Sighing, Celeste tied the line to the forebow of her saddle. Then she tethered Roel’s animals to her packhorse. She mounted and said, “Ready.” Paying out the rope, she let Roel move ahead and then followed. Into the twilight they went, the other horses trailing after. Darker it got and darker, and Celeste stopped just short of the midmost wall of ebon.
Roel stepped through.
The line jerked taut.
“Roel!” cried Celeste, and she spun her mare about and rode swiftly away, the other horses in a confusion but following.
And she dragged Roel after. .
. . and he was shouting.
When she realized Roel was behind her, Celeste haled her mare to a halt.
Disentangling himself, Roel stood. . and dripped.
He was covered in yellow-green slime.
Concern and wilderment on her face, Celeste leapt from her mount and ran to him. “Are you injured?” And he looked at her and burst into laughter. “Were you going to drag me at a gallop through all of Faery?”
“I thought an Ogre or some such had you. The rope snapped tight. What happened?”
“Oh, love, I merely fell down. ’Tis a swamp on the other side.” He began wiping the odiferous sludge from his face.
Celeste wrinkled her nose and drew away.
Roel glanced at her and said, “Come to think of it, mayhap I should have let you go first.” And he burst into laughter again.
Celeste and Roel had to lead the animals afoot through the treacherous murky waters, where quags and quicksand and sinkholes might lie. The horses were slimed to the hocks, and Celeste, too, was covered in slime full to her waist and up her left side to her shoulder, for she had taken a fall, and only her grip on the reins had preserved the relative cleanliness of her right arm.
Slow was their progress as they passed through stands of saw grass and reeds and wove their way among hummocks. Dark willows wrenched up out of the muck, and gray tree moss dangled down from lichen-wattled limbs.
Things unseen plopped and slithered and gurgled, and oft great bubbles rose to the surface and slowly burst, releasing horrendous odors. Now and again they had to double back to find a safer route through the slime-laden, waterlogged mire. But occasionally they came to more solid ground, and the first time they did so, Celeste looked down at herself and cried, “Leeches!
Roel, leeches! Ghaa! I hate leeches!” And she whipped out her long-knife and began raking them from her leathers even as they oozed up her legs and sought entry to her flesh.
Roel, however, ignored those on his garb and began scraping the parasites from the legs of the horses.
When all of the animals were cleared of the bloodsuckers, Celeste and Roel mounted up and made good time until the solid ground gave way to mire again.
And that was the way of their travel through the morass: wading and leading the horses, scraping off leeches and riding, and then wading and leading again.
And gnats whined and flies bit and midges crawled into ears and nostrils and across eyes, and batting and slapping and raking, Celeste thought she would go entirely insane, though Roel seemed inured to it all.
Sunwise they fared, ever sunwise, as the day grew and peaked and waned, and just at dusk, they finally emerged from the swamp and onto solid ground, where rolling hills stretched out before them.
Exhausted and itching and well bitten, and filthy beyond their wildest imaginings, they made camp and built a fire and heaped pungent greenery upon the blaze and let the smoke drive all but the worst of the flying pests away.
They unladed and fed and watered the animals and groomed and treated them for their wounds, spreading a salve o’er the places where the parasites had sucked.
Then they used some of their drinking water to wash themselves, and they changed their clothes. Fortunately, they both had been wearing leathers and boots, which protected them from the leeches. Even so, they suffered from the many bites they had taken from the flying pests, especially the gadflies, a number of which were yet whining about.
“Would that we had tails,” said Roel as they ate. He occasionally flicked a fly from his fare, though for the most part he ignored them and consumed gnats, midges, and all, unlike Celeste, who seemed to believe that each insect that landed on her food polluted it nearly beyond redemption, and she spent much time plucking away tiny pieces of her fare, where gnats and flies had walked, and flipping the infinitesimal pinches away, and taking bites in between landings.
As Celeste plucked and flipped another speck, she frowned. “Tails? Whatever for?”
Roel merely pointed at the horses. Munching oats from their feed bags, head to tail they stood, each swishing flies away from the face of another.
Celeste laughed and said, “Ah, oui, tails would be a treat right now.”
She flipped away another tiny piece of bread and quickly took a bite before another fly could land, and as she chewed she said, “I don’t know about you, love, but I am going to sleep entirely under cover.” In spite of her matted hair and the odor yet clinging, and regardless of his own filthy state, Roel embraced her and kissed her tenderly and said, “Then do so, cherie. I’ll take first watch and keep the fire going.” The moon was on high when Roel, sword in hand, quietly awakened Celeste. “Shh. . ready your bow, for someone moves through the swamp.”
Celeste looked, and a light bobbed among the trees.
“Ah, love, ’tis the Will o’ the Wisp you see. Follow it not, or it will lead you to a watery death.”
“A watery death, eh?”
“Oui. Some think it a tricksy Boggart, out for a mere prank, while there are those who believe it’s a ghost of someone who has drowned and wishes the same fate for others, and it bears a candle to lure the naive; hence it is also called a Corpse-candle. It has many other names, yet regardless as to whether it is Boggart or ghost or something else altogether, it is not wise to stalk after one.”
Roel frowned. “I know of ghosts, but what is a Boggart?”
“Generally a Brownie who’s been soured by mistreatment.”
“Well, ghost or Boggart, will it threaten us?”
“Non. It will remain in the swamp and bob about and try to entice you to follow.”
“Then go back to sleep, cherie. I will remain on watch.”
Celeste glanced at the moon directly overhead, the silvery orb some four days past full and said, “Roel, Roel, what am I to do with you? It is well beyond mid of night. It will do ill for you to be weary on the morrow and in the days to come. Non, love, you must sleep. I will set ward now.”
Celeste was adamant, and so Roel took to his bedroll, and immediately fell into slumber, leaving Celeste to watch the ghostly light of the Corpse-candle drifting o’er the murky waters of the mire.
The sun was well risen when they set off again, for Roel had slept late, yet Celeste was aware of the urgency to get on with the quest, and so, at last, she had awakened him. And now they were on their way once more.
Across the rolling hills they fared, travelling due sunwise still, and in late morn they came upon a clear- running stream burbling out from a woodland. They watered and gave rations of grain to the horses, and then shed their clothes and waded in calf-deep to wash away the last of the mire. As Celeste scrubbed her pale blond hair, Roel began to harden at the sight of her, but feeling the need to press on, he plopped down into the chill flow. In spite of the cold water, he remained thrilled by her beauty and by her shapely form and her undeniable charms, and only by thinking of other things did he suppress his risen desire.
Free of grime and dressed once more, notwithstanding the underlying sense of urgency, they took time to clean their leathers-wetting and scraping away the semisolid muck yet clinging to the garb until pants and jackets were habitable once more-for who knew what might lie ahead? Who knew what the Fates might have in store for them?
After a quick meal of their own, they mounted up and on they went, and the hills began to flatten until they rode across undulant plains, mostly grassland, though a few thickets were scattered here and there.
Sunwise they went and sunwise, and they came to a road curving out from two points starwise of sunup and
