The Journey, Book 2: Chapter 37 - Previous Chapter
Chapter 38: Ghostly
In the middle of the Delphinian Swamps, a camp lingered where no camp should be. Captain Jason Moore and his men had been trapped there for two decades, bound by a curse none of them understood. If they strayed too far from the rough circle of their makeshift settlement, their bodies began to wane, their outlines thinning into mist. A few who tested the boundaries too boldly had dissolved entirely, fading into the swamp’s heavy fog until only silence marked their absence.
Travellers on the outskirts of the swamp told ghost stories of spectral soldiers. Blue-white figures seen in the reeds, drilling and patrolling with hollow eyes, bound forever to a war that no longer existed.
The captain had tried to resist despair by enforcing order—training drills, ration schedules, patrol routines. He clung to discipline as though it might anchor them to reality. His men followed, because what else was there to do?
Only one among them could work magic, and even then, only the barest scraps of it. The healer-scribe. His aura was cream-coloured, a strange shade, pale and unsettling against the swamp’s shadows. He could close wounds, soothe pain, and hold off fever, but little more. His efforts had saved lives, but they could not break the curse.
At first, Jason had considered the scribe a blessing. But now… the man unnerved him.
The healer muttered to himself more and more, scribbling notes no one else could read, lines that blurred into nonsense the moment another set of eyes looked upon them. His gaze was restless, his hands always trembling as if listening to a rhythm only he could hear.
He claimed the swamp was alive. That it was listening. That every disappearance was not chance, but hunger.
At night, the captain sometimes woke to see the scribe sitting cross-legged in the mud, whispering the names of every man in camp as though making an offering. He was no cause of the vanishings, that much Jason knew, but the way the scribe stared into the fog, eyes wide and wet with feverish light, made it feel as though he was waiting for the swamp to take them all, one by one.
And the worst part, Jason couldn’t decide if the healer feared the swamp… or had started to revere it.
Jason rose before dawn, joints stiff from another night of restless half-sleep. He pushed out of his tent flap, stretching his arms wide as the first thin light of day pressed against the swamp’s choking mists.
A few soldiers patrolled the perimeter, their armour damp with dew, boots sinking into the mire.
Near the fire pit, the healer-scribe sat hunched, rocking forward and back. His robes were stained, his face pale, his lips moving in constant whispers Jason couldn’t quite catch. His eyes were hollow with sleeplessness.
Jason’s jaw tightened. He had seen men break before, but never this slowly, never under such a curse.
“ATTENTION!” Jason’s voice split the swamp air like a whip-crack.
The camp stirred immediately. Thousands of boots scraped against the mud as men rushed into formation, two thousand soldiers falling into their rows with the precision of long practice. Metal clinked, throats cleared, the weight of discipline cutting through the swamp’s silence.
The healer-scribe flinched violently. His head snapped up, eyes wide, rocking halted. Jason strode toward him with heavy, deliberate steps, then stopped just behind him.
“ATTENTION!” he bellowed again, directly into the man’s ear.
The healer-scribe nearly jumped out of his skin. He scrambled upright, fumbling with his robes, and stumbled into formation beside the soldiers, face white, hands twitching at his sides.
Jason turned to face the ranks, shoulders squared, his voice calm and commanding now.
“Start your stretches!”
The soldiers moved as one. Rows of men bent, twisted, stretched their limbs in martial warm-ups drilled into them over decades. Mud sucked at their boots, armour creaked, and their breath came in unison.
The healer-scribe struggled to follow, movements jerky, his eyes flicking from soldier to soldier as if unsure whether he belonged among them. His lips still moved, muttering some half-chant, half-prayer under his breath.
Jason’s gaze lingered on him. Order kept them alive—routine, discipline, structure. The swamp had stolen everything else, but it would not take that.
And yet, even here in the safety of the camp, Jason felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck at the sound of the healer’s whispered words.
Jason paced to the front of the ranks, his boots pressing deep into the swamp’s soft earth, then turned so his back faced his men. The morning mist curled around him, half swallowing his outline, but his voice rang out steady and strong.
