The Murkwode Reaving

“Blessed Silvanus, it’s blacker than pitch,” Rab grumbled, driving his pike into the cold water. 

“Keep your eyes and tongue fixed, Rab,” Jovan ordered. A staunch, clean-shaven infantryman, Jovan raised the hooded oil lantern to better light their way, but the Murkwode’s gloom was unyielding. Jovan glanced behind him. “Platt?”

“I hear nothin’, sir,” Platt whispered, leveling his crossbow to their right. They waded through black thigh-high swamp water, and Platt struggled to keep his bow dry. “No bugs, toads, birds. No movement at all. It’s like all the life’s been drained out of this muck.”

Stationed behind Rab, Jovan cautiously stepped where he stepped, and Platt followed Jovan.

Infantry of the City State of Mumling, all three wore ringmail armor shirts, metal helms, leather breeches, and knee-high combat boots; they were armed with pikes and longswords and burdened with field packs.

Rab secured his footing. Strapped to his left arm was a round steel shield that awkwardly countered his weight. Eying the water’s inky, wobbly surface, Rab jutted his pike out to maintain his balance and hopefully skewer anything large enough to bite his leg.

“Gentlemen, the Murkwode isn’t exactly dead, nor precisely alive, but rather asleep,” whispered Bratram Humblefoot. Bartram was crouched on a moss-covered log and waited for Jovan’s lamp light to meet him. Earlier, Bartram scouted ahead of the company outside the lantern’s range. Glancing into the darkness, he added, “It’d be in our best interest to cross it undisturbed. Keep your voices down.”

A halfling, Bartram was under three and a half feet in height and weighed fifty pounds. He wore a Mumling-issue ringmail tunic fit for a human soldier with leather breeches underneath. A shortsword hung at his hip, and he carried a round shield sized for his body on his left arm. And like all halflings, Bartram was barefoot. More nimble than the rest of the company, Bartram took to elevated land, exposed tree roots, and fallen logs to stay above the water and remain dry.

A forested bogland, the Murkwode was an odious swamp found sixty miles north of Mumling. It was a wooded floodplain extending from a fast-running river to its north called the Wych. The Murkwode was an old stand of white cedar and pine trees whose roots were submerged in still, stagnant water.

Avoided by all, even Mumling’s brigands dared not linger in the Murkwode, for it was a foul place and rumored to be the lair of abysmal, gruesome creatures. 

Assigned to Bartram from pre-deployed units, he was assured Platt and Rab were the best of their outfit. Platt was a dead shot with the crossbow, whereas Rab, the youngest among them, was a promising swordsman.

Jovan was a veteran combatant, skilled in the sword, shield, and pike, having served Mumling’s infantry at Crestfall three years prior. Bartram knew Jovan from their service in that bloody conflict and was hand-picked for this assignment.

Bartram was a seasoned commander in Mumling’s army; he was more than twice the age of Jovan. He was also solely responsible for the success of this mission.

Jovan whispered, “Makes sense, boss, why it’s just us then.”

Tapping his temple, Bartram said, “Good thinking, Sergent. An army marching through the Murkwode would attract too much attention. Our success will require subtlety.” 

Their travel from Mumling had taken four days. On the fifth, the company rested on the outskirts of the Murkwode and broke camp at dusk. Slowed by an overabundance of caution and the challenges presented by the terrain, they’d been on the march for five hours. Well-rested, fed, and in fighting trim, the soldiers were battle-ready and made their way nervously through the bleak morass.

The deeper they went into the Murkwode, the darker and more isolated it became.

Crouching, Bartram held out a restraining hand, and the soldiers stopped at his command. His wide, almond-shaped eyes peered into the darkness and tried to grasp at the nebulous shapes writhing within the shadows. Bartram scanned the horizon to make sense of the trees to find the lantern’s light captured within the bright yellow eyes of a boreal owl.

When Bartram saw the owl, he smiled kindly at it, and it blinked back at him in response.

“Tally ho, bucks: we’re on course,” Bartram reported. Taking to his feet, the owl turned away, launched from its perch, and flew deeper into the Murkwode.

