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  The hunter led the army to a rocky slope. It was not quite a hill, for there was no such thing within this swamp, but it was as close as they would get.

  “Do not drink any water.” Hruidgar warned.

  It seemed good advice to Brand. They had supplies enough of food and water to last them until out of the swamp, and that would do. There would not be any fires either. There was no such thing as dry wood here.

  Brand supervised the establishment of a camp. He was glad at least that all the warriors could be brought together in one place, and at a distance from any water. The rocky slope offered little concealment for anything to stalk them too. Another benefit. Yet he set a watch of roving guards as an outer ring to the camp as well as a closer ring of stationary sentries. This was no place to take any chances. Who knew what was out there? But if anything was drawn to them in the night, the many watchful eyes of the guards should give it pause.

  It was a cold dinner. And the men spoke only in hushed tones. Brand walked among them, sharing a word here and a joke there. He was getting to know them. Shorty, Taingern and Haldring did likewise.

  The dark grew deep. The night became old, and everyone settled down to sleep as best they could on the hard surface. They slept with their boots on, because it was the sort of place a warrior always wanted to be ready to stand and fight. But the boots also kept the mosquitoes at bay. Against this nuisance the men also wrapped a spare cloak, tunic or cloth of some sort around their faces.

  Between the hard surface and the insects, sleep did not come easy. And when it did, they were woken often enough by strange grunts and moans and shrill cries that came from all around. The swamp at night was alive with animals, with hunters and prey and prey that could defend itself. Screams tore the air at whiles, the last breath of some creature that defended itself less well than it needed to. Death was all about them, and the old magic stirred. It was stronger in the dark.

  19. The Mists of Prophecy

  Brand spent most of the night dozing but never quite asleep. Nearby, other men snored softly. Haldring tossed and turned. And the hunter lay still. He was awake though, and at times Brand thought he saw his dark eyes gleam as they gazed out toward whatever cry had last signaled the final misfortune of some animal.

  Dawn finally came, and the army trudged on. The men were scared. A night in this swamp was more than they had bargained for, and in some ways it was worse than a battle. They were trained for that, but they had no idea how to deal with a place where the land itself seemed an enemy.

  The rocky ground gave swiftly away to wetlands once more. Again, there was a patch of felled logs that formed a corrugated bridge over stretches of black mud. They were slippery, but they felt secure beneath Brand’s boots. He wondered how old the timber was. In places such as this, submerged in water or covered by mud, wood did not rot for decades. Even centuries. He had heard once that timber and even human bodies could be preserved for thousands of years. That was a possibility too. Whatever the case, he did not believe the Duthenor had ever laid this trail. But someone had, and he guessed it was long, long ago.

  The hunter raised his arm and pointed. Away in the distance, steam rising from it in a slow-drifting cloud, lay a tarn.

  “That,” whispered the hunter, “is the home of old Grinder.” He smiled then, his sun-browned face a flash of teeth and a glint of dark eyes, and then he led them on once more.

  They avoided the place. There was no sign of the legendary creature though, but Brand sensed a presence, alert, brooding and watchful. Even a monster was wary of an army, and as Brand sensed him the thing probably sensed Brand. Sleeping dogs were happy to let other sleeping dogs lie. There was nothing to fight over, no need to stir up trouble.

  The hunter came to an alder tree. It was an ancient thing, leaning over and its trunk heavily fissured. Its bark had been scored in places by an axe. Or claws.

  “This is as far as I have ever been,” Hruidgar told Brand. “But I learned from the old man who showed me the ways of this place that when he was young he found a way out not far ahead. He went that way only once though, and never dared return.”

  They pressed on. Brand was no longer sure if there was a trail, but the hunter seemed confident of where he walked. Soon, a wailing noise drifted to them, a sound full of the woe of the world. The hunter nodded to himself as though he expected that, and he walked on, his hand gripped tight to his sword hilt.

