Page 65 of Curse of Thorns
My head and heartache in sync. My muscles feel heavy and weak. But my soul is ready to complete this stupid quest and be done with it.
As a boy, I’d dreamed of being a hero, but I was never strong enough for it. One look at my perfect brother and I knew I’d never be like him. I’d never be good enough to step out from his shadow. And my father—well, he pointed out every flaw as cruelly as he could manage.
I believed, for so long, that I wasn’t good enough to do anything worthwhile with my life.
But I’ll prove them wrong. I’ll do this.
I clench the leather straps of my backpack and march forward, through the trees, toward the south wall.
The Schorchedlands are twenty-five hundred square miles. A perfect square, which means fifty miles on each side. It’s only twenty-five miles to reach the center, where the air is so thick with poisonous sulfur a living being can only survive for hours before succumbing to the death that presses in.
Which is exactly where I must travel.
But that relatively short trek is filled with spirits and obstacles that will make the trials look like a child’s game.
I have a rough map of the layout, but the last person to have come through the Schorchedlands was one hundred years ago, and so much of this place is based on the magic of the spirits inside there’s no telling how the terrain has changed in that time.
Once out of the copse of trees, I climb a set of average looking boulders and stop to admire the view. Well, admire is a strong word. There is nothing admirable about this place. It smells like decayed flesh, feces, and sulfur. The skyline is marred with a smog that wafts into the air so that even the sun and stars cannot be seen from this place.
I get my general bearings and pull out my compass. My path will be over the non-imposing level field of mud and muck before me. Beyond it is a shadowed forest.
There are no creatures to be seen at the moment. Everything appears simple. Easy.
I know better.
Even just my short journey last night gives me a clue that it will not be as easy of a trek as it looks. Walking only minutes brought me to a bush of thorns and mud up to my ankles. How deep will it go?
Only one way to find out.
I climb down the boulder and march into the mucky expanse. There is no water here, certainly nothing I could drink. In fact, I know that’s going to be a major hurdle during my journey. There is only one place to the east that has drinkable freshwater, and it’s a breeding ground for creatures looking for something new to snack on. I have to portion the water I do have and deal with the extra weight it adds. I know I can survive several days without any water at all, but I don’t need a ticking timer added to my obstacles.
My boots grow heavier and heavier as I march through the mud, first sinking inches. Then, quickly, it’s up to my ankles. I hope this mud doesn’t have any magical properties because it’s already soaking through my socks to my skin. There’s nothing more I can do to get through it without using magic, which would bring attention that I don’t need, and I doubt it would help much as it is.
I press on as quickly as I can manage but still sink farther and farther into the muck. Sloshing through the smelly and thick sludge, I can no longer pick my feet out entirely and just push my way through. Will I be swimming in it soon?
I grit my teeth and keep walking. My toe catches on something hard, just enough to catch me off guard. I catch my balance and keep walking.
Then, something grips my ankle. It’s hard as stone, hidden beneath the thick muck at least a foot deep, clasped entirely around my ankle. I frantically shake it free and begin a high-step run. It’s barely successful, but I just want to get away from whatever had me. I’d have expected a creature inside water. Not in thick mud.
But this is the Schorchedlands.
My heart pounds harder. If it gets any deeper, I may be in trouble. Before I had been comforted that if the muck pond got too deep, I could just turn around. Now, my stomach twists at the thought that I may have some kind of creature following me. I’m past it now, but that only means if I turn back I may have to face it.
My leg stings, and I lift it high enough to notice blood trickling down into my sock.Shit.
I grit my teeth through another scrape on my shin as I slip even deeper. Then another.
My breathing grows heavier. I’m halfway through the muck field.
High above, birds of prey have appeared, circling in the red haze above me, ready and eager for a feast.
Panic is coursing through my veins, but I can’t freak out.I can fight whatever is beneath this mud, I tell myself.
I hope.
I’d so much rather have to face something massive and powerful but visible. This not knowing what’s right beside me has my anxiety pulsing to the extreme. That anxiety claws at my lungs, making it hard to breathe, and messes with my head. I power through, marching as fast as I can. Something else claws at my ankle, but I quickly pull it free. It’s not strong, whatever it is.
The birds screech over my head.
