5. Renard #3
It stretches to the horizon in a vast, undulating expanse of dark water and treacherous, moss-choked ground, broken by low islands of reed and twisted willow.
Mist lies over it in slow-moving sheets, thin enough in places to reveal the glimmer of stagnant pools beneath, thick enough in others to conceal whatever moves below their surfaces.
The color of it is wrong—not the rich brown of peat or the silver-blue of the salt marshes along the coast, but a dull, bruised green that scarcely reflects the weak morning light.
In the far distance, barely visible through the shifting mists, something rises above the haze—a dark, angular silhouette that can only be Hollowmire Castle, its towers like the broken teeth of a colossal beast yawning against the sky.
The sight of it makes my stomach drop unexpectedly. When last I stood here, I did so with a company of the finest men in Valehar, certain that whatever lay within this bog would be no match for the skill and steel of experienced knights.
But then… we never made it to the end. I watched helplessly, my confidence eroding like everything before water, as the cursed mire swallowed our path, sucked up our horses and our supplies, and made short work of our bravado.
Countless days we wandered in circles—the sodden mossy ground pulling at our feet—only to find ourselves making less than no progress.
Better men than I succumbed to madness, despair—to the monsters that ripple beneath the green murk.
I have never spoken aloud of the horrors that took my friends—my trusted brethren—but they crawl through my dreams almost every night.
Magnar paces anxiously, nostrils flaring as he no doubt scents the expanse of remembered horror before us.
In that, we are the same. The bog may appear calm and passive, but if you watch long enough, it seems to breathe—its stagnant pools dimpling and smoothing in slow, deliberate rhythms. Here and there, reeds will tremble without wind, and occasionally, I’d swear I hear the soft susurrus of a breeze that moves nothing.
“Walk on,” I murmur to Magnar, fighting to ignore how unsteady my voice sounds at the edge of the unnatural space. Magnar’s ears flick at every whisper of sound, tension gathering in his muscles, yet he obeys.
A narrow causeway, little more than a raised scar of earth and woven brush, snakes from the edge of the Verge out into the bog.
Was this the way we came last time? It must be—there is no other path forward.
Yet it doesn’t seem familiar… It looks fragile enough to lure unsuspecting travelers into the midst of the swamp and leave them to the hungry mouths within.
I dismount, unwilling to trust its integrity beneath both our weights at once, and test the first stretch with the heel of my boot.
It holds, though water seeps up around the edges with a faint, sucking sound that sends a shiver of wariness all the way up to the crown of my head.
Taking a breath that doesn’t feel quite as deep as it needs to be, Magnar and I step onto the causeway together.
The sensation is unpleasantly soft and pillowy, reminding me that beneath this thin layer of rotting vegetation and cold, green water, there is nothing solid beneath for a considerable distance.
The water to either side is dark and opaque, its surface broken by patches of floating vegetation that drift lazily in patterns perhaps a bit too regular.
Halfway along the first bend, something brushes the side of my boot.
I freeze, panic rising sharp and sudden, like the tide of water in my dreams. My vision begins to tunnel, my breath coming in labored gasps as I fight a barrage of visions—men and horses disappearing, some without a sound, some with shrill screams and guttural bellows of surprise.
Then the flash of white, gnashing teeth and the blood—gods, so much blood—until eerie silence reigned once again.
The water remains placid, reflecting a pale strip of morning sky and the spear-like silhouettes of reeds. Perhaps it was nothing more than a stray stem, or a submerged willow branch dislodged by our passage. I force my memories to sink down, down, down.
Then the brush comes again, firmer this time, accompanied by a faint pressure against my ankle that instinct tells me does not belong to plant or current.
I step back instinctively, nearly colliding with Magnar, who lets out a low, warning rumble that vibrates through the reins and sends small ripples outward through the water.
I should turn and run. I was a fool to come here—to think I could best this mire of memories and grief alike, to think I was strong enough to put my armor back on and face down the monsters that left me in shambles when I was younger and more able-bodied.
Run, and doom all those in Valehar who cannot find a meal without begging.
Run, and fail those who relied on you before—who believe in you now.
The surface of the bog bulges, swelling subtly like a tumor upon the water.
“No,” comes the feeble whisper from my cracked lips.
But of course, the water does not hear me—nor does the thing beneath it.
The bulge grows, the water sliding off its surface in slow sheets as something beneath pushes upward with considerable force.
I draw my sword without taking my eyes off the disturbance, steeling myself for another battle I feel ill-prepared to meet.
The thing that emerges defies nature—at least, the natural order of things in Valehar.
It is roughly the size of a horse and the shape of a massive spider, but it’s unlike any earth-bound creature I’ve seen.
Its legs—all eight of them—are composed of sticky, translucent membranes stretched over moss-covered bones.
These malformed cartilaginous limbs move haltingly—pale tendons and darker knots that push past one another in a stuttering, jerking, staggering movement.
Its body, or head, if that is indeed what it’s called, is a clear fleshy mass of green organs and viscera, crowned not with eyes but with a cluster of glassy orbs that catch the light and roll blue-white.
As it hauls itself onto the causeway, I see that the underside of its belly is lined with five small, circular mouths, each ringed with thousands of needle-sharp teeth that click softly against one another in anticipation of its next meal—likely me, hopefully not followed by Magnar.
The stench hits me a moment later, overpowering the stagnant water of the bog—a smell of rotting flesh and brine, undercut by something sharper, almost acidic, that makes my eyes water and sours in my gut.
“Back,” I order Magnar, but I don’t dare look away from the thing to see if he will obey. Gods, please give him the sense to flee if I am overcome.
The massive swamp spider tilts toward me, its five mouths snapping and foaming with black spittle. One of its mouths opens wider than the rest, revealing a thick, green-black tongue that seems to crawl toward my boot, leaving a trail of viscous, acrid fluid in its probing wake.
I strike before it can make contact.
My sword cuts through one of the glossy membranes along the creature’s belly, splattering the causeway and my greaves with stinking green-gray fluid.
Where it lands, the vegetation blackens and sags, sinking back into the water beneath with a faint hiss.
Gods, not poison. The creature recoils, its skeletal limbs thrashing violently, before it opens its horrid mouths and emits an earsplitting keening screech that seems to come from every mouth at once.
Injured and furious, it surges forward with a renewed sense of rage and breathtaking speed.