Odin could only deem as a Wraith and the darkest of the Fae—shifted, extended the tattered skirt of what he could only call a cloak, then came forward, its pulsating center expanding and contracting with grey light that appeared to reflect the essence pouring from the white orbs hovering before him. When it progressed to the first of the orbs, Odin watched it pause, then lean forward before covering it with its amorphous body.

Slowly,
it absorbed the light into its body, imparting upon itself an aspect of the Will Odin imagined it was not used to having.

Odin drew his silver-bladed sword.

The Wraith raised what Odin could only assume was its head and expanded itself until its entire being lay stretched before him.

“Stay back,” Odin said, raising his father
’s sword and pointing it directly at the source of the creature’s body. “Don’t make me hurt you.”

A deep, almost-silent chuckle resounded from the creature
’s body.

How
do
you kill something like this?
he thought, holding his sword steady as he lit his left palm afire.

Could, he wondered,
he use his black-bladed sword to fend the creature off? He knew not of its properties—didn’t know, for a fact, of its composition, of the materials used to make it—and with the knowledge that such creatures were mortally-wounded by iron, it could create an ample opportunity to use the weapon and dissuade the creature from attacking him.

Another chuckle sounded from the Wraith.

Does it even want to hurt me?

Either way, it was blocking his advance, which meant he could have nothing to do with it.

Reaching down, he unclasped his black sword and pulled it from its sheath.

Almost immediately, it began to hum.

Sibling blades,
he thought.

The Wraith shivered and hovered a few steps back, away from the remaining orbs of magicked light.

Odin frowned.

He tapped the swords together.

Once more, the blades hummed, this time in unison, like baby bells struck to create a sound sweet and serene.

As before, the Wraith shifted and fell back beneath the weeping willow.

“Get away from here,” Odin said, “and I won’t hurt you.”

A third chuckle sounded.

Several more figures emerged from the darkness to join their companion.

Shit.

Odin slammed the blades together.

The resounding hum nearly deafened him.

Together, the creatures retreated into the darkness, but hovered in the foreseeable distance.

Slowly, as if treading on frozen waters, Odin began
his advance, first tapping his swords, then nodding as the faint but audible sounds drove the shadowy creatures into the darkness. Several disappeared entirely, while some continued to dance around the radius of light that surrounded him as he cast three more orbs behind him. Those who happened to remain seemed stubborn and would likely not leave anytime soon.

Briefly, in the moments he watched the
first and largest Wraith advance toward the circle of light, Odin wondered just how they killed their victims, if they even did at all.

Do they suck the life out of you?
he wondered.
Or do they drive you mad with fright?

He couldn
’t remember the legends, but at that given point, he didn’t think that was an issue, as knowing would likely drive him to fright.

With no choice but to continue, Odin pressed
on, maintaining his orbs and tapping his swords.

They seemed to follow him throughout the night and into the early hours of the morning. When, above, the world began to brighten in hues of dark blue and grey, the creatures appeared to disperse and slink away into the fading corners of darkness that still shadowed the world. Where they went beyond that Odin couldn’t necessarily be sure, as he knew nothing of a Wraith’s behavior, and while he didn’t care either way, it didn’t ease his thoughts to know they might be able to disappear then reappear at any given time.

If they
’re leaving now,
he thought,
then they might not return until nightfall.

Would it take him yet another full day
’s travel to reach the river, and if so, would the Wraiths return? Unable to know, he continued to tap his swords together and persevered despite the fact that his mind wanted to slip into the world of dream, all the while watching the outer rim of the circle of light to make sure none of the Wraiths were drawing forth.

When the sun rose and brightened the horizon in white, all source of
the Wraiths disappeared.

There we go.

Sheathing his swords, he set his eyes into the brightened world and tried to decide what he would do with his daylight hours.

You can sleep,
his conscience whispered,
or you could continue.

Would sleeping in these Marshland
s be the best idea? He wasn’t necessarily afraid of bears or any other wild animals, as he could easily fend them off without so much as a flip of his wrist, but if there happened to be more Marsh Walkers in the area, especially those that could use magic, that presented a difficulty that would be hard to maneuver around.

“Find a nook,” he whispered, “a
nd rest.”

Though he was highly unlikely to find such a space, he could at least hope.

In the hours that followed, and in the time Odin thought he would simply collapse, it seemed that the marshlands would never falter. Endlessly, they continued—the bogs frozen, the willows arduous, the snow thick and boot-high. He considered vaulting into one of the many trees and sleeping in one of the highest branches, but when he considered those actions, he found that stopping would leave him defenseless.

“Just keep going,” he mumbled. “You
’ve done this before.”

In the Abroen, whilst forced to run from the Elves that pursued them, and before he entered the Haunted Marshlands, when travelling down the road from the Golden Kingdom—he was no stranger to going for long periods without sleep, but were it to truly take
a whole day and  night to traverse the Marshlands, would he be able to make it back without sleep?

Don
’t think about that.

He would come to that conclusion when he reached it—not now, not when he was still in ample shape to continue.

As he persevered, tired and more than a bit hungry, the sun fell across the sky at a speed so alarming Odin found himself almost unable to believe it. His feet heavy, his boots soggy and filled with sweat and snow, his eyes drooping ever so far, he eventually caved in halfway through the day and cracked the ice at the corner of the bog, then took several long, deep drinks. While it did little to ease the pangs of hunger, it did sate them, to a degree, and allowed him to continue without fear of going mad.

At what seemed to be the tipping point of the bog, near where the frozen-over water ma
de up more of the terrain than any actual land, Odin found himself debating whether or not to continue.

Maybe you should stop,
he thought, grinding his jaw.
You’re going to wear yourself out if you keep going at this pace.

But why, he pondered, stop now, when he was so close that he could almost feel it sifting between his fingers?

“You can wait,” he sighed, collapsing beside a tree and pulling his bedroll from his pack. “Get a few hours of sleep. It won’t kill you.”

Maybe if he caught up on his sleep now, instead of later, he wouldn
’t have to worry about pursuing the Marshlands in near-exhaustion come time he and his father returned from across the river.

Rather than dwell on the consequences, Odin slid into his bedroll and closed his eyes.

He fell asleep almost immediately.

He woke in pitch-black darkness.