Captain Brodst called the company to a halt. The low road that lead down into the murky lowlands, aptly dubbed the Bottoms by both those few who dwelled there and by those who frequented these southerly lands, lay before them.
He cast a glance heavenward, the sun was well past its zenith and the storm clouds of morning were gone. His customary frown lengthened. He reconsidered his alternatives, to take the king’s road or to skirt the mire. He had discussed these choices with Keeper Martin, Father Jacob and the other captains the day prior. The obvious choice was to take the short cut through the swamp. They were already behind schedule, yet something Duke Ispeth had told him the night before last was bothering him now.
“Not a single messenger—and few travelers—have come north for more than a week,” the duke had said, “‘tis a strange occurrence indeed.”
At the time Captain Brodst hadn’t given it much thought, he had been tired and angry. Duke Ispeth could be a stubborn man when he wanted to be. Captain Brodst remembered that just after the duke had said that he’d scratched his head and said, “It’s
probably nothing. In another week or so, I’ll probably find that the roads were washed out again… Damned rainy season approaching, you know.”
But there was something in the way the old duke had said it that told Captain Brodst he didn’t really believe what he’d just said. It was true Duke Ispeth was eccentric and suspicious of everyone; even so, Captain Brodst had never seen anyone as agitated as he’d seen the duke that night. He had ranted and raved for hours. He had told them about reports of strange travelers passing through his lands at night, peasants complaining that whole crops were disappearing and many other things.
Captain Brodst took in a deep breath. If the weather had been better, surely they would have been ahead of schedule and he could have opted to skirt the swamps. He had discussed this route with King Andrew because they both feared the closeness of the rainy season. Captain Brodst found it ironic that since the rainy season had arrived early, that he now seemed forced to make a completely wrong choice in an attempt to save time.
None of this worrying will save time, he told himself. They were at least one day behind schedule and needed to make up for lost time. The only way to do it would be to turn south. He gave the signal, pointed to the southernmost road, then spurred his mount on. In a few hours Captain Brodst called a halt for the evening and, by mid-morning of the second day along this route, they entered the outer mires.
The passage along the rolling hills that gradually sloped down into the dreaded Bottoms was moderately paced. Unfortunately, the seasonal rains returned with vigorous fury, forcing a deficient, sluggish rate upon the travelers. But fortunately, after several hours of intense storms, high winds carried the storm front away to leave the skies clear and the grounds muddied though passable.
The group escaped from the confines of heavy cloaks, dropping hoods and loosening the ties about the neck as the air grew warm. Adrina had been in a pensive mood all through the morning. Her thoughts were with Emel. She felt so alone without him and what made this even worse was that everyone around her seemed to notice it, especially Keeper Martin and Father Jacob.
Adrina’s unease began to grow as they moved ever closer to the Bottoms, and not only because the thought of traveling through such a place filled her mind with dread. She had been counting on the extra days the longer route around the mires would have provided. The road through the Bottoms would only hasten them to Alderan and this more than anything else filled her mind with alarm.
Keeper Martin, who had been keeping a watchful eye on her and not letting her out of his sight, spoke, “There is nothing to fear, dear, the passage through the mires will be swift and we’ll be smelling sea breezes before you know it.”
Adrina expressed a sour grimace in response. Keeper Martin may have had an intuitive wisdom, but she knew better than to think there was nothing out there. The putrid smell of rotting vegetation that the wind carried had to be hiding something.
Father Jacob added to the keeper’s words, his voice trembling with emotion, “He is right, Princess Adrina. Tonight we will stay at a palace of such great beauty that it rivals that of Imtal’s. And Baron Fraddylwicke is a most excellent host.”
“Imtal is hardly beautiful,” said Adrina.
Father Jacob burst into laughter and said cheerfully, “The palace once belonged to King Jarom the First of Vostok before he lost the lands to the Kingdom long, long ago. At one time, it was the gateway into the whole of the South. The Lord and Lady Fraddylwicke await us…”
His voice trailed off, but Adrina thought she had heard him finish with, “or so I do fear.”
“And it has only fallen into the mire three times since then,” said Captain Brodst, adding melancholy to the cheer.
Surprised at the Captain’s joining in, Adrina said nothing.
“A trivial fact, I assure you,” said Keeper Martin, “it was rebuilt each time with increasing care and magnificence.”
Adrina smiled and responded, “I can’t wait to see it. It sounds wonderful.” She added for the keeper’s benefit, “Full of history.”
Her thoughts took a turn toward expectations and away from disappointment and unease. She was again surprised that Captain Brodst had spoken to her.
“His scowl is his shield,” Adrina whispered to herself.
Adrina relaxed in her saddle and soaked up some of the warm air. She undid the ties on her cloak and removed it. However, the warmth that had fed their momentary good spirits came to a quick and not-at-all-subtle end. The ground seemed to readily suck up the warmth and a chill rapidly returned.