  The alder trees grew thickly here, as though they formed a fence, even, perhaps, had been planted as a barrier. And from the branches hung human heads. Some were mere skulls, but others were fresh and the smell of rotting flesh hung in the air.

  Brand moved ahead of the hunter and investigated. He walked slowly, his gaze taking in the scene but also searching out any sign of a trap or ambush.

  A slight breeze picked up. All there ever was in the swamp. One of the heads moved, and it moaned. The sound was horrifying, and behind him Brand heard swords being drawn and also the sound of retching. He stayed still, his gaze fixed on the head.

  The lips did not move, yet the moaning continued. The head swayed in the breeze, and then its movement lessened as the breeze died down. The air became still again, and the moaning faded to silence.

  Brand reached out. Gently he touched the head, sought its mouth with his fingers and withdrew a length of pipe. It was made of a reed, and there were holes in it. The back end was narrowed, perhaps bent by steam to catch the wind and whistle. Tooled leather, with holes in it, slid back and forth over the holes as the head swung in the air. It was a flute and the source of the noise.

  He examined the head now, dismantling it. The hair was woven of animal hair, probably from a goat. It was glued to a skull constructed of various animals. Skin and nose and ears were made from thin leather, now rotting.

  Brand turned to the men. “These are not real. They are fake, and the noise of the moaning is caused by this.”

  He threw the flute to Shorty. The little man caught it deftly, shrugged, put his lips carefully to its end and blew. The flute moaned, and he danced a little jig. The men nearby laughed nervously.

  “Pass it back through the army,” Brand said. “Let everyone see the fakery. While we march.”

  He gestured for the hunter to lead them forward again. Hruidgar muttered to himself. Had he known what they would find here?

  They pressed ahead, finding a gap between the trees. What Shorty had done was no surprise to Brand. He had thrown it to him for a reason. Shorty always had a sense of humor, and that was precisely what the army had needed just then. Laughter banished fear.

  But the question hovered in Brand’s mind; why had he thrown the flute to Shorty? Had he just known it was the thing to do? Was it his instinct as a leader of men, especially warriors? Or was it what Aranloth had called riding the dragon’s breath? How much of his life, of moments just like that, had been blind luck or the operation of some hidden force, some sort of destiny or fate?

  The feel of the land subtly changed. Brand sensed the creature known as Grinder out there somewhere, perhaps close enough to watch them. But there was something else too, something older and stronger.

  To their right the land dipped into a series of murky lakes, one at the back very large. A gray heron flew overhead, gracefully lumbering, its head turning to the side in midflight as though it were deciding where to land and then thinking better of it. The bird disappeared behind a stand of trees ahead.

  To their left the land rose higher into some craggy slopes, strewn with tumbled rock and overgrown with moss and tufted grasses. Ahead, through the stand of trees, was a kind of meadow. There seemed to be good, solid ground there. Green grass grew upon it, and a cottage stood in its center. Smoke rose in a lazy column from a rickety chimney that looked as though it were about to fall into a pile of bricks on the ground.

  “The witch!” hissed Hruidgar.

  Brand had not seen her at first, but as she stepped out of the cottage and walked toward them he studied her. Hi
s magic flared to life, ready. She had power, and she looked as though she had the confidence to use it. An old woman she seemed, an ancient crone. Her hair was lank and bedraggled. Teeth were missing. Warts tufted the skin of her face, and her eyes were rheumy. But they fixed him with a stare that belied her outward appearance. Old she was, but strong.

  She came up to him, and Brand bowed, not taking his gaze off her.

  “Good morning, lady,” he said.

  She closed one eye and studied him. “A lòhren is it? Yes and no I’d say. You have the look about you. But not quite.”

  “A leader of men, at the moment. My name is Brand, and I seek out Unferth.”

  Sometimes it was best to be direct. She would know who he was and what he intended. And she would know he intended no harm to her. He had made that clear by declaring Unferth his enemy.

