That Writing Process, Mk 2

The Chronicles of Everath
Garret: Rider of Nimriene City

This wasn’t quite the worst of times, but it was up there. I had long since lost track of the number of boot-sloughing stops I’d made to dump out the tepid water, but I did know it would never be enough. My socks were soaked through, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if, when I settled down for the night, I found a hole in at least one of them, if not a boot, too. I looked ahead to gauge the distance to the far-away hills of the moor. I might actually make it out of this fen-cum-marsh by nightfall, if not before.

“At least the water here is moving, my man,” I grumbled aloud, trying to console myself. I didn’t want to outright curse the gods yet, but they could handle a bit of smack talk after yesterday’s Bog Episode. I hoped.

Slogging through this muck – sometimes clear river, sometimes mud, hopefully the occasional dry dirt, always difficult, midge-ridden, and me on high alert for venomous creatures – stunk as much as weekly fertilizer duty after classes in my youth. There, though, they gave us taller boots. And pitchforks. I gazed now across the tops of marsh grasses, each one beckoning me closer. This is safe, they seemed to croon with their itching noises, we’re all dry here.

I started to snort at the thought, but another movement caught my attention, lower than the grasses and not nearly as hypnotizing. Where did I see – There, where the slow-wandering river cut a swathe of open space between reedy shorelines, an eye sparkled in the sun, just outside the edge of the waving reeds. It rested in a brown head with its twin, floating just above the water line. An otter-shaped head.

A large, person-sized, otter-shaped head.

I dove into the water, pointing my hands forward with an ease born of long practice. Pushing down and outward, hoping this part of the river was as deep as it had been upstream, I snaked through the water with the current, aiming for the other bank. For a moment I thought it had grabbed me, yanking hard. With a sinking feeling, though, I knew it was my pack snapping off with the force of my dive, my shoulders feeling suddenly much, much lighter. Maybe I’ll find it downstream. It wasn’t important right now, though. I cursed anyway and felt at my belt and chest as I kicked. Good. My hand axe, though dragging at my speed, still rested at my hip, my oilskin message pouch still strapped across my chest. I drove my arms into the water again and pressed on.

As talented as I am, I do not, unfortunately, breathe underwater, and I hadn’t properly prepared enough to last long without breath, either. I worked my way toward an opening in the reeds and lifted my head to free just my eyes and nose. My feet scrabbled, finally finding solid ground, and I turned, inch by agonizing inch, to avoid disturbing the water.

When I had first spotted it, I had hoped my caution too great, that it was just an actual, early-rising otter hunting for a snack before going back to nap until sunset. As I looked out across the waterway, though, the massive creature standing atop a hillock was not, in fact, an early rising otter.

Oh, it looked like an otter.

If an otter was a seven-foot tall humanoid with massive, fully developed ab muscles, a mage’s weirdest nightmare brought to life.

It – no, he perched almost delicately, his webbed paws digging claws through the reeds he stood on and into the ground. Slick, walnut fur covered his body, but for the lighter shade across his chest region that flowed into the waist of his pants. Showoff, I thought. I couldn’t help comparing my own rather wiry, if tall, frame to his. I lost this round.

Bright, curious, intelligent black eyes caught the same shine of the sun, leaving no doubt he had, in fact, followed me downstream. His nose twitched constantly even as his eyes swept back and forth, piercing through the reedy grasses at an astounding rate. His hands, too, looked more like paws, but as he clenched them I noted functional, opposable thumbs. Which also, handily enough, had sharp, shining claws.

He wore a pack on his back that strapped crosswise on his chest – I’d bet anything it was waterproof. It was definitely large enough for the chunks of me he would take home to his wife and kids once he found me. Which, considering his intense gaze and even more intimidating physique, I hoped fervently he would not do.

When he turned back to search away from my hiding place, I took several deep gulps of air and slipped back under, moving little except to keep myself deep, flowing with the current. As much as I regretted taking such a long detour, I had no other choice. My message was too precious to be mangled in an otter-man’s jaws.

