God, it is hard to get myself to post this up. My introvert side wants me to adopt the sterotypical ostrich ideal of sticking ones head in the sand. I’m essentially making myself do this for the heck of it.
I think I was subtly influenced by the pack of viking wolves that was roaming the con. I also feel that I could have been closer to theme (Swords and Sorcery).
Anyways, for your critique. "
Slorp. Mikal winced as he felt the slimy cold wetness of the bog water begin to work its way into his fur. Tentatively he tried to tug his paw free from the encompassing muck, letting out a soft sigh of relief as it reluctantly came free. It would not be pleasant, but he could follow the tracks deeper into the moonlit bog.
“Mikal can’t”, was the chant of his young life, repeated over and over again until he had almost come to believe it. Mikal can’t play with us. Mikal can’t train as a warrior. Mikal can’t join the fleet as they sought the treasures of far off lands. The only time he had ever heard “Mikal can”, was when a desperate father and mother had taken him to see the old fox that ran the smithy and crafted the swords, spears and arrowheads for the rest of the clan. He hadn’t seen the one foot that ended in a twisted mass of flesh. He had only seen two strong arms that could pump a bellows or swing a sledge.
It was devastating then when after several months of apprenticing to the smith that he had heard “Mikal you can’t come with me today.” When Mikal had started to bluster and protest, a weary look and a raised paw cut him off.
“I know you want to come lad, but I need to go deep into the bog today to witch up a new source of iron. The last pocket is nearly played out, and I was not too happy with the quality of what is left. I need you to stay here and cut some wood for the furnace. If I find a good pocket, you’ll be up all night keeping the smelter stoked.” A compassionate paw was placed on the fox’s shoulder. “You’ve been in the bog before, and you will go with me next time. Today though I need no distractions.”
Forcing a smile, Mikal had nodded and agreed. At the least the woodpile had never said can’t to him, and it was easy to loose himself in the thunk the axe hitting wood. Thus when darkness had begun to fall the woodpile had grown large, but Mikal hadn’t seen any sign of the old smiths return. The bog at night was not a place for anyone. As the moon began to rise without a sign of him still, Mikal trekked to the edges of the swampy land and peered down the path they normally took.
There was still no sign of a returning fox, progress made slow by a heavy load of ore. Maybe it was a flicker of light down the trail there, but Mikal had found himself setting down the path without much thought. The smith’s footprints had headed deeper into the bog away from their established trail. There was no sign of any prints of the fox returning, and Mikal was growing more worried every sticky, sucking step he took deeper into the wilds. All that had kept him on his good foot was an indifference to what happened to his bad, and his crutch he used for longer trips. Now though, with the gnarled trees closing in over head he was loosing the indifferent light of the moon.
His eyes could still pick out here and there where a fox’s print marred the mud. They had stopped following the course of the sluggish water flow, and had veered more southerly. A patchwork of clouds had started to grow thicker over the moon, and a light mist was forming over the bog.
“Lad I told you to stay at the smithy.”
The voice rang out from seemingly nowhere, and gave Mikal a start. After his heart stopped racing, he managed to pick out his master, deep in the shadows cast by a clump of trees on a slightly higher, drier section of land. “I…” Mikal paused, and bowed low. “I am sorry sir, I grew worried when darkness began to fall and you had not returned. There is a vast pile of wood awaiting you.”
“Bah.” A paw reached out to clamp loosely on the fox’s shoulder. “This is my fault. I forget that you are new to my ways.” A soft squeeze was delivered before the fox continued. “You are here now, and you would need to learn one day. Perhaps this evening is as good as any to learn one of my secrets. That is if your foot is holding up?”
The ache in Mikal’s foot had been dulled by the cold of the bog muck, but the smith’s words drew his mind to it. The lure of learning a secret was undeniable, and so when he spoke it was in a clear tone. “So far. What secret is this?”
“How to witch your way to a good pocket of bog iron, lad.” The fox said softly, eyes sliding past the fox to focus on something behind him. “Now no matter what, stay close and stay quiet. No need to wake the dead.” With that said, he stepped from the shadows, to bow at something behind Mikal.
Mikal had not noticed the light beginning to grow, but now he could see a flickering glow lighting up the elderly fox. Someone with a lantern had crept up on him when he was talking, surely. What he turned his head to see, was no lantern, and no real source for the light.
It was there, and not there. The flickering was ephemeral, ghosting just out of his sight yet trying to catch his attention. Somehow out of reach and yet fully obtainable. There was no time to figure it out, as he noticed his master headed in the direction of the light. Surely he was not seeing the person who held the elusive lantern due to the mist which was thickening more as they trod deeper into the bog.
Mikal was busy trying to keep his feet from getting stuck deep in the muck when he realized that there was only one set of prints ahead of him. His master’s feet were leaving clear impressions in the muck that slowly filled with water. The mysterious lantern carrier was leaving no trace of themselves.
Dread gripped the fox. Will-of-the-whisp. Hinkypink. Witch light. They were following what every mother warned their cubs about living near a bog. Never follow them. They lead you to grief and doom. Braggarts might claim to come back after chasing one, but there was a reason for the carving of the turnip into a jack o lantern every mid-autumn. One didn’t want to upset the spirits by not giving them their due. One didn’t want to become lost, to wander.
