“Marsh Knight?” I wondered. I mean, the name sounded cool, but…what was it? And what would a job like that even entail?
“The Marsh Knight,” Myri confirmed.
“Uh…sweet…” I said. “Is there more that you can tell me right now?”
“Its nature is… something considered undefinable,” Myri said, moving down again to rest just above the water. “It is up to the individual to define what is to be made of the Marsh Knight—more than what I have explained.”
“So, it’s like…OH!” I exclaimed as there was a dull tug in my chest where a rib snapped back into place. It didn’t hurt, but it did take my breath away for a second. “...an inherited title?” I finished.
“...Yes,” Myri explained. “Every Knight in Valdrimoria is selected by their Family, House, Tribe or Clan to take up the mantle. Then the Trial commences. Upon completion of the Trial, the new Knight is raised.”
“Oh, alright!” I said, though I wasn’t sure I got it. However, with limited time, comes limitation to get answers—I wanted a bit more clarity. “So, earlier you used the term ‘respective Stratas.’ Does that mean these other regions have Knights too?”
“Yes. Each Strata had one,” Myri confirmed. “But that was before the culling.”
I knew the term ‘culling’—but it usually had to do with hunting season ‘round my neck of the woods. It was a way of reducing an out-of-control animal population in the area by killing all the offending animals. Typically deer. Something told me that whatever this world’s version of culling was, it didn’t involve permits or licenses.
“Once again—sounds ominous,” I said.
“This one is ominous,” Myri said.
“Am I to assume this is in reference to what you mentioned before? How I am supposed to ‘protect the bloodline?’”
“Yes, Leo,” Myri said, and its voice took on a very somber tone. There was a long moment of silence before the diamond continued, and when it did, I was surprised at how quietly it spoke. “This part may be difficult to hear, Leo. But…the culling was brought about by those known as the Nine Emperors. They ravaged the Boglands in the pursuit of power, killing all other remaining members of Clan Trask, save for you.”
I felt a knot in my gut—and not just because another rib had been realigned. This was…well, I didn’t like the scent of this at all. Sure, they could dress it up with a word like ‘culling,’ but let’s call it what it was: genocide. To be fair, I hadn’t been aware of any of this until earlier today, but it still didn’t sit right with me.
“These…Nine Emperors,” I said. “Why were they after the Trask Clan?”
The shimmering entity pulsed gently.
“The Nine Emperors are…I hesitate to use the term ‘rulers’ …who seek domination and control over the sixteen Strata of Dralore. Their true purpose is unknown, but from what general knowledge I have been able to glean…the power and influence of the Wardens of each Strata threatened the Emperors' desire for absolute control. The balance has been held, the Ráði convened and the Samningur—which had remained in place for millennia—were resolute and firm. So it has been for thousands of years, unbroken. Until almost three decades ago. That was when they struck.”
“These other…Strata,” I asked, “did they all get wiped out, too? And why was I spared?”
“As to the fate of the Strata outside the Boglands: there are some who have fallen, yes, though there are also many who remain.”
I leveled my gaze at Myri, breathing deeply. “And me?”
“The Nine have not yet claimed all of the Strata as their own—nor can they, while the lineages remain. Before the culling, the former Bog Warden stowed you away on…” there was a pause, “...Urth, leaving you in the care of Marius and Selena of Clan Vass. As I have explained, they were to grant you access to the Apocrypha and rear you in the ways of Clan Trask. It is a shame they have... passed on into the Shadow—may their Enaid be carried aloft eternal.
There was another quiet moment, as if Myri was holding a reverent vigil for my former foster parents.
“...This was…the reason your Clan hid you in the other realm. To keep you safe until you were of an age to return to the Boglands and defend your home.”
“That’s…sorta like Superman…or Goku,” I said quietly, more to myself than to the Steward of the Bog, feeling something familiar start creeping into my mind. It was heavy, so I don’t know why my first instinct was to turn it into a reference to something else. Awkwardness, maybe?
“So,” I said after a beat, regaining my bearings, “did the other regions—er, Strata—send their children as well?”
“Unlikely,” said the entity. “Yours, I suspect, was the only Clan that did so.”
“And why would that be?”
“I cannot say why the other Strata did or did not do anything—I am a Seneschal of Trask and unfamiliar with the inner mechanics of the other Clans, Tribes, and Families. As to why it was imparted upon you, however, is much easier to answer. It is because Clan Trask is the weakest,” the entity said matter-of-factly. “Which promised an opportunity for the Nine Emperors—specifically, one called Wilford—to try and wrest control of the Boglands from Trask lordship.”
