harrowing business.
Sigimar stepped closer to his brother as the sickly grey forest enveloped them. Through the gloom, tangles of ancient, twisted branches reached out like grasping talons. Footsteps as soft as whispers on the hard-packed earth, their silence was not out of reverence, but abundant caution. A thick, dark shroud of fog had blocked out all but the barest hint of sunlight since they'd entered the lost, ancient kingdom of Ashla three days past.
Sigimar’s brother held his hand aloft, cutting through the fog with a warm, glowing, magical light emanating from the tips of his fingers. Branches dissolved into ashes, flaking away and disappearing before they hit the ground. Dag’s light was the only thing keeping them from choking to death on the toxic miasma pervading every once-living thing in Ashla. The further into this cursed landscape they ventured, the thicker it became.
A wellspring, the source of the malicious haze, was close at hand. If they could just reach it, Dag could purify it and free the land of this corruption. At least, that was what the ancient tales surmised.
In hindsight, perhaps betting their lives on disreputable sources was a foolish thing to do.
Sigimar gripped his axe. He didn’t possess Dag’s rare magic, or much magic at all, for that matter. He was there to protect his brother from what lurked on this side of the gloom with bronze and brawn. He hadn’t failed them thus far. Sigimar prayed to the forgotten gods that it would remain so.
Dag flicked his eyes back at Sigimar.
“The corruption has latched onto you,” he whispered.
A thin scratch ran along Sigimar’s arm, his coat and flesh split in an earlier attack. Normally his wounds would have healed, but black blood oozed out against his muddy-green skin, tiny dark veins forking out. Suppressing a shudder, Sigimar shrugged.
“Don’t waste your light on me. I’ll be fine for hours yet,” Sigimar replied in a hushed voice.
Dag’s brows furrowed in brotherly exasperation. He turned so that the light hit Sigimar’s scratch head on. The corruption hissed softly as it dissipated.
“We should turn back. I won’t last another three days, not with the miasma this thick, and not going as slowly as we are. I can’t even clear more than this small pocket around us, and the smallest breeze covers the trail we’ve cut.”
Exhaustion dragged at his brother. Lines bracketed Dag’s amber eyes, his green skin had an ashen cast, and sweat dripped from his pale hair down his face, despite the early autumn chill. Worry warred with the need to see this task through. They’d never gotten so close to the source of the miasma in all their centuries along the frontier, keeping it at bay. They might never get another chance, might not be lucky enough to come so far without being killed. Or worse, someone else would discover what Sigimar had and beat them to the wellspring. Then all their toil, all their hardships, all their dreams, would be for naught. Being brash, being bold, charging in where others hesitated—that was how they would attain glory.
“Half a day more. If we haven’t reached the wellspring by then, we’ll turn back,” Sigimar bargained.
Dag’s shoulders sagged and he turned around to inch them forward through the fog. Sigimar hated to push Dag past his limits, but they would never defeat this encroaching corruption if they didn’t take risks.
The raids on cattle and the unwary had grown in number these past few seasons, and the King of Elmheim was getting restless. More and more were tempted to try their luck in the miasma. After all, the King was offering extraordinary rewards for anyone who could dispel it, no matter how far-fetched the theory or method. But it meant more people lost to the curse, returning as the very draugar they’d sworn to kill.
Not an hour later, Sigimar caught a foul scent on the breeze. He touched Dag’s shoulder and held a finger up to his lips. Dag nodded and gathered strands of magic together. Sigimar’s long, pointed ears twitched as he listened for the footsteps of their stalker and readied the battle axe in his hand.
Behind him.
Sigimar turned. Axe raised and already swinging, the pale grey draugr leapt at him, jagged maw wide, claws extended towards his throat. The axe crunched through the hardened shell of the creature’s skin, cleaving it in two.
But the draugr squealed with its final breath before Sigimar could behead it.
“Shit.” Sigimar cursed.
The sound echoed out in the fog. The eerie silence died as the forest erupted in clicking and screeches. Sigimar and Dag fought back-to-back, spilling corrupt blood with spell and bronze alike as creatures leapt at them with starved ferocity. Sigimar’s hands were growing slick with the black ooze as bodies and parts piled up before him. He caught the last of them as it leapt from the branches, mouth wide and breath rank, hacking its head clean off.
Dag’s back was pressed to his own, their ragged breaths resounding in his ears. Sigimar did his best to calm his racing heart and slow his breaths, to focus on any threat that might still be lurking. This far into the miasma and the draugar were getting smarter, less predictable.
“Have…have we got the lot of them?” Dag asked between gasps.
Sigimar strained his ears. Save for their panting, the forest was silent once again.
“I think so. Can you continue?” Sigimar asked as he wiped his face with the only relatively clean patch of his cloak left.
“I…” Dag hesitated.
“We should be safe for some time. We’ve killed all the creatures within screaming distance by now,” Sigimar said.
Gods, he needed this to work out. If they could just find the wellspring, even if Dag didn’t have the energy to purify it, they could tag it with a beacon spell and then come back better provisioned for it before the snows came. They would celebrate through the winter at having reclaimed long-lost and dearly needed land. Sigimar and Dag would finally be rewarded for their centuries defending the frontier, compensated with lands and titles, a crazy dream for orphan castoffs, but one they’d held dear their whole lives. It was only on the frontier that nameless soldiers could attain the same fortunes as princes and Jarls.
Dag sighed.
“You’re right. We don’t have to go so slowly now.” He turned around and held his hand aloft, light radiating forth, dissolving the corpses around them. The black ooze coating them hissed and bubbled, purified.