Mikal could do little now but follow his master, moving deeper into the mist step by mucky step. His master’s words still bothered him. Wake the dead. He was turning that idea over in his head when he realized that the figure in front of him had stopped.
The light was now visible, floating over a otherwise unassuming section of the bog at which the elderly fox was cutting the peat back. With the light visible and not hiding from him Mikal could almost make out features hidden in the swirling depths that now hovered over the elderly smith. At a motioned hand, Mikal came forward and helped heave away a section of the peat that had been cut back.
It was the face that did Mikal in. The fur stained brown by the peat, tanned by the action of the bog. In it he could see the pain the wolf had died in, still twisted across his muzzle. “Dear god!” he yipped, backing away slightly from what now could only be called a grave.
“Quiet!” He heard his master hiss, and he blinked at first not comprehending.It became too clear. First one light, then another and another appeared. Ten whisps, then twenty, then more then he could quickly count had swarmed here from some where that he could not fathom. As swiftly as they had appeared, they vanished plunging into the boggy ground. For a moment there was nothing but a deathly silence, which was broken by his master’s cursing and sounds of him frantically searching for something.
The earth erupted.
Eyes. Hundreds of eyes. Faces appearing out of the muck. Hidden forms tucked into the peat and vegetation. Mikal could make out the twisted and peat stained bodies, the decaying warriors of time gone by. Wolves and stoats, foxes and bears. Rabbits and other beasts, all marred by the vast battle that had been waged here in time far beyond Mikal’s reckoning. As one the dead and yet deathless eyes swivelled to him. The interloper. The life in a dead land.
Visions danced in front of his eyes. Treasure. Gold and silver. Ivory and gemstones. Visions of splendour and wonder danced before the fox’s eyes. Him, strong and whole throwing down the Jarl and taking control. A fleet of ships that stretched further then the eye could see, all at his control. All his. If he could offer up the price demanded.
The thought of prices, of pain demanded, caused a twinge in his clubbed foot. With the visions collapsing he could hear the sounds of his master’s voice in his ears. “Lad! Mikal! Help me!”
His vision cleared, the dreams of gold and silver being replaced by the harsh reality of the master smith, paws locked on the body trapped in the peat as it attempted to pull its way from the encompassing ground. Throwing himself forward Mikal lurched, paws grabbing for the shoulders of the bog wolf. The power locked in the dead body surprised Mikal. If it was not for the sticky mud of the bog, no doubt the wolf would have overwhelmed his master already. His months of helping the smith had strengthened Mikal, but he had to throw his entire weight behind the grasp, wrestling with the dead body. The muzzle of dead body was slavering mere inches from his face now. Mikal was winning though. Bit by bit, inch by hard won inch he was forcing the body back into the grave.
The progress stopped abruptly when his master’s voice rang out. “Hold him lad! Hold him just a few minutes more!” and he could feel the smith’s arms slip away from the corpse. Muttered words and the sudden acrid stink of burning plants tore into the young fox’s nose. Somehow Mikal managed to twist his body around just enough to see the smith swinging a smoldering censure around, one paw rapidly making signs with the other.
A burst of pain in his ear cause the younger fox to yip. The body had clenched down into the soft flesh of his ear. He could smell the fetid breath waft out from the wolf’s muzzle, cutting even through the acrid smoke. Wrenching his head around he could feel the flesh tear, rend, rip, but his head was free. The taste of blood was in his mouth. Tears came to Mikal’s eyes, but he did not slack his grip. The voice of his master, grew louder and louder, and then suddenly cut off.
At once the body below him slacked, and Mikal tumbled forward, his face slamming into the muck of the bog. He sat there, eye tearing as he scrubbed his face with his arm to clear the mucky water of the bog. The glow of witch light had died down, and Mikal heaved himself around to blink blearily at his master, who was leaning heavily against a twisted tree.
“You did good lad. Not many men can claim to have wrestled the dead back into the grave.” A wain smile crossed the elderly smiths muzzle. “Of course it is a mite bit easier if you don’t wake them up first.”
Mikal, whose shoulder had begun to straighten in pride, slumped forward in on himself again. “Sorry…”. He said softly. “I didn’t expect a body.”
“Who does lad, who does.” The smith smiled and raised a paw to point behind Mikal. “He wants to apologize.”
Startled, Mikal turned his head to see the bobbing light of the original whisp, features now clear in the light. There was the face of the wolf in the bog grave, paler and fading slowly, but looking concerned toward the fox.
“You get a boon, lad. It’s part of the deal. We lay them to rest, wrestle their spirits back into their bodies and they give us a reward in return.” The smith’s voice rang out from behind Mikal. “You did the wrestling, so I’ll let you choose. Do you want gold? Love? Or maybe a way to fix your foot?”
Mikal sat there, blinking at the spirit, remembering the visions that other spirits had used to overwhelm him before. So many temptations. So many rewards he could take. Slowly he turned his head to the smith and nodded once before turning back to the will of the whisp floating there. “We need a good pocket of bog iron, if you please.”
The amused chortle of the smith cut through the night and he offered a paw to his apprentice, before they followed the bobbing light once more.
Ditto with the numerous technical things that Dwale notes that would need tweaking. I never was the greatest at the technical side, which is why I do not edit other people’s work.