I judged my distance by my breath. Of all Queen Elaine’s Riders in current rotation, I was the most classically trained available. Everyone else in my cohort was either dispatched elsewhere, or, more unfortunately, dispatched entirely. This meant, of course, I conveniently received the most difficult routes. As a direct result of my training, as well as Trainer Zorana’s various breathing techniques learned within, with the proper notice I could go for about five minutes. If I liked black spots, six and a half. I counted out five and allowed myself to float slowly upward and into another pocket of grasses, this time on the other side of the river. As slow as this water moved, I couldn’t have made even a quarter mile yet. 

Again I left only my nose and eyes above the water when I rose. I couldn’t see Otto – I’d started calling him that, for lack of anything better – and raised my head in slow increments. He had clearly been hunting something. Please let it have been food, I thought. There was plenty in my pack! His eyes had moved so quickly from picking through reeds to large sweeping motions and back. And with that stance, balanced on his toes? No, I was kidding myself. Otto clutched my spare socks in one massive paw.

I pulled my whole head up to watch a few moments longer before, hearing nothing but the rustling grasses and fauna of the marsh, slipped back under. Silent would be worse, but I’m still too close. I’d go another half mile or so this way before I got back out and walked. At this rate, I was soaked through anyway.

–

Emerging half an hour and a full mile down the river – I’d given up on just floating and snaked my way the last half – I pulled every evasive maneuver out of my considerable arsenal and put it to use. In and out of waterways, turning my trail back in and around, never leaving a scent or so much as a bent stalk if I could help it, always moving in as northeasterly a direction as I could. There was no chance, at this rate, of taking up my original route through the marshes, onto the moors, and, from there, cross-farmland up to the back gates of Elaine’s keep in Nimriene City. With today half-wasted already and not even a vague idea of my new starting point, it would be much, much longer than I could afford.

I shook my head vigorously and started moving again, wet black hair swishing and smacking against my face and neck. I twisted it up out of my way into a quick queue, but I knew it wouldn’t hold for long. At least it would dry quickly in this heat. Unlike the rest of me.

I stumbled a bit when my foot hit solid ground after the soggy mess of a route I’d been on, but I settled into my new gait quick enough, and quit with the trail-wandering soon after. If Otto happened upon my trail so far down this way, he’d find me anywhere. Better to make camp in the light and fortify how I could. And quite literally no skin off my back if I lucked out and actually did lose him.

With solid ground came the gradual end of the marshlands. This far south, the marshes didn’t fade directly back into the moors. Somewhere northward they split, and the pocket between sported a fine, forested space, filled with tall grasses mingling from both its parents, maybe a mile across at its widest. I’d had a map at one point and had studied it pretty thoroughly, but not knowing how far south I was would possibly be the death of me – or worse, my quest. If I had come out too far south of that mile mark, I’d get stuck in real wild country, which spread far, far beyond where I needed to be. With only my axe – is it still there? Yes, alright – to protect me, I wouldn’t make it through the night, nor find my way back through the Fey Woods. Best to head north through the forest for the rest of the night, and, if I woke up the next morning, start curving eastward.

As I walked, I realized the strange melding of fen, marsh, moor, and forest left it very difficult for anyone to sneak up on me – or me, them. Otto could maybe slip through on all fours, but I doubted it – he was more shaped for brute strength than creeping along, and that much bulk would wake the birds with a vengeance. As it was, it took the wildlife another half hour to settle down about my own presence. 

Why was he following me, anyway? I wondered, squelching with each step through the undergrowth. He could have spotted me on the hunt and decided I looked tastier than the local fish bar. Probably. Or I might have squished through his afternoon nap spot. Yeah, that had to be it.

Who was I kidding? Diarmid had to have sent him after me, all the way from Faladin in Oriath. All the way from where I’d been until three days ago.

I stopped, sighed. I had to make camp. The sun was headed down, and everyone knew it set faster than it rose. I was running out of time. And if I stopped moving long enough before I was ready, my body would up and collapse. Evading the otter-man had taken more out of me than I’d hoped. Holding my breath, stretching my lungs, tracking back and forth and up and around – that all took energy I hadn’t planned for. Along with my food for the rest of the week. I had to make camp. I had to find a defensible place, firewood, bedding, food. I have to make camp.

