Stygmarsh Chapter 3. Into the Stygmarsh

Chapter 3. Into the Stygmarsh


         It was a little after dawn on Tuesday 3rd May when the Sexton’s wagon, accompanied by Captain Scott and six lancers and led by Squire Brannigan in polished breastplate atop his palfrey Clarence, waving loftily to the well-wishers, rolled out of Tawfen towards the marsh. In actual fact it was, as Jim Barley grumbled later, a lot after dawn. It had been held up by, of all things, old Mrs Morton insisting on Brother Michael taking a trunkful of warm clothes, handkerchiefs, socks and a half dozen remedial cordials. The Priest thanked her profusely. When at the last moment she produced a further hamper, that nobody brushed the silly woman aside was due to her beaming, maternal nature more than the manners of the coarse men in the expedition.
         They rumbled along all morning, climbing the gentle road through the wooded hills that surrounded the hamlet of Cross, where small children chased after them in high excitement, before dipping down into the marsh proper. There, on the edge, the Captain called for a noon halt and the Brother’s hamper was opened. It contained a great quantity of ham, bread and honey, enough for a grand and splendid picnic-luncheon whilst the Captain, Ranger and Squire studied the rather inadequate map that Father Compton had given them. Ahead was a score of semi-wet scrubland miles on which the road ran on a bank before dropping down over the Longbrook river fording point and then up a short, sharp climb into the Longwood. The wood was five or six miles broad and surrounded by wetlands. It was decided to proceed on as swiftly as they could.

         By the time they had reached the northern edge of the Longwood it was dark and the Captain called a halt for the night and organized his troopers into watches, corralling the horses about a stout oak tree. Grady, a balding veteran, made a good square meal of pork and potatoes and there was drink aplenty in the wagon, so for the company that naturally congregated around the Priest and Squires tent, it was not uncomfortable. Brother Michael held a small prayer session as the sun went down after which Captain Scott returned to his men and they could be heard laughing softly at some jest and seemed in good spirits.
         Around the rangers fire, talk was hesitant, not least because they had been so many hours in the saddle. Jim asked the other marshman Manon where he hailed from.
“Well I was from village far to the west called Goatling,” Manon replied blithely, “Off the caravan route.”
“Past the Goblin tribelands, then,” the Squire summed up, “What brings you to Tawfen?”
“Travel and the tinkering trade.” Manon admitted, “An’ the chance to learn a tale or two or even participate in one.”
“Fine words, Mr…?”
“Er .. Sure-eye, Manon Sure-eye. I be not fully taught, but I do my best and ‘ave my letters, sir.”
“And you Mr Ricky?” Isambard continued, “Why are you here, so far from your Kingdom?”
“Vell it’s better being here dan dere,” Tricky answered. And went to relieve himself behind a tree.
They went to bed, Tricky sleeping in a leather roll on the wagon with Manon, whilst Jim laid his leather tent out with precision and helped with the Squires larger tent which he shared with the Priest. It was a windless night under the eaves of the Longwood and for most of the company the strange cries, chirrups and rustles made sleep difficult.

         In the morning they moved off across the wood after breakfasting on bread and mutton. The road south of the wood was familiar to Jim and after they had gone some miles they approached a great curve that took the road to drier ground westward. The Captain stopped and conferred with Brother Michael, the Squire and the ranger and all agreed that the Sextons camp had been ‘at the bend and to the north’ where there were many clumps and bands of trees. Captain Scott asked the ranger to act as scout, and the Squire volunteered to accompany him, so they rode ahead. Soon they found what they were looking for in the shape of a small ale barrel, broken and empty, the first in a trail of debris that led to a small copse of trees slightly after where the road turned west. In the wood the signs of the disturbed camp were manifest. All manner of items and two tents were scattered about and trampled. It was also clear that all the items had been ransacked and looted. The Squire reined his palfrey back and reported back to the Captain whilst Jim dismounted and looked at the marks. Brother Michael surveyed the scene with dismay when the company arrived at it.
“Oh dear!” he exclaimed, “What a mess!”
         They began to sort through the bags and boxes and the Captain had ordered beans and potatoes cooked. It was clear the baggage had been ransacked by expert hands. Nothing of value remained. Chests had been splintered, bags split and bottles smashed.
“Oh Dear!” exclaimed Brother Michael again, holding half a stoppered jug up, “The sacramental wine! It’s most awful! Where on Terra can they have got to?”
“I’ll look about, father,” Jim said and he was off prowling about in the scrubs to the north of the camp.
Tricky meantime was sifting through the sacks, discarding ripped clothing. He paused and plucked something shiny from the earth.
“Ho! What’ve you got there?” the Squire asked him sharply.
“It’s just a pin,” Tricky said, handing it over, annoyed with himself for being so clumsy. The Squire called the Brother over. It was of silver and the flattened top had a figure in prayer stamped on it.
“Why that belongs to Frances! It’s from St Justs,” Michael said, “He’d never have left it!”
The only other thing they found was an adder, hiding below a piece of canvas that Tricky made short work of with his sword. After that they gave up the search and rested in the shade.