  She peered at him through her other eye. “Yes, well. I know that. What do you take me for? A stupid old hag?”

  “No, lady. You choose to look like one just now, but you could look any way you want.”

  She looked at him for the first time with both eyes, her bushy eyebrows raised. “Yes indeed. And don’t forget it.” She laughed then, a cackle suited to her appearance. “In truth,” she said, “I am old. Very old. But I like you anyway, despite your youth. Doesn’t mean I won’t kill you though, if it suits my purposes. I’m a bad, bad person.”

  Brand grinned at her. “I like you too. And likewise.”

  She regarded him then a moment, and she seemed amused. “You have style, boy. I like it. Because of that I’ll tell you something.” She dropped her voice to a hoarse whisper that half the army could hear. “You’re being followed.”

  Brand nodded slowly. “I have sensed something. Perhaps it is the … creature that lives in the swamp?”

  The old woman grinned at him, her blackened teeth showing.

  “No. Not him. Someone else. Something else, summoned from the pit. Something new, and that intrigues me.”

  She reached out quickly and took his right hand between her own two. Her touch was cold, the feel of her skin like tattered leather. Brand did not flinch. He had a feeling what would come next.

  The witch closed her eyes and muttered incomprehensibly to herself. Then her eyes flashed open and they fixed him with a milky stare. Her irises had changed color, and he knew she saw nothing of this world but the world of the future.

  “I shall prophesy for you, boy. I have the talent, if you have the courage.”

  “A man makes his own fate, so tell me the future if you will. If I don’t like it, I shall change it to suit me better.”

  She cackled. “The confidence of youth! Well then, let me see.” There was a pause, and then she spoke again. Her voice was different now, less breathy, younger, sure of purpose.

  “Ah, yes, the mists pass and I see. You shall succeed in your quest. But you shall fail also. Yes, yes. That is the way of it. And what you want … you shall never have. Oh, but I have seen that so often before. And … this one is new. Who you are is not who you were meant to be.”

  “Are you done, lady?”

  She gave him an irritated look. “Hush, child. There is more. I see a darkness, old as the hills. It sleeps, but it wakens. Your sword shall be broken, but the land will make it new again. I see … I see. Nay, the mists return and obscure it all.”

  She dropped his hand, and Brand felt for the first time that it was cold as ice. When she had withdrawn her touch, she had withdrawn her magic.

  “Aye boy, the mists are cold.”

  “So it would seem. Thank you for your foretelling.”

  She looked up at him, her gaze suddenly fierce. “Don’t patronize me, child. I’m older and stronger than I look. And I have the true talent. You think my prophesy is vague and uncertain? You think it made up charlatanry? Well, you will see!”

  Her mood shifted again, and she cackled. Brand wondered how sane she was, but looking into her eyes he also wondered how much of all this was an act. Perhaps she really did have the talent. Perhaps she had learned more than she said.

  “This has been interesting, lady. But we must march on now. Yet there are dangers in this swamp. Are you safe from the creature who lives here? Will you be safe from that which follows me?”

  She pursed her lips, the skin of her mouth wrinkled and fissured. “Ha! I’m safe from the first, safer than all others. As for the second. Well, aye, I am safe from him too. We are much alike. We will walk warily around each other. You are what he hunts.”

  Brand hesitated. “I don’t think you’re quite as bad as you pretend. Will you help us?”

  She grinned at him. “Oh, you overestimate me. I’m a bad, bad person. I’ve done things that would shrivel your soul. Oh yes, yes I have. You’re safe from me, today. But I’ll not help you. Nor will I help that which hunts you. I care for nothing outside of this swamp, and you will both be gone soon enough to leave me in peace once more. I offer no help, nor will you ever see me again. I have given of my gift, and that is enough. From time to time I feel the need to do so. If a bird has wings, does it not wish to fly?”

  “Then, lady, we shall be on our way. Fare you well.”