“I can’t believe we’re following a damned bird,” Rab muttered, steam leaving his thickly-mustached mouth. He thrust his pike into the water to find a stable path for the squad. Once he found his footing, Rab pressed forward, and all followed the owl.

Bartram reached the edge of the log he was standing on, jumped off it, and landed on dry earth covered in patchy wet undergrowth. As he pushed his way through a mass of thorny branches, Bartram asked, “Rab, would it matter if it were me, a smallfoot and not a bird, leading your able regiment through a cursed swamp?”

Jovan chortled, holding the lantern higher for Rab’s work. “He’s got you there.”

“Either way, we’re damned fools,” agreed Platt.

“Have faith,” Bartram said encouragingly, pushing aside a thicket of brambles and weeds. “Trust the bird. It knows the way better than I do.”

“Still not convincing, sir,” Rab retorted, shivering.

Jovan reached out with his spare arm and slapped Rab upside the back of his helm. Rab winced.

Bartram swiftly scouted ahead and tracked the owl's flight, leaping over shallow gullies, weaving through leaning trees, climbing over their exposed roots, and stomping across spongy peat moss. Occasionally, he’d crouch to wait for the soldiers to catch up and to conserve his energy wisely. The night was still young, and there’d be many ordeals ahead.

Knowing Bartram was out of hearing range, Rab turned and hoarsely whispered at Jovan, “You can’t be on his side? He’s going to get us killed!”

“Shut your trap, kid.” Annoyed, Platt tried to listen to their surroundings, and Rab insisted on talking. Sweat ran from his helmet down to his chin, and he said, “We’ve got our orders.”

“We’re following a gods-damned bird!” Rab pleaded, shaking from the cold.

“Commander Bartram knows what he’s doing,” Jovan insisted. “He’s a devout man. A priest. Wise. Smart. He’s attuned to nature, and nature helps him.”

Platt shrugged. “It’s like the commander said. When we get back and tell everyone what happened, following a bird or a halfling through the Murkwode is just as crazy.”

“We never had a say in this!” Rab countered, flinging a hand out into the darkness. “None of us signed up for helping a smallfoot zealot on some hair-brained quest-”

“Enough!” Jovan demanded, and he spun Rab’s shoulder and grappled Rab by the throat. Rab’s helmet rattled and sunk over his brow, and he grasped at Jovan’s powerful wrist. Rab’s eyes shot wide open in panic.

Gripping Rab by the throat to hold him steady, Jovan went face-to-face with him and said, “You’re a soldier. You were assigned to this detail, and Commander Bartram’s in charge. It ain’t hard, Rab: he leads, you follow. Try to be worthy of the confidence he’s placed in you.”

Jovan shoved Rab backward. Rab gasped, drawing in a heavy breath and massaging his throat. Rab held a restraining hand to Jovan as he recovered.

Lowering his crossbow, Platt frowned and said, “Kid, me and Jovan, we’ve seen worse at Crestfall. There were acres of dead soldiers. Packs of goblins would attack us day and night. The Murkwode’s a holiday, Rab. You’ll survive.”

Jovan held the lantern up to Rab’s face and said, “I know you’re scared, boy, but I don’t want to hear your crap. We’re depending on you. You’ll do as you’re told, happily, or I’ll stick you myself and be done with it.”

Rab nodded, shielding his eyes from the glare of the light. Regaining his breath, he straightened his helmet, regripped his pike, and returned to testing their path.

“Can’t blame ‘em,” Platt whispered privately to Jovan, eyeing the dark around them. “This place makes my skin crawl.”

Jovan glanced at Platt and said, “Crestfall, the goblin ambushes, you said. Remember how they’d drum for days before their attacks, spooking the troops, ratcheting fear, hammering morale? Well, the silence ‘round here’s like that drumming. Don’t let it get under your skin.”

Platt leveled his crossbow to their forward position and snickered, “Got it, but I’m jittery, so pray I don’t shoot the bird.”

Jovan let out a hearty laugh.

Trudging through shallower water, the soldiers eventually caught up with Bartram. It was dead quiet, and the only sounds came from their movement through the water. The once-green moss that had flourished earlier on the outskirts of the swamp, blanketing the white cedars, had withered and grayed. It smelled like wet mulch - moist, decaying, tilled earth. Bartram wearily monitored the darkness ahead, unsettled by the Murkwode’s erosion of life.