         It was well past noon, by the time Jim returned leading his horse.
“What did you find, Ranger?” asked the Captain.
“Name’s Barley. I found a camp back in the scrubs maybe a week old. Looks like Goblins. Also this,” and he held up a tattered book, which Brother Michael immediately identified as a Benedictional belonging to the missing Priest.
“Goblins is it!? Well, there we have it!” the Captain seemed satisfied.
“What do you mean ‘there we have it’?” the Squire asked with something of a sneer creeping into his voice.
“I mean we best pack up the wagon and get back to town, son,” the Captain returned squarely.
“Get back!” Brother Michael interjected, “But we have to go after them.. You took the indulgence oath!”
“No, Priest, you took it. I follow the Duke’s orders not the Bishops and I’m only here ‘cos the Bishop asked me to find out what happened. And that’s what I’ve done. Besides if its Goblins, they’ve ‘ad it.”
Michael started to shout his protestations.
“No buts about it Father!” The Captain cut him off, “I’m not to risk the wagon and that’s not leaving the road. We start back in an hour!” So saying the Captain turned on his heel and mounted his horse, shouting orders to his men. They started to pack whatever of the debris would serve as proof of the attack. Brother Michael sat down, feeling thoroughly dejected.
“Can’t you make him stay?” he beseeched the Squire.
“I’m sure he’s nothing to do with me. Besides there are no clear indications on where they could be,” the Squire replied, holding his hands palm-up and scanning the marsh.
“But there are!” Michael exclaimed, “I know where he is and that he’s alive!”
“How can you be so sure?” asked the Squire.
“I can sense my friend by the Faith of the Angels, when I pray.”
The Squire looked skeptical. “So which way is he?” he asked finally.
In answer Brother Michael kneeled and, with his eyes closed, began intoning in the Old Kingdoms entreaties to the Angels and the Saints. He was within himself, within a dark void. A point of light appeared to him, dim at first but gaining strength until it was as if a minute sun hung there, the light of his own Soul. An almost ecstatic feeling swept through the Priest and he gave a slight moan. Now he put all the effort of his thoughts toward his friend Brother Frances, and another tiny point of light appeared, hanging like a moon to his own sun.
“I see him!” he shrieked, standing suddenly upright and pointing southward. Instinctively they all looked toward where his finger quivered, but saw only drab marshgrass and the lazy flapping of a pair of black birds in the far distance.
“What do you see?” Isambard asked.
“Brother Frances is out there!”
         Abruptly, without warning, the Squire stepped to the Priest and grabbed his shoulder and cupped his hand firmly over his eyes.
“What are you doing?” Michael cried.
“Keep your eyes closed!” Isambard snapped and began to turn the man round.
“Oh dear!” the Priest said, but kept his eyes closed. Within his minds eye the little light of Brother Frances began to swing crazily about his own, larger one. The Squire carefully stepped around the Priest as he turned him until he was standing the opposite side to where he had been. Manon and Tricky, realizing the Squire was setting some test, stood quietly back.
“Keep them shut Michael. Right, tell me again where he is,” the Squire commanded. Michael steadied himself on the Squires arm and carefully extended a shaking arm and pointed. Pointed southward to exactly the same spot he had before. Tricky gasped.
“Richtig!” the nasturian said in wonder.
“He’s there!” Brother Michael said, “I don’t know exactly how far. Maybe twenty miles, maybe more.”
“That’s amazing!” said Manon.
“Can I open my eyes now?” Michael added coldly.
         Jim came up quietly. He had been scanning the area across the road.
“Found summat,” he announced, “Orseshoe mark. Recent. Got to be cousin Thoms. Went south.”
“I told you!” Brother Michael said more hopefully, “They must have escaped on the horse.”
“You have me convinced,” the Squire admitted, “Who will come with us then?”
“Best get going,” the ranger said simply, and began to gather his belongings.
Manon and Tricky looked at eachother, at the Priest.
“What about the ‘orses?” Manon asked.
“Leave the ‘orses with the Captain,” said Jim.
“Well count me in,” said Manon.
“Und me,” said Tricky.
“You?” the Squire said, questioningly, “Why do you wish to come, nasturian?”
“Vell looks like you can use der extra man, no?” Tricky replied.
“I hardly think you to be the sort of man for this task,” Isambard snorted.
“Yeah? I vish to save de Priest as much as anyone.”
“Let him come,” Brother Michael interceded, “The Church plays no favourites when it comes to Souls.”
“Very well, very well, Brother,” the Squire acceded, “But you’d better pull your weight,” he said to Tricky.
“Sure I vill. And vithout de troopers dat’s ten silver canons apiece,” he added with a smile.
The Squire approached the Captain.
“Captain Scott,” he called, “Brother Michael insists on staying and we believe we can pick up the trail of the captives.”
“In the marsh? Off the road? You must be crazy!” the Captain jeered.
“Crazy or not the lads there,” Isambard indicated the company, “Are willing to try it. Will you not change your mind?”
“I will not. The marshes are not in the Kingdom.”
“Very well then. I shall ask you to return our horses to my fathers stable and leave with us such vittles as can be spared.”
“To what end?”
“We intend to find the missing men.”
“And if you do?”
“Well, we shall find out the location of the kidnappers and naturally rescue them if it is in our power. In any case we shall be back within a week.”
“Suit yourselves,” the Captain shrugged. “Sargeant Docherty! Give him what he requires from the wagon, and look sharpish! I want to be at the Longwood by nightfall!”
         The ranger looked over the Captains wagon and took down supplies that he distributed amongst the five men. Finally he asked the captain for a sword to be loaned to Brother Michael.
“But I’m a Priest!” Michael exclaimed.
“Plenty o’Priests carry a sword in the Thanelands,” Jim replied, buckling the weapon to Michaels hip, “Never did their piety no ‘arm.”
“Besides, Michael,” Isambard joined in, “If these kidnappers are after Priests, there’s no sense showing them you are one too if we meet them.”
“Oh very well,” Michael sighed, “But I’m sure I don’t intend to use it!”
Manon jumped off the wagon with his bulky leather sack, opened it and brought out a big crossbow of the type that required the bowman to put his foot into a stirrup to load it.
“Impressive!” Jim whistled.
“Never know what you may meet in the marsh!” Manon grinned.

