The Mapmaker's Sons (14 page)

Porter's hand came down to cover the coins. “Half now, half when we return.”

“If you don't return, you'll be dead, and what use will your precious coins be then?” She brushed his hand away and pocketed the money. Straightening, she gave a curt nod. “The
swamp's miles long. Some parts you can cross; others, you can't. Show me where you need to go on the map, and I'll show you the quickest way to get there.”

Tom nodded and stationed himself at one end; Porter took the opposite side. Their eyes locked as they touched their hands to the map. The parchment began to glow, filling the room with a soft golden light. Once again, the gleaming silver sword rose and hovered in midair above a shimmering blue lake. Then, as though silently answering Willa's question, a shadowy meadow flanked by vine-covered cypress trees glowed on the map.

“I know that place!” Willa cried. “I've been there!”

The map flickered and dimmed. The sword and the meadow were gone, leaving nothing but the dark confines of Willa's small hut.

“You can get us there?” Porter pressed, looking at Willa.

“Yes,” she managed. “I can.” With trembling fingers, she touched the edge of the map. Her hazel eyes took on a pained, faraway look. Slowly her expression hardened into resolve. She gave a decisive nod, planted her fists on her slim hips, and turned to Tom and Porter.

“I'll take your coin, but our bargain has changed. My price has gone up.”

Tom and Porter exchanged a look. “Oh?”

“When the time comes for using that sword to kill Keegan, I draw first blood.”

T
he ground beneath Tom's feet was nothing but a mire of silt and mud, occasionally interrupted by a tangled mass of roots. Thick vines dripped from trees, slapping his face as he moved. Filmy curtains of moss brushed against his skin. There was no sunlight, just shifting shadows that varied the intensity of the murky greens and browns surrounding them. Every now and then, Willa stopped to get her bearings, judging some moss-covered rock or moss-covered tree that looked identical to every other moss-covered rock and moss-covered tree they had passed in the time they'd been trudging through the swamp.

While everything around them shared a hazy sameness to Tom, Mudge was more discerning. He scanned the ground as they walked, stopping every so often to prod certain plants for a brittle, podlike bulb. Upon finding it, he snapped off the bulbs and emptied them into a small leather pouch.

They each carried cloth packs in which their supplies were contained. Tom and Porter had the heaviest packs. Theirs held essential provisions like water, blankets, tools, rope, and knives. Willa carried food. Mudge had herbs and assorted first-aid supplies. The map had been rolled in a buttery-soft animal skin
to protect it; Tom wore it slung across his chest, bow-and-arrow style.

Knee-high rubber boots would have been ideal for the trek. Even leather boots like those worn by Porter, Willa, and Mudge would have helped to repel the sludge and slime. Instead, Tom wore sneakers that were now sodden, squishing with every step he took. He tripped over a root and reached for a vine to steady himself. The moment he touched it, however, a long forked tongue shot out. The vine—a green spotted snake thicker than his arm—slithered away with a sharp hiss.

“Don't worry; it won't bite,” Mudge said, glancing up.

Tom tried to affect a cool nod, as though his brush with a snake nearly twice his size hadn't bothered him in the least.

“And even if they do bite,” Mudge continued, “they're not poisonous.” He thought some more. “Well, except for the ones with the red circles around their ends. Venom in those will kill you before you hit the ground. If you're lucky, that is. Sometimes a man only gets a little jab, just enough venom in his system so he spasms for days, maybe weeks, in total agony, until his heart gives out from the pain. Best you stay away from those.” Mudge bent to look at another plant, frowned at its unsuitability for his purpose, and moved on.

Tom's horror must have shown on his face, for Porter gave a choked laugh, meeting Tom's glare with a look of mockingly superior, I-told-you-so smugness. They'd had just one disagreement before they'd left. Porter hadn't wanted Mudge to come, insisting the boy would only slow them down. Willa, afraid The Watch would trail Tom and Porter to her village, had insisted
he accompany them. In the end, as she wouldn't leave without him, the four had set off together.

Now Willa turned, surveying them all with ill-hidden impatience. “It's not the snakes we have to worry about. It's the dogs.”

Porter frowned. “What dogs?”

“Swamp dogs. They roam the swamp in packs. Great, hulking, ugly beasts. They'll rip your throat out faster than you can say ‘spit.'” She took Mudge's bag from him and peered inside, frowning.

Mudge made a face. “That's all I could find.”

“Then I suppose it will have to do. A little is better than none at all.”

Willa glanced around the swamp. Apparently satisfied that they were in no imminent danger, she shrugged off her pack and set it atop a tangled web of roots high enough to serve as a table. The aroma of the food she carried drifted through the air. Tom's stomach growled. Suddenly the meal of sausage and eggs they'd eaten before venturing into the swamp was a very distant memory. Porter seemed to be of the same mind. “We should eat,” he said.

Willa reached for Mudge's pouch and used her pestle to crush the pods contained within. Immediately a bitter stench rose from the sack, a stench so foul Tom's stomach twisted and he swallowed hard to keep down his breakfast.

