Page 100 of A War of Three Kings

Fynbar squats beside me. “They say the bubbles are the deadmen’s screams. That during the night, the ghouls crawl out of the waters and eat the flesh of the impure.”

I give him a sidelong glance. “Has anyone seen these deadmen? What do they look like?” My mind whirls with the possibilities of creatures that could be attacking unwitting travelers. Could there be low fae living here that we don’t know about?

“Nonsense.” My grandmother stalks over. “Tales to stop people getting lost in the marshes and drowning.”

“Then where do you suppose the bubbles come from?” Fynbar says defensively.

My grandmother flicks her wrist at the bubbles. The tiniest spark of lightning leaps from her fingers and the air above the stream suddenly catches fire. The flame flickers blue.

Fynbar pulls back.“What trick is this?”

“None,” my grandmother says. “The marshes leak flammable gases. I merely set one stream aflame.”

Fynbar walks away, muttering under his breath about spirits, and my grandmother gives me a feline grin.

“I needed something to lighten my mood.”

“You shouldn’t toy with him. He has been very useful,” I chide her, but my heart isn’t in it.

We make camp. Many fall asleep on beds of cut reeds and use their cloaks for blankets. I stare out into the distance. Those same blue flames light up the marsh in hundreds of locations, flickering and dancing like spirits. They must have been there the entire time we traveled, but the shadows make them visible.

“No wonder they call these the Deadman’s Marshes,” I mutter to Diarmuid and my grandmother. “The smell, those flames…”

I am still speckled with mud and my skin itches all over from the bites of gnats. My head hurts and my throat rasps from dehydration, but I’m too afraid to drain the dregs from my canteen. There is no fresh water nearby.

But we are alive, and that is an achievement.

“They say there was once a great battle here, and the waters of the marshes rose up from the tears of the widows and claimed the bodies of the dead,” Galvyn offers with a shrug. “That the fallen are wrathful and hungry for vengeance.”

“They say that about all marshes.” My grandmother gives him a dark look and he grins at her.

Diarmuid stands and puts a hand on Galvyn’s shoulder, but he speaks loud enough for everyone to hear. “I can assure you, we druids examined these waters as soon as we made camp. Our enchantment allowed us to reach our collective consciousness into the waters and we did not find any monsters, or undead soldiers, or frankly anything larger than a carp.”

Galvyn dips his head low in thanks.

Despite the druids’ assertions, I set guards on watch, just in case any of Lord Desmond’s followers decide to creep into the marshes with a local guide to ambush us. I take the first watch and hardly sleep for the rest of the night. Slate is a horrible surface to lie on. Its angles dig into my back and the coldness of the stone leaks into my body.

In the deep despair of the early hours, I allow myself to think of Aldrin. It feels like my soul is being ripped apart whenever I contemplate that he could be dead. That I might have to carry on in a world without him, one that would hold no joy for me. I picture the tenderness in his eyes as he gazes down at me. When he declares he will fight for my freedom, no matter what.

I let tears silently roll down my face during the darkest part of the night. When dawn breaks across the sky, I pull myself together and slam on the mask my people need to see.

We make it out of the marshes and navigate through thicker woods. I creep to the edge of the treeline with Diarmuid, Fynbar and Galvyn, and scrutinize the empty lands rolling between our position and Windkeep Stronghold. There is no cover at all.

“The enemy could be lying in wait for us,” Fynbar grumbles.

“If they are willing to risk a confrontation with Lord Adalwolf’s forces.” Galvyn scratches at the stubble on his chin.

I glance between the two men. “Is the captain of the city guard likely to ride out to protect a ragtag group of refugees? What sort of man is he?”

Both soldiers shrug.

“Never met the man,” Fynbar replies. “I rarely visit the city.”

I stare at the city again. A lone hill serves as the foundation for Windkeep, with two great walls snaking around it. Spires and peaks are visible over the top of the fortifications, but little else. The immense gate is shut and there are no travelers on the road that leads to it. They know there is an enemy army marching on them.

“I can’t see that we have much of a choice,” Diarmuid says into the silence, his dirty druid’s robe fluttering around him in the breeze.

I rub at the ache building in my temples. “We will leave the injured hidden in the forest. Those of us who can fight will ride hard to the city and bring back a much larger force to collect them.”

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