         They watched the wagon with its escort bump out of sight with mixed feelings, and decided to camp that night as far away from the ill-fated place as they could. The Captain had left a barrel of water from which they filled all their waterskins before concealing it beneath a fallen log, and they followed the ranger southward into the unknown.
Jim found fewer and fewer tracks as the land gradually descended and became progressively waterlogged, but there were other, subtler signs, and he led them onward through the bushes and tall grasses with little hesitation. After several miles, however, he stopped and sniffed at the air. He found a hillock of tough grass and climbed onto it to get a better view of the country ahead.
“Crows a gatherin’,” he said.
“What? Where?” asked Brother Michael. Jim pointed and led the way on. Soon they could hear and see groups of the birds arriving from different corners of the marshes and wheeling about, and they suddenly came upon the grisly center of their activities. The land underfoot became increasingly boggy and there, at a point where it dipped into a wide hollow, lay the half submerged body of a horse. Whether the crows had waited for it to die or not, they had since enjoyed many sittings and were camped in the trees and weighing down the bushes on the edges of the wet hollow, like fat plums. Those currently feasting stopped and all the birds turned toward the uninvited guests, beaks rusted brown with blood, eyes shiny, black and watchful. An eerie silence fell and for a moment Brother Michael had the awful impression they might be ‘afters’.
“Gerr-outtavitt!” Jim roared as he surged forward. The spell was undone. The flocks’ resolve broke immediately and they took to the skies as one, screaming Caw! Caw! with a tremendous flapping of black wings.
         Jim went and studied the carcass. He reported that the beast had no tack or harness and must have bolted in the attack and wandered this way afterwards. He could see no signs of any other tracks apart from crowfeet.
“Well so much for Brother Frances and Mr Corn being taken away on horse,” the Squire stated.
“Well, we haven’t come so far yet,” said Brother Michael, “We still need to go south a good way to find them.”
“We be nearing the reedbanks,” Jim said, “No telling how deep the water will become. We’ll just ‘ave to continue as far as we can.”