Platt whispered, “Commander, what’ll the temple look like when we find it?”

“I am sorry, Platt, but you won’t recognize it,” Bartram insisted. He briefly caught the owl’s eyes on a pine tree's high branch before taking to the darkness again. “You’re expecting masonry, four walls, a pitched roof, colored glass, and a wide door akin to Silvanus’ places of worship.”

“Isn’t that what a temple is?” Rab interjected sarcastically.

“Nay,” Bartram continued, looking to Rab. “This place is not like that. Look for the soil to ripen, to become richer and more earthen; ragged, misshapen, and haggard stones; a pervasive rot; trees grown hunched, bent, gnarled, and crooked. Then we’ve arrived.”

Regretting he even asked the question, Platt frowned grimly, tilted his head, spat into the water, and raised the sights on his crossbow. “Aye, Commander.”

Rab looked wearily back at Jovan.

Jovan glared incredulously at Bartram Humblefoot and asked, “Now how’s that a temple, boss?”

“Holy places need not conform to your expectations for beauty and grace, Jovan.” Bartram leaped over a flowing runoff and landed on a thick root of a tree. “Regardless of your reckoning, it’ll be hallowed ground. There we will find a sanctuary, an altar, graves.”

“This cleric, will his grave be marked?” Rab asked, taking a long pull from his waterskin. The cold water comforted his throat.

Bartram’s lips pressed together, and he shook his head. “Our objective’s unlikely to be a grave at all, young Rab.”

Holding his hand to halt the regiment once more, Bartram crouched and scanned for the owl. He gestured to Jovan to lift the hood of the lantern to expose more light, then Bartram’s eyes again met the owls. It paced back and forth on a branch, seemingly impatient to do its task and leave this place. After acknowledging Bartram, it took flight, taking them deeper into the Murkwode.

“How’d you know?” Platt asked skeptically. “To come here? All this way, sir?”

Bartram knew the owl’s anxiousness meant they were closing on the temple’s grounds, so Bartram didn’t respond to Platt. Instead, he gestured for them to remain quiet and to follow him.

They were on solid ground now and could march faster through the fens. A low-hanging mist endemic to this place had thickened, further obscuring their view. The dense nature of the trees hid the sky and stars; there was no moonlight, and they marched headlong into a foggy blackness.

Dangling strands of long gray moss fell from low-hanging branches, and the lantern exposed a deadened world unaccustomed to light: shrubs with black serrated leaves, brambles, looming vines, sharp thorny stalks, and thickets with poisonous berries the color of bruises.

After half an hour crossing a marshy grassland, Bartram whispered, “Platt, I’ll answer your question now. Like all of you, I take direction. Leaders of my religious Order tasked me to retrieve an artifact. They told me it lay with the remains of Confessor Bog, a once priestly servant of Bane.”

“Bane,” Platt replied; the word thickened in his mouth. “The Black Fist.”

“Destruction, tyranny, hate,” Jovan snarled. “That’s what His followers believe. They’re subjugating slavers.”

Bartram nodded and said, “As they feel the artifact may sway the outcome of a future war against Man, it must be retrieved, sanctified, and its wretched power forever extinguished. Mine is a holy mission, but I cannot do it alone; I need your help. Rest assured, Bane will not so easily surrender His treasures, but once we’re successful, we’ll clear these fens by dawn and be bound for Mumling, heroes.”

Rab gulped, peered into the blackness of the Murkwode, and asked, “Sir, what if we’re … unsuccessful?”

Refusing to acknowledge Rab’s question, Bartram returned to watch the branches ahead of them. Bartram saw the owl pause, shift to the right and left, and blink repetitively.

Bartram sighed and signaled for the regiment to stop, then the owl leaped from its branch and took to the air in a different direction.

Jovan held up the lantern to follow the owl as it flew away.

“Blessed Silvanus!” Platt growled, lowering his crossbow. He gestured angrily at the owl’s retreat. “Now we have to go back!”

“No,” Bartram said gravely. He peered into the darkness and saw rotted trees, terrible shadows, and growths of black-leaved plants. Glancing direly over his shoulder, he whispered, “We’re already here.”