Without hesitation, he dropped into the warm-up himself. His arms cut the air with sharp, controlled precision. Fists clenched, shoulders rolling, his body moving in practised rhythm. Shadow-boxing sequences flowed from him like water — the kind of clean, efficient motion that only decades of discipline could carve into muscle memory.
Every pivot, every strike, every deliberate breath told his soldiers the same truth: this is why he wears the rank, why he commands two thousand men even in this cursed hell.
The soldiers responded instantly. A ripple moved through the formation. Where before their stretches had been measured and sluggish, now they doubled their effort. Boots stamped harder into the mud, torsos twisted deeper, arms snapped with renewed energy.
The sound of hundreds of men moving as one filled the camp: the creak of leather, the rasp of steel, the stomp of feet. A living machine, following the rhythm of their captain.
Jason drove his fists forward in a brutal flurry, elbows tucked tight, strikes so crisp they cracked against the damp air. Behind him, the army mirrored him perfectly, two thousand shadows boxing the mist.
It was unity. It was survival. It was defiance of the swamp’s curse.
Only one man faltered.
At the edge of the formation, the healer-scribe jerked awkwardly through the motions, his limbs out of sync, lips still muttering their vague, unsettling rhythm. His eyes flickered between Jason’s sharp movements and the trees beyond the camp’s edge, as though he was watching something no one else could see.
Jason didn’t slow. He drove his heel into the mud with a kick that sent earth spraying, then snapped back into guard, movements crisp and unforgiving. His men followed, harder, faster, stronger.
The soldiers’ movements froze mid-strike as the sound rolled in, not a single noise, but a cacophony, a wild frenzy that shattered the camp’s discipline.
Screeches, croaks, guttural squeals, every beast in the swamp was shrieking, as though some unseen hand had struck a terrible chord through them all. Wings battered the fog. Frogs wailed. Something heavy crashed in the reeds.
And then silence cracked wide open.
From the mist lumbered a shape, massive and unnatural. The soldiers’ eyes widened as it emerged into view, a white boar, its hide ghost-pale, bristling with coarse hair that shimmered faintly in the half-light. Its tusks curled like sickle blades, stained at their tips with old, dark rust.
The thing was enormous, dwarfing even the largest warhorses Jason had ever seen.
“No one… move,” Jason hissed, barely audible, his voice more commanding than whisper. “Not. A. Muscle.”
The swamp seemed to hold its breath.
The boar’s hooves sank deep into the mud as it scuffed at the ground, its small black eyes glinting. It lifted its head, nostrils flaring, and fixed its gaze on one man, the healer-scribe.
The poor wretch’s chest rose and fell too quickly. His lips trembled. Then, with a strangled whimper, he began to shift his weight backward. Panic trembled in his knees, every fibre of his frail body screaming to run.
Jason’s voice cut across the silence, sharp as steel.
“Hold him.”
A soldier moved like lightning, clamping a hand around the scribe’s arm before he could bolt. The healer’s eyes went wide with terror, but the grip held.
The white boar lowered its head, tusks scraping the earth. Its hoof dragged across the mud once, twice, as if considering the charge. The healer-scribe whimpered louder, but the soldier’s grip only tightened.
Then, its ear twitched. A sharp movement.
The monstrous head jerked toward the tree line, as though something else in the swamp had caught its attention. With a snort like the hiss of a forge, the creature swung its bulk around and lumbered back into the mist, vanishing as suddenly as it had appeared.
Only the churned mud and the stink of fear remained.
Jason’s jaw clenched, but his voice was steady.
“Form ranks. Nobody breaks. Nobody moves unless I say so.”
The healer-scribe’s knees buckled beneath him, sweat slicking his face, but he dared not speak.
The silence didn’t last.
A ripple of whispers broke through the ranks, like cracks in glass. The men glanced at each other, some wide-eyed, some muttering low. The healer-scribe was the loudest, voice high and fevered as he pointed a trembling finger toward the swamp where the boar had gone.
“It’s an omen,” he croaked, “a sign from the depths! We are cursed — cursed already, you fools, and now the swamp itself is sending its beast to—”
“QUIET!” Jason’s voice boomed like thunder.
