In the distance, the smoke continues to swirl around the stone wolf, its silhouette vaguely visible against the backdrop of the wall that extends around the vast city.
I wanted the wolf to remain like a guard outside the wall, facing the mountains as a warning to anyone who was foolish enough to try to attack the city.
Now, I wish that the wolf had turned to face inward before it died so that the humans could look upon its fierce face until the time when I can return.
As for the monsters that might rise in the wasteland while I’m gone, if Braddock, Nero, and Vincent are smart, they’ll ask their metalworkers to copy the harpoon and create more crossbow bolts. It was the launching mechanisms that had eluded them in the past, and I gifted the mechanisms to them.
As much as I hope those men die at the hands of a monster, there are people in the city who aren’t my enemies: Kedric and Maybelle, who raised my brother and sister as if they were their own children; and Mother Solas, as well as her granddaughter, Rachel, who are descended from the last human king. They treated me with rare kindness. Possibly also Genova, who is the head of the farmers’ guild—although I can’t be completely certain about her loyalties.
I turn away from them now, hurrying onward.
The Sunken Bog stretches out into the east, a marsh filled with misshapen trees that have an eerie, amber hue, their trunks perpetually rotting. Their branches stretch high and cover the ground in shadows, seeming to seal in the moisture so that its muddy surface never dries out. Anything heavier than a small stone sinks into the gunk. Even the trees are constantly sinking.
Some clumps of greenery are so thick that I won’t be able to pass through them. I’ll need to find trails and gaps, but it’s going to be far more difficult with the stretcher.
Far, far worse now that I can only see ten paces ahead of myself. The wood smoke is eye-watering. Despite the visibility issues, I do my best to stay on course, constantly checking the position of the sun as best as I can through the branches overhead.
Thaden described a safe path through the mountain range that sits directly east where the sun rises. He said that there are caverns on the right-hand side of that pass, and that he would lead my siblings there, where they would all wait for me.
I push onward, fighting with every step to stop the stretcher from sinking. The mud sucks at the ends of the tusks as they gouge a path through it, the sodden earth seeming to grab hold and pull down with every step I take.
My muscles are cramping and sweat is heavy on my face, mingling with my tears, but it only fuels my pain, which in turn feeds the medallion.
The Vandawolf’s breathing is louder than it was before, but it’s a fearsome, rasping sound, as if the smoke is scraping at his throat with every inhale and exhale despite the mask he’s wearing.
I travel for hours, navigating between patches of rotting trees, somehow managing to keep moving in the right direction.
Insects buzz around me, but I ignore them. They’re harmless. It’s the creatures that slither in the mud that are dangerous. They might once have been snakes, but their forms have become grotesque over time.
Each time I was forced to fight a monster in this bog, the reptiles within the soil seemed to have grown bigger and could move faster than they could the time before.
Genova herself said that the magic in the Sunken Bog was getting stronger. She reported that the edges of the crop fields in the south were decaying and becoming covered in slime.
I can smell the sludge on the ground and trees even over the top of the acrid scent of smoke that remains thick around me. The decay. It’s only growing worse the deeper into the bog I go.
Until finally, I’ve traveled far enough that the smell of rotting wood overcomes the scent of wood smoke.
That’s when I become aware of rustling in the leaves beneath the trees on my right.
I pause for the first time, fighting the way my muscles instantly cramp up.
I bring the stretcher to rest across the roots of an amber-colored tree that glows so brightly in the shadows, it plays havoc with my vision. Its leaves are tightly curled and remind me of crickets and grasshoppers. Of course, I’ll only find out if theyareinsects if I brush the damn things.
Satisfied that the tree’s roots are stable enough to support the stretcher for now and keep it from sinking into the mud, I close my eyes and listen carefully.
My breathing, as well as the Vandawolf’s rasping, are loud in my ears, but I force myself to focus beyond it.
The strange sound to my right mimics the breeze through the trees, the rustle of twisted leaves, but it’s louder than gusting wind. Noticeable enough that I can’t dismiss it.
It’s a kind of swirling, scratching, swishing noise.
Now that I’ve stopped moving, I can discern that it’s not only coming from my right, but also up ahead.
Also… on my left.
My eyes slowly open, widening.
Damn.