She lifted the pestle. Great globs the color and consistency of snot dripped from the end.

Porter gagged and turned away. He jerked his head toward Tom. “If that's our meal, he can have my share.”

Willa shook her head. “It's not for us. It's for the dogs.”

“They'll eat that?” Tom said.

“No. But it'll disguise our scent long enough to keep them from eating us. I'm told it usually works very well.”

Tom looked from Porter to Mudge. “Is anyone else bothered by the word
usually
in that sentence?”

Willa shook her head. “In truth, this will be an improvement.
I wasn't going to mention it, but the three of you reek of goats”—she paused, sniffed, and made a face—”soured cabbage, and rotten fish.”

Tom felt the heat of embarrassment color his cheeks. True enough. He'd worn the same clothes for days now. Rough days. A shower, a toothbrush, and a little deodorant probably wouldn't be a bad idea.

Willa released an exasperated sigh and wiped the pestle over her upper arms. “But if you enjoy your current stench—and don't mind being eaten alive—suit yourselves.”

They each took a handful of the repulsive mixture and smeared it over their clothing.

The unpleasant task complete, they trudged deeper into the swamp. After a few minutes, Tom couldn't smell the mixture at all. Neither could he smell the swamp, which meant, he supposed, that the vile stuff was working.

Hours passed. Or maybe minutes. Telling time became impossible. The canopy of trees was so thick, Tom couldn't see the sky, let alone the passing of the sun. Ominous echoes drifted out from the shadows. He heard a hiss and a rattle, followed by the rustle of unseen creatures creeping and crawling underfoot. Warm mist rose from the ground. It clung to his skin and clothing like a fine sheen of perspiration.

The low roots Tom had stumbled over when they'd first set out grew larger as they moved deeper into the swamp. Now the roots rose out of the mud like twisted, earthen cages, each nearly as large as the goat cart they'd traveled in the night before. They found their way increasingly blocked, forced to scale over the root structures in order to keep moving forward.

Mudge prattled on as they walked, telling stories of the times he'd spent in the woods with his father. Tom pretended to listen, which was more than either Willa or Porter was doing. Willa was intent on scanning the swamp for signs of impending peril, while Porter seemed content to keep his thoughts to himself. Soon, however, Mudge's rambling led to more fertile ground.

He looked at Tom and asked, “Do they tell stories of the Sword of Five Kingdoms where you come from?”

Tom gave a loose shrug. “Never heard of it. Not until yesterday.”

Willa stumbled. “What do you mean, you've never heard of it?” She stopped her compulsive scanning of the swamp and swung around to look at Tom.

“It's true,” Mudge interjected, giving an authoritative nod. “I heard the whole tale. His parents sent him away to hide from Keegan and The Watch. To keep him safe.”

Their path was blocked again. Porter lifted Mudge over an enormous tangle of roots and set him on the ground, allowing the group to continue. They walked in silence, lost in their own thoughts.

After a few minutes, Willa fell into step beside Tom. She sliced her way through a stubborn tangle of vines. Tom glanced at the knife she carried. It was an ungainly weapon with a rough blade and a saw-toothed tip, likely the kind of knife one would use to skin an animal. It looked ridiculous in Willa's delicate hand.

He stole a quick, sideways glance at her. Had Willa been born in his world, her looks would have propelled her into the clique of popular girls, the ones who dated jocks, had cell phones permanently attached to their ears, and spent weekends at the mall. She certainly wouldn't be found wandering through a swamp with a primitive-looking butcher's knife in her hand.

He considered asking her if she had any brothers or sisters, but just as quickly decided against it. Everything he'd seen in the tiny hut she called home screamed that she lived alone. Surely she'd had family at some point. A mother and a father. He thought of Porter's friend Carter, and the fate that had almost befallen his family. Had Willa been forced to endure the same thing?

“So you've never heard of the Sword of Five Kingdoms,” she said, interrupting his thoughts.

“This might be a good time to fill me in.” He sloshed his way through a puddle. His shoes, already drenched, soaked up a foul-smelling slime that squished between his toes with every
step he took. “Not that I'm not having a great time already.”

“I'll tell you about it!” Mudge volunteered, skipping up. “Once there was a boy who had a powerful sword—”

“That's not where the story begins,” Porter interrupted, swinging around to face them. “If you're going to tell the tale, tell it properly, from the beginning. The way my father told it.”

Our
father, Tom corrected silently, suddenly as hungry for the tale as Mudge was. Mudge pleaded to hear it, and Porter relented, his voice low and confident, relating a tale he'd heard perhaps dozens of times.

“The tale begins,” Porter said, “a thousand years ago. Ugliness filled the land: death, war, and devastation; famine and sickness. Those were the Dark Days. In this time there lived a wizard named Marrick. He roamed the woods with his fellow wizards, testing spells, amassing power, and increasing his magic until it was superior to any the world had ever known.