         They trudged on, Jim taking bearings from the sun rapidly sinking to their right. It became harder work, now wading knee-high in pools of trickling water and now swishing through drier mounds of tough marshgrass and low bushes. Finally they came to a much wider stream that seemed to indicate the marsh now began in earnest. Jim scouted along the edges and found a dry bush-covered mound to camp on, fifty yards from open water to the south. The ranger sent them to collect some of the dry grass and Tricky found some dead bush wood which Jim hatcheted into lengths for the fire. The pot water was first used to make a blackleaf tea and the remainder set bubbling with beans. Soon they had restored some feeling to sodden feet and warmth to cold bellies. The evening wore on and a moon had appeared bringing a shine to the waters. Brother Michael took a prayer with the Squire and pronounced they were closer now and his friend was still to the south and west.
“Can you take us through this marsh?” Michael asked Jim.
“Sure. But we gonna have to skirt the water. Looks to be easier to the west, an’ we can only ‘ope the ground is dryer that way.”

         As dusk had set in, clouds of dark flies arose from the watery land and gathered around them. The Squire and the Priest had retired early, but they could not settle.
“Blasted flies! We’ll be eaten alive!” Isambard complained as the Priest batted and fussed in their tent trying to clear it. “How come they don’t bother you?” he whined to the others sitting by the fire. Jim pointed to the fire where a handful of leaves wrapped about some twigs was producing clouds of smoke with an agreeable scent, sweet like cedar.
“That be stygmarsh agrimony,” the ranger said and he picked up a smoking brand, and walked to the Squires tent where he wafted the smoke about it. “The marsh protects its own,” he said with a wry grin. The Squire looked cross, but he was, if he admitted it, very grateful.
That night was very unnerving for those unused to the noises of the marsh, but their exhaustion soon overcame them and they slept deeply. Jim watched over the embers for a while turning over a small thorned dart with a white plume that he had found at the Sextons campsite, and stoked a wood pipe thoughtfully.

         In the morning the Squire and the Priest stretched aching limbs and joined the others for a breakfast of toasted bread and hard cheese to which Michael supplied the last of the apple pickle from the bag Mrs Morton had given him. The day was wearying indeed as the ranger took them slowly west about a large reed-choked lake. Many times they had to wait while he scouted ahead to avoid the deeper water, often they were forced to follow little streams away from the lake to be able to cross safely or found they had to retrace their way entirely after finding themselves marooned on a small peninsula amid the waters. Yet Barley was up to the task and never grumbled or lost patience when they did, and they proceeded steadily westward. As the shadows they cast lengthened they found that they had drawn level with the northwestern edge of a large lake, the body of which was now off to the south, and they started to climb slightly onto firmer ground. They now found that their way about south was blocked by a rough line of jumbled stones running southwest that formed the base of brown crumbling cliffs. Michael now directed them, after quiet prayer, due southwest with the heartening news that they had closed the distance by half and they set off along the base of the bluffs. They soon encountered the lake again, encroaching on their left, often only a score of yards away, though obscured behind the tall reeds. At last they came to a break in the bluffs where the land had slipped and dancing streams joined the lake, playing hidies-seekies amongst the boulders, Manon thought. Jim called a halt for the day.
         Jim had directed the camp site to be away from the rocky stream beds and amongst a wide band of spongy but dry marshgrass. The firewood collected from higher up the landslip was damp, but the evening was mild and they decided to use their wood resources for cooking and then to do without a fire. Jim reported that the way along the lake shore became narrower and would be increasingly boggy and that, in his opinion, they should proceed along the top of the bluff which would be both drier and afford them a view of how the land lay.

