Free The Crimson Shield by Nathan Hawke Page B

on the far side of the marsh where the land
rose and then sloped towards Andhun and the sea. ‘With luck we’ll be across the marsh before they get here.’
    He tied Corvin to his saddle in the afternoon when the old warrior finally lost his battle with sleep and succumbed, and pushed them on hard and far. One night in the Crackmarsh would be more
than enough. As the daylight began to fade he chose an island that looked big enough to shelter two men and their horses. He tried to light a fire, but between the rain and the marsh everything was
too wet.
    ‘The Marroc have a story about this marsh,’ said Corvin. Gallow grunted. He’d thought the old general was asleep.
    ‘They have several.’
    ‘They used to tell me that the marsh was cursed and haunted. They told me there were hills here once long ago. The Aulians crossed the mountains and built a great city in the middle of it.
They catacombed the hills with tunnels to bury their dead, just as the Marroc do now. They liked to dig, the Aulians. Then the city was struck by plague and there were so many dead that the living
couldn’t make new tunnels quickly enough, and so one night the dead got up and dug tunnels of their own. They dug an enormous labyrinth, huge and vast and so far and so deep that one day they
reached the river. The water rushed under the hills and brought their tunnels down, and the hills and the city on top of them as well, but the dead didn’t know any better and so they kept on
digging. They’re still there. Still digging. The ghosts and spirits that haunt this place are Aulians.’
    ‘The Aulians never built a city here and there aren’t any ghosts or spirits.’ Gallow lay down and closed his eyes. ‘The Marroc around Fedderhun say there used to be a
fine valley here until a witch came to live in it. The witch was so wicked that the one day the river changed its course to wash her away and scour the land of every trace of her. That’s why
nothing good grows here. Witch’s taint.’
    ‘That’s quite a witch then.’
    ‘Oh, she was a very powerful witch and very wicked.’ Gallow laughed. ‘Aren’t they all? And have you ever met a real one?’
    ‘If a witch is an old crone then I’ve met many. But one who talks to the spirits of the Herenian Marches?’ The Screambreaker spat. ‘Witches or the dead of some ancient
plague scratching away under our feet? Ghosts and goblins. Stories for frightening children.’
    ‘The ghuldogs are real enough.’
    ‘Then you watch for them, bare-beard.’
    ‘I will.’
    By the time he’d stripped the horses, the general was already snoring again.

 
     
     
     
12
IRON AND STEEL
     
     
     
     
    F or the third time in as many hours Sarvic’s boot stuck in the mud of the Crackmarsh and he couldn’t pull it out. The water on top was
only ankle-deep, but the mud would swallow a man whole if he stood still for long enough.
    ‘Shit on a stick, Sarvic!’ hissed Valaric. ‘You’re worse than a forkbeard. Special shoes, is it?’ He crouched low in the swamp, motionless amid the tree roots.
Sarvic took the bow off his back and handed it to Angry Jonnic. Every movement had to be painstakingly slow. The Vathen on their horses were close. Trouble was, slow and careful wasn’t going
to get his boot out of the mud. Angry Jonnic wrinkled his nose.
    ‘Swamp stink gets worse every time you move.’
    Valaric was watching the Vathen. ‘I wondered why that forkbeard saved your worthless hide back on Lostring Hill. Now I know. Make my life miserable, that’s why.’
    Angry Jonnic braced himself against a tree. He and Sarvic wrapped their arms around each other and heaved. The swamp let go of Sarvic’s foot with a deep belch and a pungent stink of marsh
gas. Valaric shook his head and winced at the splash. Jonnic settled himself against a tree. When Sarvic had done the same, Jonnic handed him his bow.
    ‘Wait on me,’ growled Valaric. ‘And Sarvic, for the love of Modris, show me it was