The scribe flinched, teeth clacking shut, though his wide eyes still glittered with paranoia. The whispers swelled for a heartbeat longer, soldiers exchanging quick, worried glances, until Jason’s glare cut across them like a drawn blade.
“Form. Up.”
He unsheathed his sword with a ringing hiss, the sound sharp enough to silence the swamp itself. He stepped forward, boots sinking into the mud, and raised his blade high. His body flowed through the first stance like water into steel.
A forward cut. A sidestep. A block, a twist, a parry, the rhythm precise, powerful, clean as any drill-master’s dream. The swamp’s haze clung to him, but Jason carved through it as though fighting an invisible foe. Every slash was discipline. Every parry was defiance.
His men hesitated, then one by one, steel rasped from scabbards. They mirrored him. Imperfectly at first, clumsy from fear, but slowly the lines began to move in unison. A tide of sharpened intent.
Jason expected nothing less. He gave no order. His soldiers needed to see strength, not hear it.
Behind his mask of calm, his thoughts seethed.
The white boar. That monstrous thing, larger than any beast he’d faced in his years of war. Why the scribe? Why did it choose him? Three times now the swamp had howled in unison, and now this.
Omens are for the weak. Symbols are for the fearful. But still…
His blade twisted, caught the phantom strike of an enemy unseen, and he slammed it down hard into the muck, sending droplets flying. His men copied the motion with a roar.
Jason forced his grip to steady. Forced his chest to remain calm.
But the image of the white beast lingered, pale hide, curling tusks, those black, patient eyes.
And deep down, in a place he would never confess to his men, a single thought gnawed at him.
That wasn’t the swamp testing us. That was something else entirely.
The healer-scribe had been pacing like a trapped rat, his cream-coloured aura faintly glowing in agitation as he muttered to himself. His eyes darted everywhere, to the trees, the mist, the swamp mud bubbling at the camp’s edges. Then, as Jason’s blade flashed through another clean stance, the scribe’s muttering rose into a scream.
“You’re a fool!” he howled, voice breaking as spit flew from his lips. “A blind fool, Jason! You’ll kill us all!”
The formation faltered. A ripple of unease coursed through the two thousand men, boots shifting in the mud.
Jason didn’t flinch. His sword cut smoothly through another parry, his eyes locked on nothing but the phantom foe before him.
His second in command moved without hesitation. The man’s armoured boots pounded through the muck until he stood face to face with the healer-scribe. His fist shot forward, iron-hard, cracking into the scribe’s jaw with a sickening snap.
The healer-scribe dropped like a sack of grain, his body half-submerged in the swamp mud. His head lolled, blood trickling from his split lip, but he still twitched and muttered faintly even in unconsciousness.
The second turned on his heel, mud spraying, and marched back into formation as if nothing had happened.
Jason’s sword stilled. He gave his second a slow, deliberate nod, not praise, but recognition. Order restored.
Breakfast was called not long after. The camp moved like clockwork: rations passed out, men seated in their units, the stale smell of dried meat mixing with the swamp’s stench. Normalcy forced itself into being, as it always did.
Jason retired into his tent, beckoning his second to follow. Inside, the canvas walls cut them off from the drone of soldiers outside. Jason sat, his great frame hunched forward over the scarred wooden table, while his second remained standing until Jason waved him down.
“What did you see?” Jason asked, voice low. “The beast.”
The second’s jaw was still tight from the punch. “A white boar. Too big, Captain. Wrong in every way. And it stared at him—” he jerked his chin toward the direction of the unconscious scribe outside, “—like it knew.”
Jason’s fingers tapped hard against the tabletop, then curled into a fist. “And he called me a fool.”
The second leaned forward. “He’s unravelling, sir. If the men see him as an omen-bearer instead of the healer he is, we’ll have panic. You know what panic does to men out here.”
Jason’s eyes narrowed, steel-grey and sharp. “Then we give them no room to panic.” He leaned back, shadow falling across his face. “The next time that beast shows itself, it dies. By my hand, before the men.”