I pulled off my leather vest, still wet and, alarmingly, rather pliable. Forcing myself not to panic, I stripped my wool shirt, also dripping, and laced the sleeves through its armholes. If nothing else, I now had pockets. I draped the contraption over one shoulder, shirt on my chest, spread the vest out on my back, and tucked both bottoms into my belt.

I moved on, then, if more slowly, stooping often to pick up any bedding or kindling I could find – debris, small and large sticks, clumps of moss – setting the sticks in my vest and the rest in my shirt. Leave no trace, I reminded myself. I have to think about not soft-stepping, so that wasn’t an issue, but I did need to pay more attention to how I chose my “prey.” And on top of that, the more I stooped, the worse I felt. But if I’d learned anything from Zorana, I learned where my limits were. I had some time yet. Not as much as I’d planned to, but hopefully it would be enough.

I sank into a trance, spotting, stooping, picking, stuffing, walking, spotting. Step by step through the woods, holding my heading, listening for changes in the air, just trying to make it to safety. 

–

I snapped out of my trance when my breath stuttered. I had to stop. Had to pay attention. I was rapidly waning, and I hadn’t even found a site yet – though by the looks of my pockets, I would be ready for one when I did.

Breathing deep in one of Zorana’s patterns, I sidestepped my focus into space, rather than items, and started off again. “Find a site,” I told myself aloud. “Find a site, then work outward.” I was used to living outdoors – often, my job required it. With a damn bedroll. Without my pack, though, I needed vigilance and focus. Three things, I knew, that fly quickly out of reach. “Shelter. Food. Bed. Remember?” Zorana had taught me better than this. Hell, I was better than this.  I had to make it back, had to get this message to Elaine. I’d sent a copy with my horse, but if Otto had found me… I couldn’t think about that. Spirit and I had worked together for years now, but she could handle herself well enough for a horse. She’d gone off to leave a false trail, equipped with her own missive should I be lost.

No. Don’t think. Just do. Once I started looking, I saw plenty of options. Not so many, though, that I could easily defend on my own. Trees clustered together, sure, even a boulder or two. Mostly, though, I waded through grass up to my hips or slipped over untold years of leaf mold. At some point my vision started blurring. For a heartbeat I was back underwater, dodging reeds thick as my wrist and praying I moved naturally enough to be missed, counting, counting, beat, beat, beat –

“STOP.” It came out a bit louder than I intended, but it broke through the rhythmic noises happening around me enough to knock me back into reality. “Stop,” I spoke again through the rhythms, breaking them up, “breathe.” Pause. Heavy, quick breaths, almost pants. “Breathe.” Pause. Fewer breaths, much less shaky. “Alright. Back to it.”

I moved too soon, though. Not quite out of my fugue, I froze again mid-step, tripped on air, and stumbled into a gap between two trees. My hands moved on their own, curling toward my chest – or trying to, since they slapped the trunks of the trees on the way down. They came away scraped, but not bloody, and my face stayed off the ground. Something, anyway. My arms tingled, but that would subside. 

I shook myself out, throwing the last of the panic with it, and centered on my surroundings.

Trees of all sorts stood in a near-perfect circle. An ash tied its large crown into a hawthorn’s larger one, their mismatched trunks nearly touching. Oak and alder partnered near them, with white birch and tiny rowans filling in many of the gaps. A cluster of yew trees completed the set on the other side, their trunks so entwined as to look like a pile of gossiping spinsters at a party full of dancing partners. Ma would call this a fey ring, I thought, suddenly not wishing to disturb the peace with my scratchy voice, never you mind they weren’t mushrooms or daisies.

Walking inside with as low a bow as I could handle at the moment, I pulled each shirt pocket from my belt and dumped them unceremoniously to the ground, touching my axe in the process just in case. Before I did anything else, though, I scooped up a double handful of debris and moss and set it inside a hollow in the yew cluster. I didn’t want to anger anything, fey or otherwise, and offering something was better than nothing. “Can you stand watch for an hour or two?” I asked the trees, falling back on my old gods. I didn’t pray to them much, mostly just stayed out of their way, but when I asked nicely, sometimes they helped. I touched my hand to the offering and closed my eyes for a heartbeat, two. Then the feeling was gone, and I settled down right where I stood for a nap. Really more of a meditational rest, if we’re being honest here. My body would sleep, but my mind kept racing, planning.