James Clemens - Shadowfall

“I’ve informed Tracker Lorr of his duties,” Argent said. “He will not leave your side or your door until the godslayer is subdued.”

Kathryn rounded on the warden. “And when does his duty commence?”

“At this very moment. I thought it best you both become acquainted with your new routines as soon as possible.” His gaze turned to the tracker. “Lorr, are you ready to introduce Castellan Vail to your.. ah, what do you call them… very colorful as I recall? Ah yes, your right and left hands.”

With another half bow, the tracker turned toward the door.

Kathryn hesitated. Was she being dismissed from the meeting already? A hard stare from Argent answered her. Clearly he meant to keep her in the dark on further details. Did he distrust her, think she would betray their secrets to Tylar?

With black clouds about her shoulders, she swung away and followed the tracker. He opened the door and continued through, not bothering to see if she kept pace with him. Perhaps it wasn’t necessary, armed as he was with his Grace-sharpened senses.

Out in the hall, the two young knights stirred as the pair stormed out. Kathryn imagined the tracker was no more keen to be relegated to mere guard than she was to be kept under guard. He continued down the hall, turned down a side passage, and crossed to a barred room.

Turning to her, he spoke for the first time. His voice was surprisingly soft coming from such a gruff exterior. “Best take care a moment. They’re easily spooked.”

He lifted the bar and pulled the door open, blocking the opening with his body.

Kathryn felt something large stir beyond the door. A shift of boulders.

The tracker growled deep in the back of his throat. He kept his post for another long breath. The door bumped as something heaved against it. Lorr reached a hand inside. “There’s a good laddie,” he mumbled in his soft voice. “You, too, you big kank.”

He straightened and opened the door wider, revealing a sight to horrify even the stoutest heart.

Two massive beasts filled the doorway, standing shoulder height, heads as large as shields. A pair of bullhounds. Meaty, thick necked, ropes of drool hanging from slavering lips. Where such humour dripped, stone etched with a poisonous hiss. Out in the field, the drool was used to wear heavy bone while gnawing. The beasts, native to the most remote areas of the hinterlands, were known to bring down giant sarrians and battle the massive myrlions.

“Barrin and Hern,” the tracker said as introduction.

Kathryn could not tell them apart. Both were maned in black, a tad short of shaggy, and striped in thin bands of copper. She backed away as the pair of bullhounds slunk into the hall: snuffling, breaths steaming, crouched low on bellies, stumped tails sticking straight up.

Creatures of black nightmare.

Lorr stood between them. “We’ll keep you safe, Castellan… even from a godslayer.”

“Welcome home.”

Tylar scowled at the thief. Rogger crouched in the reeds with Delia. Dawn broke to the east, a cheery rose that did nothing to warm the chill from their bones. All three of them were soaked to the skin, muck-deep in mud and boggy silt. Clouds of gnats and bloodsuckers buzzed and whined about the trio. A few surly marsh frogs, as large as platters, croaked their passage from atop a half-sunken log. A king-wader strode past, its head and speared beak taller than a man, spying above the reeds, regal and aloof.

With the rising sun, they had decided to make landfall here, in the Foulsham marshes, where no one would note their approach and where there was plenty of cover to hide the Fin from both the shipping lanes of the Straits of Parting and the few villages that lay ashore. They had selected an empty stretch of coastline and watched for the glow lights from early-morning giggers and fishers.

Once the skies lightened enough to see by and most of the nocturnal marsh predators had slunk back to their lairs, Rogger had led Tylar and Delia toward the shore. The thief promised that he knew some paths through the marshlands, knowledge gained from the time he spent here in Foulsham Dell.

They planned to steer clear of the god-realm itself, edge past its eastern border, and head overland for Tashijan. They had originally thought to make a more direct approach, landing somewhere along the Steps of the Gods, the ancient series of lofty bridges connecting a series of small islands to form a road between the First and Second Lands. But upon arriving among the islands, they found all the shores heavily guarded. Word of the godslayer’s escape from the corsairs had flown ahead of them.

So they had kept their craft submerged and passed between two of the islands, sailing into the Straits of Parting that separated the First and Second Lands. Over another full day, they had glided along the southern coastline of the First Land, debating where best to make landfall.

It was Rogger’s idea to go through the marshes.

“So when’s the last time you placed a foot here?” the thief asked as they slogged toward more solid ground.

“On the First Land?”

Rogger nodded.

“Five years.” The thought had been on Tylar’s mind since abandoning the Fin. Five years. A long time to be gone. But it seemed too short, especially when measured against the span of his pain and hardship. It seemed an entire lifetime had passed, not just five years.

And now he had returned, come full circle. To what end? To clear a name long abandoned? To right a wrong? Despite the stripes on his face and his healed body, he was no knight.

“Of course, I’m not sure this is exactly making landfall yet,” the thief continued, dragging a foot from the muck with a slurping sound. “More like making mud fall.”

Delia slapped her arm, squashing a winged sucker. Both Delia and Rogger bore red welts from their bites on arms, face, and neck. Only Tylar was spared.

Delia caught him staring as she flicked away the offending insect. “It’s your blood,” she said. “Even the suckers smell the Grace flowing there. Like smoke from a fire. They know better than to sip from such a font.”

Rogger scratched a bite on his neck. “And you were grousing about being Grace blessed. I’ll take your burden ’til we’re out of these skaggin’ marshes. Or even for-”

“How much farther?” Tylar asked, cutting him off.

“Not far.” Rogger climbed a hummock, shoving between bushes of spiny sedge. He stood with his hands on his hips. “Not far at all.”

Tylar helped Delia up. The two had spoken little since the night she had revealed herself to be the estranged daughter of Argent ser Fields, the man who had sent Tylar into slavery.

Delia nodded her thanks as she climbed out of the marsh.

But she did not meet his eye.

Tylar followed. As he hauled himself up, he still felt like he carried the swamp with him: dripping water, caked in mud, sand and silt trapped in every crack and crevice. He had at least managed to keep his bandaged wrist dry, but the motion and exertion had set it to seeping blood again.

Joining Rogger, Tylar spotted a thin path through the marsh grasses, no more than an animal track, but it led away. The hummock they stood on was connected to others in a maze-like chain.

“Do you know where we are?” Tylar asked.

“More west than I’d hoped. This is the Middens, if I’m not mistaken.”

“The Middens?” Delia asked.

Rogger picked a leaf from his beard. “The eastern border of Foulsham Dell. We’ll have to move quickly. Skirt the edge. In these wilds, there’s a good chance we’ll be long gone before ol’ Balger sniffs us out. Follow me.”

They dared not venture too far into Foulsham Dell. Through the morning mist, Tylar could see the shadowy silhouette of the mountains of the Middleback Range to the north. The Dell lay in the crumble of land where the mountains tumbled into the Straits. It was a landscape of steaming bogs, dark marshes, sudden sinkholes, craggy slopes, misty highlands, and in the center of it all, the sprawling, ramshackle city of Foulsham Dell.