The second inclined his head. “So it shall be.”
But as Jason stared at the candle flickering on his desk, his thoughts churned with unease.
The swamp had been silent for years. Then came the animals’ screaming. Then the white boar.
And the boar hadn’t looked at him. Or the soldiers.
It had only looked at the healer-scribe.
When the healer-scribe finally stirred, he sat up in the mud with his jaw swollen, eyes glassy, lips moving in half-formed whispers. No one moved to help him. Two thousand soldiers stood in their units, eyes fixed forward, boots rooted like stakes in the swamp. Not one hand reached down to drag him out of the filth.
When he did pull himself to his feet, listing side to side like a drunk, the air around him seemed to bend. A thin silence followed in his wake, men shifting subtly to widen the space between themselves and him. By the time he rejoined the camp proper, he walked in a bubble of absence, every soldier avoiding his path as though his skin radiated sickness.
At breakfast, the separation grew sharper. Tin plates were handed down the lines, ration packs opened and shared. But when the scribe reached for his portion, the man beside him turned his back and slid down the row. Another soldier passed the ladle across the circle instead of serving him directly.
The healer-scribe’s hands shook as he took what he could, muttering to himself through cracked lips. His aura glimmered faintly cream, flickering like a guttering candle. The soldiers pretended not to see.
But their eyes betrayed them. They glanced from the corners of their vision, lips tight, jaws clenched. The whispers began, too low for officers to catch, but loud enough to spread.
“Marked.”
“Cursed.”
“Boar looked straight at him.”
“He’s the tether.”
One man, braver, or more foolish, than the rest, spat into the muck as the scribe limped past. The spittle mixed with swamp water, but the message was clear.
Jason watched from a distance. He said nothing, his expression carved from stone. But inside his mind churned like the swamp waters beneath the surface.
The men were right to fear omens. Fear was survival in this cursed place. Yet if the healer-scribe lost all standing with the soldiers, order itself could rot from the inside. And in this swamp, there was no margin for rot.
By nightfall, the healer-scribe sat alone at the edge of the firelight, rocking again, murmuring to no one. His food lay untouched at his side. The men gathered in tighter clusters, their voices hushed, their eyes flicking nervously toward him.
The camp had always felt like a prison. Now it began to feel like a million insects crawling all over him.
Jason’s fingers traced the cold metal of the fifty-three dog tags hanging from the hook. Each one represented a man lost before they ever even left the camp, fading into the swamp’s cursed edges. Their names whispered in his mind, fragments of voices caught on the wind through the trees, yet impossible to hold.
He remembered the missive from Rubian Blackthorn, still crisp in his hand despite the damp. The King’s seal had been flawless, the instructions clear: take all two thousand and fifty men into the heart of the Delphinian Swamps and crush the enemy hiding there. Jason had obeyed without hesitation, as he had been trained, as he had always been trained. Yet here they were — trapped, tethered to the camp, unable to stray without losing themselves to the swamp’s merciless grip.
A low murmur of voices drifted through the canvas walls of his tent. Jason barely heard the sounds over the pulse of memory and the rhythm of his thoughts. The healer-scribe was now safely ensconced in his own tent, guarded by two soldiers as Jason had instructed. The man’s mutterings would carry no further tonight.
Jason leaned back, staring at the map pinned to the wooden wall, the inked lines now seeming like a mockery. The winding marshes, the jagged waterways, the unseen paths through knee-deep fog, every detail he had memorised now felt like a trap designed just for them.
He let out a slow breath and reached for one of the dog tags, weighing it in his palm. Each tag was heavy not with metal, but with the weight of responsibility. Fifty-three men gone, their absence pressing down like a stone in his chest.
Jason’s jaw tightened. He had failed them. Not by choice, not by hesitation, but by circumstance — and yet, somewhere deep inside, he knew the swamp would not forgive another misstep.
The candle guttered, casting long shadows across the tent. He imagined the soldiers outside, moving silently in their tents, the healer-scribe muttering in his own twisted rhythm, the strange, unseen forces that lay waiting just beyond the firelight.