“Weakest?” I had suddenly begun to feel less impressed by the whole idea than I originally had.
“Do not fret,” the entity explained. “Trask was only weak in that their number was so depleted. For many generations, the bog has continued to produce fewer and fewer denizens. In fact, when you were born, you were the first child to arrive in the Boglands in nearly twenty years. However, it is because of this unique situation that the Clan sought a reasonable method to safeguard their line. They are not a proud clan—and it is this flexibility in their familial mindset that was the catalyst in sending you away.”
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
“And this Wilford guy—was he pissed?” I couldn’t believe there was some evil overlord who went by ‘Wilford.’ I mean, that’s a grandpa name. “...about me surviving, that is.”
“Upon finding the heir to the Trask Clan missing—out of reach, Wilford’s fury was rumored to be...unbridled and all-consuming,” the entity said. “It is said her screams could be heard throughout the sixteen Stratas.”
“Oh,” I said. “Wilford’s a she? My bad. But, to be fair…that’s a weird name for a lady.”
Honestly, I thought it was a weird name for anyone—at least, anyone who wasn’t a rugged, mustachioed old man featured in commercials for the American Diabetes Association.
“You may find that many names here are not what they seem,” the diamond said, “and not representative of those you might find on Urth. For instance, here, Leonidas is very much a masculine name—but your preferred shortening of ‘Leo’ is phonetically identical to the feminine name ‘Lìo.’”
I balked at this.
“Well, uh, guess I’m just going to be making a statement wherever I go, then,” I said, thinking about a Johnny Cash song with a very similar concept.
“And, to that point…” Myri stated, rising from the surface of the water to hove over where I’d left my clothing. “I believe it is time to go.”
“Huh?” I asked, sitting up quickly and splashing again. “But I’m not healed ye…”
I paused. Then I felt my ribs. They were fine.
“Oh—uh, howdja know?”
“How did I know what, Leo?” Myri said.
“That the healing was done,” I said, climbing out of the water and making my way toward my crumpled up dead man’s clothes.
“...I can see your Lífsþrótt,” Myri explained, as if I knew that term and should have known better anyways.
“Is that, uh, one of them…Apocrypha things?” I asked, giving the entity the benefit of the doubt on its rude attitude.
“Oh! I apologize, Leo!” Myri said, diminishing its light. I shrugged and began slipping into my clothes, my body still wet from the pool.
“Nah, don’t worry over it,” I said. “Seems like there’s a lot of things I’d be expected to know before arriving. It’s not your fault. We can place the blame squarely in the lap of the incompetent engineers at Oldsmobile who designed the Alero.”
“Uhlayro?” Myri asked.
“It’s the uh, make and model of the vehicle Marius and Selena were driving when they died. You know what? That was a dark joke, why don’t we move on? How about you explain…leaf’s throat to me though, while we make our way to wherever it is we’re going? Where are we going, by the way?”
Myri beamed. Literally. I finished cinching myself up and started walking toward the steps again.
“Of course! Well, to answer your question—Lífsþrótt is the measure of your lifeforce. If you are injured, your Lífsþrótt will showcase it.”
“How can you tell that? You got some x-ray vision, or something? Dang, Myri—you’re flying, looking inside people—I guess you’re the one who’s more like Superman.”
“I’m sorry, I do not follow, Leo,” Myri began. “Who is S—”
“Oh, nevermind, sorry,” I interjected. “Anyway, how does it work?”
“I am the Steward of the Bog, I can see your Lífsþrótt at all times, within a certain distance to you.”
That sounded pretty neat. But how did I—the bearer of said…leaf’s throat—access that as well?
“Is that something I can do, too?” I asked, starting my climb up the steps. I cast a glance all the way up and shook my head. Damn, and I just climbed this a little while ago. This is torture.
“Soon, I imagine,” Myri said. “I do not want to, erm, muddy the waters, as it were, but I believe you’ll have access to it in a short while.”
“Well that sounds mighty fine,” I said.
“As to your second question,” Myri continued, floating right beside me as I made the ascent. “Now that you have conquered the preliminary portion of the Trial, you will next begin the main portion.”
I sighed—not just because I was having a hell of a time surmounting the staircase, but because I’d already forgotten I was supposed to be participating in this strange…Hunger Game.
“Oh, right,” I said. “Any hints on what it entails? I’m not normally a fan of spoilers, but I’ll make an exception in this case.”
Myri beamed at me, and it was actually so bright I winced.
“No!” The entity exclaimed jubilantly. “At least, not more than I would relay to any potential candidates for Knighthood.”