Sigimar clapped his brother on the back and smiled, following behind him. Though Dag was shorter and less brawny, he’d been exceptionally gifted with magic. He also possessed the same ambitions that Sigimar did. Together they were the perfect team. Where others had failed, they would succeed.
Several more hours of brisk marching and even Sigimar was having difficulty in the miasma, his breathing laboured, as if the air were thinner here. Dag, however, seemed entranced.
“Can you feel that, Sig?”
“The weight on my chest?” Sigimar quipped as he swiped at the sweat-slicked, burgundy hair plastered to his brow.
“No the…call of that magic? I think we’re close.”
Sigimar stretched his limited magic outward, sensing. Ahead, something dark and cold brushed along his mind. Sigimar recoiled and suppressed a shiver. He readied the axe at his side.
Sigimar grunted his assent.
“I hear it,” Dag whispered, his voice reverent. “Gods below…”
“Then let’s be done with this,” Sigimar said.
Sigimar had the energy for one last push. If he put his all into reaching the wellspring, he was certain that they could purify Ashla, be rid of this damned miasma, become heroes of legend.
“Should we rest?” Dag asked.
Sigimar shook his head.
“It’s not far. Let’s purify this cursed thing. We’ll use your enchanted stones to get back if we fail.”
Every team that went into the miasma carried them as a last resort. The little glowing stones, enchanted with the healing light, glowed weakly, but could just manage to ward off the miasma and the draugar within. They were essential if one ventured too deeply and didn’t have the strength to return. Naturally, they’d pilfered a few extras.
Without another word, Dag marched onward. Sigimar kept close, desperate for a breath of cleansed air, the vise around his lungs tightening with every step. As they neared the spot, Sigimar, even without using magic, could sense the terrible call of the wellspring.
Without warning, Sigimar and Dag stood in the eye of the storm, a strange, unnaturally calm clearing. It had been days since they’d had such visibility around them. In the centre of it all stood a staff with malevolent, glowing symbols and a harsh, piercing blue gem the size of Sigimar’s fist nestled atop. It listed to one side, sunk into a bubbling puddle of muck. As Sigimar scanned the clearing, it was evident not a single living thing dwelt within—not a blade of grass, not even a withered branch. Though the miasma wasn’t present, his lungs still worked twice as hard to breathe what little air occupied this strange zone.
Dag tried to rush forward. Sigimar caught him by the waist and hauled him back. Dag’s brows pinched, his face and body constricted as though in pain.
“Wait here,” Sigimar commanded, refusing to budge until Dag had control of himself.
As he approached the staff, he saw no evidence of sigils or symbols on the ground, nor did he spy any traps of a physical nature. Standing at the edge of the filthy pool, he tore the staff from its resting place. It came loose with a wet, sucking slurp. Even touching the thing made Sigimar’s flesh crawl and his innards squirm. Every part of him recoiled.
It was why he hesitated to hand it to Dag when his brother rushed up to him and stared at the thing like a man possessed.
“Dag? Use your light.”
“Can’t you hear it, Sig?”
“This thing is evil. Use your light and purify it.”
“Just…let me hold it.” Dag reached for the staff.
Sigimar pulled it away, eliciting a snarl from his brother.
“Use the light and it’s yours,” Sigimar lied.
The damned thing was going to find itself smashed into a thousand pieces the second it was purified.
Dag hesitated but complied. As the staff was bathed in a warm glow, the miasma began dissipating.
“It’s working!” Sigimar whooped as he looked around. The clearing was widening and the miasma thinning out. Even breathing became easier. They’d done it. Their dreams would finally come true. Fame and fortune would be theirs.
A deep, groaning wail rang out, one unlike any he’d heard in all their days in Ashla. His heart stopped. The draugr must be massive. Another hellish wail. It was closer. Sigimar dropped the staff and held his axe aloft, scanning the gloom for the approaching threat as the ground beneath him shook. When it charged into the clearing, Sigimar’s heart leapt into his throat. He’d long grown accustomed to the twisted, grey forms of the creatures within the miasma, but this one was different. Too many eyes glared, too many sharp-toothed mouths drooled with dark spittle, too many bent, spindly arms and legs kept the corpulent, house-sized draugr lumbering forward.
“Hurry!” Sigimar cried out as he rushed the creature.
He couldn’t let it get close to Dag, to the staff. Sigimar hacked and split through shell and flesh but the massive creature was undaunted, pushing forward. He was quickly losing ground, letting the beast get closer to his brother. A boney, clawed hand snaked out from below and grabbed Sigimar by the ankle, tossing him aside like a child’s toy. Dazed by his fall, Sigimar leapt to his feet unsteadily, the world spinning. His eyes focused on his brother’s entranced expression as Dag bathed the staff in light, heedless of the monster barrelling towards him.
“Dag! The draugr!” Sigimar screamed as he raced forward.
But Sigimar was too slow.
The draugr was too fast.
And Dag had not heard his cries.
Dag didn’t look up at the creature, nor the first rays of sunlight as they pierced the shroud of the miasma that had blanketed the continent Ashla for untold millennia. Miracle and nightmare played out in a single frozen moment that would sear itself into Sigimar’s very soul. The draugr flaked away in the sun and the nearness to Dag’s magic, screaming all the while, yet not slowing—never slowing.
“Dag!”
As if the spell had finally been broken, Dag’s head jerked up, his eyes wide as one of the gaping jaws of the draugr snapped shut around his neck.