The swamp stretched out before Reka. There was little in the way of vegetation except the occasional grouping of scraggly bushes sitting upon squat, muddy hillocks. There were Strangler Weeds, of course, but they rarely broke the surface of the stagnant water. Where they did, they snaked along the surface, writhing slowly to and fro. He saw a giant insect come near the end of one of the wriggling plants. There was a slapping sound and a slight splash. When the surface settled, the insect was gone, and the weed was still. Now that he was here, Reka wasn’t sure how to proceed.

He was sure this swamp held answers. It could not be a coincidence that the swamp had taken over the land after Seline’s death, especially if she owned the pendant at the time of her death. He had traced the Halloran line meticulously, and all his work led him here to this town. Combined with Aedon’s last name, Mika’s ability to stone sing, and the swamp’s peculiar behavior, he was sure he had tracked down Domhain. Tracked it down only to have no idea where it could be, other than in this foul place.

With Aedon in town, and Mika at home studying hard, he figured he had two days at most to search the swamp. He wished Gregory was here. With him, the waters of the swamp would be no impediment. Reka just wasn’t equipped with the right kind of knowledge for this job, but there was no one else to do it. He brought with him three long branches, each one longer than the last, to help gauge the depth of the water before him. They wouldn’t, however, help with finding sinkholes. He stood at the edge of the water and knew he was stalling. To delay the moment when he had to enter further, he checked his pack. There was plenty of food and water, a bedroll, and some small excavation tools he borrowed surreptitiously from Aedon’s toolshed. Reka felt, for the first time in a very long time, the pang of fear. He was deeply out of his element, both figuratively and literally. He took a deep breath and stepped into the pungent water.

Air bubbles and small clouds of mud marked each footstep as he strode slowly into the swamp. When the occasional air bubble broke the surface, it released a foul sulfuric odor. It only took a few steps for Reka to cut a couple of small sections of cloth from his shirt and stuff them deep into his nostrils. They didn’t completely block the smell, but it was a marked improvement. Before each step, he thrust one of the branches into the water. In this way, he managed a meandering path through the swamp. Every once in a while, his legs would sink deep in the mud. Sometimes to the knee. He was forced to halt his progress to extricate himself.

It took much longer than he expected, but finally, he reached the first hillock. The climb out of the swamp was challenging, but the thought of dry land was more than enough motivation. Once on land, he was disappointed to find that it was not as dry as hoped. The ground was thick mud made slick by a film of slippery algae. The innocent-looking scrub bushes were covered with long thin thorns that he felt could have served as arrowheads in a pinch. Dart tips at the very least.

All in all, it was an uncomfortable respite. Reka managed to find an open spot large enough to sit on. He sat down and took a long drink from his waterskin. He still wasn’t sure how to proceed. He had a vague notion of wandering around, trying to feel for the presence of magic. He looked in the direction he had come. He hadn’t traveled very far. He thought briefly about giving up and coming back with some kind of boat. The thought of Aedon’s displeasure at finding out his purpose put an end to that line of thinking, though. The man was not stable, and there was no predicting what he might do. A few minutes passed, and Reka recognized the beginnings of more procrastination. With a curse, he got back to his feet and moved deeper into the swamp.

As the day wore on, Reka realized this sojourn was a pointless waste of time. He was exhausted, filthy, and in a foul mood. He could no longer be sure which way he had come, but that didn’t worry him. He had left a beacon stone at the edge of the swamp, and when he wanted to head back, all he had to do was crush the stone’s twin, and a bright column of light would appear. He turned the stone over in his hands a few times and gave serious thought to ending this charade immediately. In the end, it was time that decided the matter for him. He had traveled more than half the day to get where he was. The idea of traversing the swamp at night was less appealing than spending the night in it, so he pushed on.

He walked for a time, then rested on a hillock for a while, then walked some more. He repeated that pattern for hours. His path was always dictated to him. Either by the depth of the water or the presence of unusually large Strangler Weeds. Aside from those murderous plants, a few insects, and the brush-covered hillocks, he saw nothing else. No fish, no birds, no flowers…nothing. It was a depressing place to spend the day. The daylight was fading, and a thick fog had started rolling over the swamp when he reached a large hillock. It was much larger than the rest, and for once scarcely covered in brush. It was also absent of the slimy algae. It was an ideal place to camp for the night, so he decided against further incursion.

He gathered a large quantity of the scrub brush and piled it into a small hole he dug for his fire. As careful as he had been while harvesting the timber, he could not prevent the thorns from poking him. His hands and arms were covered in small punctures, and they bled freely. They also hurt like hell. He tried for some time to get a fire lit with his flint, but the wood was too damp to burn. Finally, he threw a stone at the kindling, and fire sprang to life at once. Magic may not be the answer to everything, he thought, but it had its place Dammit. He took some time cleaning his wounds and then ate a disheartening meal of dried pork and stale bread. Unrolling his bedding, he decided at first light he would make his way out of here. He was just going to have to find a better idea for locating the stone.

Reka woke before the sun rose. The fire was reduced to barely warm coals, and the fog from the night before covered everything in a layer of moisture. It was also cold, very cold. He looked at the swollen punctures on his body and decided against trying to harvest more brush. That didn’t mean he was going to go without a fire.

“Where’s it going to spread, “ He said out loud. Then he threw a stone directly into the grouping of bushes. The sight of the vile plants bursting into flame raised his spirit.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

He started to repack his bed bedroll, but it was completely covered in mud. He let it fall from his fingers and looked around. The flickering light of the fire made it possible for him to see his surroundings more clearly. Without the fog to obscure his vision, he saw that he was on an actual island. It rose much higher than he initially thought. He hadn’t dared travel too far from the edge the night before and was dismayed to find that he had spent a miserable night needlessly. The farther he walked, the drier the land became, and the higher it rose. There was even a small amount of actual grass growing in small patches. His desire to leave at once faded a little as he explored his surroundings. Before he allowed himself to wander too far, he went back to his camp to wait for daylight. The fire was still burning, but not as intensely, and he found an almost dry area to sit and eat his breakfast.

