Chapter 19 #3
"I don't know." The admission seems to irritate him. "I've spent enough time in enchanted places to know the difference between natural magic and something that's been deliberately twisted. This swamp feels... manipulated."
“Manipulated how?” I ask.
He narrows his eyes at the water. "As though the gods are still shaping it. Like it isn't simply a swamp anymore. It's a trap pretending to be one."
A shiver crawls down my spine despite the lingering heat from the desert. I don't see anything unusual. The water doesn't glow. No monsters leap out at us. Yet the note in Thorian's voice leaves me uneasy all the same.
I glance toward the Obsidian Spire, visible through gaps in the trees beyond the swamp.
"The Spire's right there," I say, pointing through the trees. "Crossing the swamp would be the fastest route."
"Which is exactly why we're not going that way," Thorian says.
Fenric and I exchange a look. Neither of us argues. If Thorian's instincts are warning him away from something, I'm inclined to listen. So we turn back into the desert.
Thorian begins marking our path. Every so often, he carves a deep slash into a cactus with his dagger. He doesn’t say a word nor explain himself. He just moves forward.
For another hour we trudge through the heat in a different direction. We’re hot. Tired. Sweaty. And miserable.
Then the desert ends. And we're standing at the edge of a swamp once more. Which is weird as hell. It’s déjà vu in the strangest way. Nobody speaks.
At first, I assume it's a different swamp. The Trials are enormous. Surely there are dozens of them. But then I spot a cactus that Thorian had slashed, and my stomach sinks.
"Thorian..."
"I know." The words come out flat.
Fenric slowly turns in a circle. "We changed direction."
"We did."
"We walked for an hour."
"We did."
Fenric scratches the back of his neck. "Then why are we back here?"
Nobody has an answer.
For several long moments, all three of us simply stare at the swamp. Maybe it's a coincidence. Maybe someone else slashed the cactus. Maybe we're imagining it.
But the slashed cactus stares back at us.
The longer I look at it, the less those explanations make sense. My pulse begins to pick up. We didn't wander in circles. Thorian had been tracking our route the entire time. The sun had stayed at our backs. We had walked in a straight line.
Hadn't we?
A strange feeling settles over me then, one I can't quite name. It's the same sensation I used to get as a child when waking from a nightmare and realizing something wasn't right. Like the world has shifted slightly while I wasn't paying attention.
"This can't be good," Fenric mutters.
“And there’s more,” Thorian says, nodding down along the barrier between the desert and the swamp.
Following his gaze, I spot a group of competitors gathered along the edge of the sand. They’re far enough away that neither side poses an immediate threat. Surprisingly, one of the competitors is Talon. Even at this distance, I know it's him.
The vampire's eyes find mine almost immediately. Then they shift to Thorian, to Fenric, and back again. His expression suggests he's just as confused as we are. Which, somehow, makes me feel worse.
"Well," I say, trying for optimism, "maybe the third time is the charm?"
Thorian gives me a look. A very unimpressed look. Still, we turn around.
The third crossing of the desert is worse than the first two. The novelty is gone. The heat feels more oppressive. The sand is deeper. My canteen grows lighter with every passing minute.
So when we emerge from the desert and find ourselves standing at the edge of the swamp yet again, nobody is particularly surprised.
I think we're all too exhausted for surprise.
The heat has drained every ounce of enthusiasm from me.
My clothes cling uncomfortably to my skin, my throat feels raw, and my nearly empty canteen sloshes mockingly at my side.
We've spent hours walking. Hours sweating and rationing water and carefully following a route that should have taken us somewhere else.
And yet we're back here.
Again.
None of us say anything. We simply stare out at the dark water and twisted trees.
The same swamp is waiting for us exactly where we left it.
The frustration settles heavily in my chest. It feels unfair in a way I hadn't expected.
Monsters can be fought. Competitors can be avoided or defeated. Even hunger and thirst make sense.