As the long file entered the outer mire, the coolness of the air entwined with the warmth of the ground caused wisps of mist to swirl underfoot even in the early hours of afternoon, giving the area an eerie haze. Adrina felt her body begin to shiver uncontrollably at the cool touch, a touch similar to the play of cold fingers along the exposed areas of her skin.
She pulled her cloak tightly about her and brought its hood up stout, retreating far into the recesses of the cowl as she had this morning. Although the cloak was still moist from the rain, it did manage to provide a little bit of extra warmth. She was thankful for its touch of comfort and hopeful that they would reach the castle soon for she was growing very weary. She sank languidly into the leathers of a saturated, irritating saddle, almost wishing that she had heeded Emel’s words and her common sense and remained in Imtal.
Torches were mustered from the supplies and spread through the long line as insurance that, should the mists turn to fog, the group would not get lost. Captain Brodst, using his flint and steel and a few pieces of his precious stock of dry kindling—some of the torches had gotten damp—lit the initial torch, which he passed to the sentinel to bear at the front of the column. For the present, this was the only one to be lit. The others were not yet needed.
The sun’s rays were soon lost in a shroud of haze and the hours appeared to drag by. Dampness was so thick in the air that moisture sank into the very souls of those present. Adrina was caught up in deep feelings of portentous dread and she petted her mare’s mane to soothe it—or so she told herself. But it was really herself that she sought to calm, to rid her mind of the eerie thoughts it held.
She tried to think pleasant thoughts. She didn’t like the swamp they traversed and she liked the dense fog even less. The combination of the two elements overwhelmed her mind and only the thought of the castle that lay somewhere ahead in the distance turned her woes toward eventual ease.
She could imagine the Lord and Lady of the castle, him dressed in a purple overcoat and a blue silk shirt, his court best, and her in the long flowing gown of the day, properly coordinated with the purple and blues of the Lord Fraddylwicke, her attendants forever at her side. She imagined their greeting a grand affair at the great palace gates. The castle walls were not a dead and dreary gray but cheerful silver.
They marched further and further into the mire. It seemed as if they had suddenly delved under a great thick blanket of endless gray. Captain Brodst was forced to call another halt. The double file that they had begun the gradual descent into the mire with was dispensed and a long, drawn-out single file unfolded into the shadows.
Torches were ignited from the sentinel’s and though this would have been reassuring under most circumstances, it only assisted the uncanny veil’s pervasion of their thoughts.
Progress through the ever-thickening sheets of fog materialized as a feeble inching forward. The cries of the cricket and the frog, the buzzing of insects and the stirrings of other smaller beasts stopped. Only the sloshing of the horses’ hooves and boots on the soggy trail remained and it was as if nature itself had paused, waiting for the next puff of freshness and life.
Adrina witnessed the line of lights assemble in front of and behind her. Then, as she watched, the former disappeared one by one into the veil ahead. Those behind she didn’t turn to look at.
Carefully following the movements of those ahead when it was her turn, she coaxed her mount by gently slapping it with the reins to start it moving at a relaxed gait. Still she stroked the animal’s mane with her free hand. Briefly she looked back now to ensure that the rider behind her noted her passage and followed her lead.
She gazed intently ahead and tried to maintain a bearing on the dim glow of the torch Keeper Martin carried in front of her. The fog seemed to swallow any hint of the flame, leaving only a slight trace of its glow to guide her movements. The pace appeared to quicken instantly to a gallop and then decrease suddenly to a slow trot, making it extremely difficult for her to preserve the integrity of the file. She wondered how the rider behind her faired in her wake. She hoped that the other could sustain a bearing on her torch but for now she dared not look back for fear of losing sight of the elusive glow in front of her.
The cold mire air grew steadily damp and stagnant as the last remaining hints of the earlier wind disappeared for good. Adrina began to shiver uncontrollably once more. It was as if unseen hands groped their way across her skin and the touch was cold and sinewy.
She tried to find warmth and security in her heavy hooded cloak but she found none. Then just when she thought she could tolerate no more, it was as if those same unseen hands had reached out and grasped her throat, squeezing down with slow, firm pressure.
Suddenly she was afraid to move. What if she raised her hands to her neck and really did find an unseen hand gripped about her throat? But what if it was only her imagination? What then? She wanted to scream out for help, to lash out at the unseen specter, to cry out to the dead land that she did not want it to claim her.
She began to whimper and plea with the unseen hands to release her but this only caused a flood of suppressed emotions—three years of pain and anguish, sorrow and denial—to descend upon her. The dead, gray walls of Imtal were around her, looming up dark and deadly before her—like in her dreams—and all the land was dead and she, Adrina, was dead.