         It was late evening and they had been preparing their tents and talking of negotiating the climb up the bluff the next morning when Jim held his hand up.
“Shhh!” he hissed. They waited tensely as the Ranger slowly got up and stared fixedly toward the soft moonlit waters. “Theres something out ther..aargh!” His words trailed off as something stung him. To their surprise a small stick with a wispy white plume at the end, had sprouted from his right shoulder, just where his jerkin ended. Jim immediately recognized it for one of the strange darts, and dived sideways into a bush, yanking it out.
“Attack!” he yelled, “We’re under Attack!”
The darts started to fall about them with soft thwit! phwit! sounds as they scrambled for cover.
“They’re in the bushes! By the water!” Jim called, pulling an arrow from his quiver to fit to his great bow. He did it with difficulty, for his arm was feeling heavy. Tricky and the Squire had likewise taken to the bushes and nocked arrows whilst Manon had drawn his sword.
The darts stopped falling as abruptly as they had started and lay around the fire like the sprinkling of white blossoms below a Hawthorn tree.
“You alright, Jim?” Manon asked softly, but he received no reply.
“Look!” Tricky cried, and they caught the suggestion of swift movement, from bush to bush and then it was gone. The nasturian loosed a quick shot straight through a bush a dozen yards off and was rewarded by a strange croaking cry. A small figure got up and darted backward, but fell as the Squires’ shaft took it in the back. It lay in shadow, but they had the meanest glimpse of a thin tail flicking in the moonlight.
“Vat the El?” Tricky said.
“Dragon men!” Manon gasped in alarm.
“Damn!” the Squire said sounding rather irritated and looking down, “I’m hit!” and he plucked a dart from his knee. He sized the situation up in a trice, knew he was poisoned and started to run. He ran to the left and away from the water into the marsh grasses but had not gone far when they heard him collapse with a groan. It grew quiet. Manon dragged his gear toward him and, still lying on his back, he loaded his crossbow, using his leg as the leverage to pull the string taut. Tricky had crawled toward the ranger and now scurried back.
“Dey are both gone!” he hissed, “Poisoned!”
“Whaat!?” Manon cried, unable to believe it.
“Der marshman und der Priest,” the nasturian added. Manon now saw the Brother Michael hadn’t dived to safety as he had thought, but had toppled backward, two white plumed darts in neck and arm.
“It’s hopeless. Lets run!” Manon whispered in a voice pale with fear.
“I’m not finished!” Tricky whispered savagely.
Then a voice called out to them from the reeds. It seemed small and high pitched, but the timbre was strange, almost animal. It was a strange voice, a cross between a spit and a gargle, but the words were in Young Kingdoms.
“Stop fight. Stop now. Takk,” it said, as if were commanding.
“Who? Vossat?” Tricky shouted, “Whose dere?”
“I KKharoon,” the voice said, with a gutteral ‘k’, “We no kkill. We takk.”
“You talk!” Tricky demanded back.
“We takke you. You kom.”
“What?” Manon said, “Come where?”
“Over water. Takk to friend.”
         The men whispered together. What did they mean ‘Friend’? What were their choices? Manon was for running, but Tricky pointed to the Squire, his legs still sticking up from a bush. Manon crawled to Jim and felt his arm. To his surprise it was still warm, and a pulse beat in it.
“Ees still alive!” he whispered to Tricky, “T’aint deadly pizzen it seems. Least not straightways.”
         They caught a strange clicking noise coming from the direction of the voice. No, not clicking Manon realized, whatever the creatures were, they were talking. The young marshman panicked, started to back away whilst Tricky peered forward, ready to take the next shot.
         Manon wasn’t there when the creatures came forward in a rush and flung a half dozen nets over the nasturian. He didn’t witness the brief struggle that followed until Tricky was stilled. He found he had left the crossbow behind and was crawling madly though the wet grass tussocks, his heart pounding. When he stopped and looked back, all was still, save for the swishing of the marsh grass in the light breeze. He turned to see the legs and torso of a lizard had appeared in front of him, as if from nowhere. He felt a couple of stings in his back and the moon went slowly dark.