While he ate, he tried to reckon how far into the swamp he had penetrated. It couldn’t have been too far, and he figured he was still in the newly flooded area. That meant this must have been a large hill in the days before the swamp claimed the land. The sun was now full above the horizon. He gathered his pack and went back to his exploration. He chose to search the area in a spiral, starting at the water’s edge and tightening the circle with each circuit of the island. He was unsurprised to find the same miserable environment near the water, but as he rose higher onto the hill, the change was dramatic. He passed the areas of sparse growth he noted earlier, but eventually, that gave way to more complete coverage. It was the last stubborn remnant of life, and though it tried, the swamp could not snuff it out entirely. After so long in the dark, dank, swamp, it was beautiful to behold.

He did not see any signs that the land had been worked, though. This struck him as odd. If he was right about where he was, this hill would have stood in the middle of prime farmland. Even prosperous farmers did not often leave tillable soil untouched. He supposed the swamp might have erased any trace of activity, but it was unlikely. His search brought him near the top, and he stopped suddenly. The air tingled slightly, and the fine hairs on the back of his neck rose. The signs were different for every mage, but this was his body’s way of telling him magic was being used. Or had been used in this area. He had given up on the idea of searching for magic, and to have such a robust response without focusing his mind meant the magic in the area was powerful. He immediately thought of Domhain, but that didn’t make sense. It was lost in the old swamp, and he hadn’t made it that far in. Whatever it was, it was all around him. Now that he was focusing on it, he couldn’t take a step without feeling it. He retraced his path down to the water’s edge. Though the feeling diminished, it never vanished entirely. Whatever was causing it, it had saturated the entire area in magic.

He went back to the top and intensified his search. No matter how closely he inspected the ground, he could not find anything that marked one spot as more attractive than another. He came to the conclusion that whatever it was, it was beneath the hill. He unloaded his pack and surveyed his tools. He had a small trowel, a hand pick, a small wooden mallet, and a coil of thin, coarse rope. Not exactly the stuff for digging up an entire hill. He tried to find the spot where the magic felt the most intense and was not surprised when he found himself on the very top of the hill. He decided to focus his efforts here and began digging.

The ground here was dry but soft. Despite his limited equipment, he soon had a large segment of land excavated. Given the size of the hill, he was expecting to have his progress impeded by rocks, or even halted altogether by solid stone, but there was nothing larger than a pebble to stand in his way. He wasn’t an expert on dirt, but he did find this a little out of the ordinary. As he dug, the feeling of magic grew stronger. He didn’t know what he was searching for, but he felt he was on the right track. He paused for a few minutes to hurriedly get something to eat and drink. The sun was higher in the sky than he was expecting, and mid-day could not be far off. There was no way he was going to be able to walk away from this mystery. If he was careful with his rations, he had enough to last a few days if needed. Aedon’s wrath would just have to be endured.

The digging continued unabated for several more hours, and he had to force himself to stop for food and water at regular intervals. When the light was no longer sufficient for him to see, he stopped. He was utterly drained, but there was a six-foot deep hole in front of him now. The feeling of magic was now overwhelming. He was actively shielding himself from it now rather than feeling for its presence. He knew he should stop for the night, but his excitement was clouding his judgment. He threw a small stone into the air, and a brilliant light came to life. He crushed another stone, and energy filled him.

He continued his frantic search for the source of the magic. When he felt exhaustion creeping up on him, he simply crushed another stone. He knew he was using too much magic. He could not keep this up, but his mind was lost in his desire to find the source of that power. A part of him watched as his sanity slipped slowly away, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Even using his most precious stone, he had never felt this much power, and he was drunk on it.

Without warning, his trowel struck something solid. He stupidly tossed his tool aside and began digging with his bare hands. He soon uncovered a large wooden box. It looked like living wood, and there was no sign of an opening. No lid, no hinges, nothing. On the top, there was a faded inscription. Reka heaved it out of the hole and washed the letters with water. He could just make out the words.

Beidh eile teacht, beidh na clocha Shine arís.

Another will come, the stones will shine again.

His excitement grew to a fever pitch as he searched the box for any sign that it could be opened. Without warning, he shuddered and slumped over the box.

…

The water sliding beneath the small boat made no sound as it carried its burden to the shore of the large island. There was a soft thud as the hull grounded itself, and the two men leaped out.

“I told you there was a light over here,” the first man whispered.

The second man reached into the boat and pulled out two thick clubs. He handed one to his partner, and they crept towards the top of the hill.

“Looks like master was right, the fool came back after all.” He said quietly.

As they approached the top, they dropped to their bellies and slithered slowly along the ground. Aedon’s temper was near-legendary, and they wanted to take him by surprise if possible. When they could see above the crest, they saw a man slumped over near a large hole. The only thing more legendary than Aedon’s temper was his love of drink. The two men got to their feet.

“Damn, he’s passed out drunk,” the first man shouted.

He walked over the man and rolled him over. He was lying on top of a large chest, but that wasn’t what caused the intake of breath. This wasn’t Aedon. The second man came up behind him.

“This ain't him, Tom,” he said, confused.

“No, it ain't,” Tom said. “What are we supposed to do now?”

“We was supposed to take him alive if we found him, tie this one up, and we’ll take him instead,” said Tom’s partner.

They bound the man with his own rope and carried him and the chest to the boat. With a heave, they got the boat back into the water and were gone.