This doesn't.
The worst part is that I don't know what it means.
Are the gods moving the landscape around us? Are they controlling us like puppets for their amusement?
Beside me, Fenric lets out a long breath. Thorian stares at the swamp with the expression of a man who is rapidly losing patience with the universe itself.
My nearly empty canteen sloshes sadly in my hand.
The dark green water suddenly looks far more appealing than it should.
"Don't even think about it," Thorian mumbles, casting me a look.
I stiffen. “Can you read my mind?”
A slight smile comes to Thorian’s lips. “I can’t read your mind. You were practically drooling, staring at the water.”
I feel a little relieved. If he could read all my thoughts about him, I’d be mortified.
“Looks like we’re not the only ones getting spit out here,” Fenric says, nodding his head down the other side of the swamp.
The vampires are still here, up the shore of the swamp to our right, but now the Hollow Blades and Ashen Hounds have taken their places along the line between the desert and swamp, the knights and shifters huddled in their own groups, each at least a field’s length apart from us and the others.
Beyond them, there’s another group that must be the human fighters.
“Fucking gods,” Thorian curses, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.
The words immediately draw my attention. Over the last two days, I've learned that Thorian doesn't waste emotion. He doesn't panic. He doesn't complain. If something has him this angry, there's a reason.
“What?” I ask.
His gaze remains fixed on the swamp.
For a moment, I don't think he's going to answer. Then he lets out a long breath. “They've definitely magicked it.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means this isn't a coincidence.” His jaw tightens. “They've altered the forest. Every path leads here. Every team is being funneled toward this swamp.”
My stomach drops.
I look back toward the desert behind us, suddenly feeling very small. All that effort. All that planning. We'd spent the better part of a day convincing ourselves we were making progress when, in reality, we'd been little more than mice running through a maze.
“Why?” I ask quietly.
Thorian laughs, but there's no humor in the sound. “Because they like to be entertained.”
The answer shouldn't surprise me. It does anyway. The gods are immortals with unimaginable power. They could create kingdoms. Move mountains. End wars. And apparently they've chosen to spend their time forcing desperate people into a swamp so they can watch what happens.
“They want a spectacle,” Thorian continues. “A bottleneck. A place where competitors are forced together. Monsters. Traps. Rival teams. Whatever they've hidden in there, they expect people to die.”
A chill crawls over my skin despite the lingering heat from the desert.
I find myself staring at the dark water again. The swamp suddenly feels different. Like a mouth waiting to swallow us whole.
“You're right,” Fenric says. “Fuck.”
Despite everything, I let out a small laugh. It's either laugh or panic.
“So what do we do?” I ask.
“No matter what, we're going to have to go into the swamp and face whatever dangers they've constructed for us, as well as survive the other competitors,” Thorian explains. “The longer we wait, the more teams arrive. The more teams arrive, the worse our chances become.”
I stare out across the water. Every instinct I possess tells me to stay away from it. Unfortunately, the gods seem to have removed that option.
“Fuck,” I say.
That earns the faintest hint of a smile from Thorian. It’s not enough to fully appear, just enough that I know it's there.
“Well,” Fenric says, looking considerably less enthusiastic than he sounds, “guess we'd better figure out a way to cross. Better now than when we're even more tired and hot.”
The thought of becoming more tired and hot is enough to make me want to cry.
Before any of us can suggest a plan, a loud splash echoes across the water.
All three of us turn. The Hollow Blades have apparently decided planning is optional.
The group wades directly into the swamp, pushing through the murky water with weapons drawn.
One of them nearly loses a boot in the mud within the first few steps.
Nobody laughs.
Around the shoreline, every team has gone still. Dozens of eyes track the Hollow Blades' progress.
Waiting.
Judging.
Wondering the same thing. Are they about to discover the safest path through the swamp? Or are they about to die horribly and save the rest of us the trouble of finding out the hidden dangers of the swamp for ourselves?