  She did not answer, but she cackled as she turned and walked back toward her cottage. Brand signaled the army forward, and they crossed the meadow in silence. On the far side was another wall of alder trees, and they pressed through it.

  They were back in the wetlands, and most were happy for it. Better the swamp than the abode of a witch, yet she had offered them no harm.

  The day drew on. At whiles they glimpsed higher ground through gaps in the trees. Again, there was a path of sorts, but probably only one the hunter could find. And though he said he had never been this far before, he seemed to lead them true enough.

  By dusk, they reached a strange land of tree ferns and rocky soil. They were higher now, and Brand sensed the swamp stir to life below. He felt also the presence of that which followed him. It was vague, and he could detect little of it. The witch’s senses were keener than his own, and he was grateful for the warning.

  They came out of the stand of tree ferns, and there was solid ground all around them. It was neither rock nor swampland, but the earthy smell of soil made rich by eons of leaf fall. It was a forest, mostly of oaks, and they had passed through the swamp without harm. It was one danger survived, but Brand felt there were other obstacles ahead, drawing close swiftly, and deadlier yet. He would not sleep soundly again until his task was accomplished.

  20. Promises to Keep

  The army moved through the growing dark, happy to put distance behind them and the swamp. They were tired, weary to the bone as few of them had ever been before, but they plodded on regardless.

  Brand led them now, the hunter moving back into the ranks after a handshake and quiet word of thanks for his work. They climbed gradually uphill, and this meant toward the High Way. But Brand had no intention of traveling that way yet. When they had gone far enough from the swamp, he veered left. There, amid a stand of oaks with a small stream nearby, he finally set a camp.

  The men nearly collapsed, but he had walked every step they had, and he knew exactly how tired they were. It was nothing that a warm meal and a good night’s rest would not fix, but they had gained much in return. Unferth did not know where he was, and he could move with relative ease. His force was small and quick, and could strike unexpectedly.

  It occurred to him that he could attack Unferth himself. His force was not great, but he could pass over the land in secret. He knew the ways. If so, he could strike at Unferth with total surprise. He could possibly kill him, for he would not have all his warriors to hand. But what then? He would be exposed, and he would not have sufficient numbers to hold the hall of his ancestors, the same hall that Unferth now ruled from, should Unferth’s captains choose to move against him after their leader’s death. And that, they might well do. No, something more was needed yet before he moved directly against the usurper.

  The de
eper into the Duthgar that he traveled, the better he remembered it. He knew these lands, for he had spent much time here. The districts around this area were the most loyal to his parents. He had hidden here in many farms, and the people who had concealed him had risked their lives to do so. Here, with luck, he could swell his force with warriors and not lift a blade to do so.

  With such thoughts, Brand drifted slowly into a restless sleep. The fires burned low, and the army was still. But there were sentries moving about, double the normal amount, for he took the witch at her word: he was a hunted man. And the magician was no doubt behind it.

  The next morning they decamped and moved out over a flattish land. This was rare for the Duthgar, which was mostly dominated by the rolling uplands through which the High Way ran, or the long slopes that flanked it.

  All the Duthgar was farming country, but this was perhaps the best of it. And though some was pasture for sheep and cattle, most was cultivated fields. They trod a land where wheat and oats and barley were grown, where orchards stood in the sun and vegetables flourished in the deep soil watered by shallow wells.

  The farms were smaller here, but more profitable. This showed in the farm houses, some of which were cottages but most double story houses. Some had barns as large as halls in other districts, while others made use of the lower story of the house as a barn in which to winter cattle. This helped provide warmth in the long, cold winters.

  This was not country in which an army could easily hide. There were fewer trees and woods, and the farm houses were plentiful, which meant there were the eyes of many owners and farmhands to see them. So Brand made little attempt to hide here. Instead, he marched in the open, and the warriors sang as they marched. Old songs and good songs, stories of the Duthgar of long ago that made them proud of who they were.