“Wait, there’s going to be others?” I wondered, stopping halfway up the climb to wheel on the little rhombus. “I thought you said I was the only one?”
“Oh! Yes—yes, you are!” Myri explained, sounding a bit flustered. Though, was that because it had confused me, and it felt bad—or was it something else? “In the past, there were often multiple Boglanders that would position themselves as prospective contenders. Though, that has not happened in some time.”
“Oh,” I said, nodding. “Right. Well, how long’s that been?”
“Ages,” Myri said. “I believe the last instance was…before your grandfather’s ascension to Marsh Knight.”
“Huh, well, that’s…a while,” I said. "I assume."
The idea got me excited in a fierce way—having a family was new to me. My last set of fosters were Brent and Connie, and while we got along really well, they had two other, much younger kids to contend with so I was usually left to do whatever I pleased. I’d arrived with them shortly after my sixteenth birthday—after a string of terrible temporary homes—and only stayed a part of their household a little over a year. The situation with them had genuinely felt more like roommates than anything else.
“What was he like?” I asked, looking over my shoulder at Myri. “My grandfather, I mean. Can you tell me about him?”
Hell, I’d be interested to know a bit about my own parents as well. And were either of them Marsh Knights?
We’d reached the top of the steps and Myri had positioned itself back to where it had been when I first got here: floating above the circular altar-like structure.
“Yes,” Myri said happily. “I could tell you about Valdi Trask. But, I cannot right now.”
I sighed.
“Why? Locked behind that paywall of yours?”
“No,” Myri said, even though I’m not sure it understood that term. “It is because we must begin the next portion of the Trial. Open your hands.”
I shook my head.
“Wait, huh? My hands?” I brought my palms up to face Myri. “Like this?”
I suddenly felt a searing pain as the insides of my hands felt as though they’d had a hot knife dragged across them. Blood flickered in the air before landing on the stone altar before me. I stumbled back, looking at my hands. A shallow wound had been slashed across each palm, dripping with blood.
“What the hell?!” I demanded. Then panic overtook me. Tetanus. It’s been over a decade since I’ve gotten my shot for it. I scrunched up my face. Shit! Shit! I’m going to get lockjaw.
But as my mind spiraled, I noticed something odd: the cuts across my palms were healing. They began to shrink, knitting themselves up like an old spinster’s quilt and I watched in awe as within moments, there was nothing there at all—not even a scar.
“I apologize, Leo,” Myri said. “I should have warned you of that—I seem to have a very difficult time remembering to...qualify all of your experiences with your ignorance of the practices of the Clan. I will try to rectify this going forward.”
“What was that?” I asked. “Did you…did you shank me?”
“The ritual for opening the Armament Quarter requires blood of the Clan,” Myri explained. “But do not fret, as you can see, it is but a flesh wound—minor at best—and has already healed.”
“Yeah, I don’t think that’s the big issue with—”
“There,” the Steward of the Bog said, flashing. “She opens.”
“She? Who’s sh—”
CRUNCH.
CRUNCH.
Loud, thunderous crashes resounded from somewhere below my feet, the ground trembling slightly. There was a sound like rocks grinding against one another, and for a moment, I felt like I was back in the MRI machine. I instantly felt my hackles rise—this was apparently registering as something my lizard brain thought might be dangerous, so it was pumping adrenaline into my veins.
“Myri!” I shouted over the noise. “What’s happening?”
“The entrance to the Quarter,” Myri said, perfectly placidly. “It is opening to allow the heir of Clan Trask access to its depths.”
My gaze fell upon the circular stone altar because I noticed it had begun to move. It was twisting and turning, the ancient engravings blurring before my eyes as if they were alive.
With a sound like thunder, it cracked—a network of lightning fast fissures spreading across its surface. It felt like the whole of the ruins were shuddering under the force, a primordial energy awakening from a long slumber. The altar spun in place, a soft blue light seeping from the newly formed crevices, casting frantic displays across the overgrown ruins.
My breaths were short, sharp. "Myri, I think—" I started to say, but the words caught in my throat. The altar continued to rotate, faster now, the light intensifying, pushing back the shadows. Then, with a sound like the world's spine snapping, it separated, whirling in place as the blue light blossomed into an ethereal glow. The pieces that once made up the altar were now gathered in a circle, framing a hole in the stone that seemed to lead into the unknown.
Adrenaline surged through me, a fiery river in my veins, my mind working overtime to make sense of what was happening.
That's when Myri's voice cut through the chaos, clear and surprisingly calm. "Welcome to the Armament Quarter, Leo. Now please...get in the hole."