Jason pressed his palms to his eyes, trying to summon clarity. He had plans. He had orders. He had duty. And yet the weight of the lost men, of the fifty-three names, pressed down with a cold, unyielding force, reminding him that in the Delphinian Swamps, survival was never a certainty — only vigilance, and the iron discipline of a captain who had no choice but to endure.
He lifted his gaze from the dog tags. Somewhere in the distance, the faint cries of swamp creatures echoed through the mist. Somewhere else, perhaps, the white boar moved again.
And somewhere else still, the healer-scribe muttered his strange, half-formed incantations, unaware of the dread growing in the camp around him.
Jason’s hand rested on the hilt of his sword. The weight of command was never lighter at night, never quieter, never free of the ghosts it carried.
Jason’s eyes followed the falcon as it lifted from the branch, wings slicing the damp morning air with a precision that seemed almost unnatural. For two decades, the swamp had been their prison, its mists hiding predators, its waters claiming the careless, and yet never had a falcon come near the camp. And now, here it was, watching, observing… as if it carried a message only he could feel.
He frowned, gripping the hilt of his sword. Something about the way it had cocked its head, the almost human intelligence in its gaze, made his instincts prickle. He could not place it, could not name it, but the unease settled like a stone in his stomach.
“Second!” he called, his voice firm but low, careful not to alarm the sleeping camp. “Keep eyes sharp. No one leaves the boundaries without my command. Something’s… different.”
The second in command nodded immediately, disappearing into the rows of soldiers, barking orders to clean and maintain their gear. The metallic scrape of whetstones on blades and the careful polishing of armour echoed across the camp like a ritual, a familiar rhythm meant to keep fear at bay.
Jason turned back to his map. The boundaries were clear, the safe zones sketched in meticulous lines, fishing and hunting grounds marked with care. He traced a finger along the edge where the swamp’s mists began to blur the ground into nothingness. He had memorised these lines long ago, but the falcon’s presence suggested that the swamp might be changing, or that something was stirring just beyond the edges of their known world.
The healer-scribe remained confined to his tent, mumbling incoherently at times, a soft cream-coloured aura flickering around him. Jason didn’t trust him, not fully. Yet the scribe’s presence was a necessary nuisance, a small anchor to the mundane in a place where the swamp threatened to unravel all certainty.
Jason straightened, squinting toward the trees where the falcon had disappeared. Every sense in him was alert. The swamps were always alive, always watching, but this… this felt like something new. Something deliberate.
He clenched his fists, feeling the familiar weight of command and responsibility settle over him like armour. The soldiers could sense it too; even in the swamp’s oppressive damp and gloom, discipline would be maintained.
Jason’s boots sank slightly into the damp swamp soil as he walked toward the group of hunters waiting near the camp’s edge. Their faces were grim but alert, seasoned by years of forced routine in a place that seemed to punish the careless. The swamp was quiet, too quiet, as if holding its breath, and every snap of a twig or rustle of leaves drew Jason’s trained eyes and ears.
“Rabbits, boar, and deer,” he called to the hunters, his voice low and precise, carrying the weight of authority without need for theatrics. “Salmon and mackerel only if we’re lucky. Do not overreach. Do not overextend. Watch the swamp, and watch each other. Stay within the safe zones, and stay alert at all times.”
The hunters nodded, murmuring their agreement. Their eyes darted nervously toward the shadowed edges of the swamp, where the mist rolled in like a living thing. Jason could feel the tension in their shoulders, the subtle unease that had grown among the men during their time trapped here. Even the healer-scribe, usually a source of distraction with his muttering and frantic pacing, had finally stopped, keeping his distance from the others and watching silently from the camp.
Satisfied that his instructions were clear, Jason turned sharply on his heel and walked back toward his tent. His second in command, a tall, imposing man with a hawkish face, fell into step beside him.
“They’re ready, Captain,” he murmured. “But… something about today feels different.”
Jason didn’t reply, his mind already turning over patrol rotations and observation points. His own night post had revealed nothing so far, but he was determined not to be caught off guard. Every shadow, every whisper of the swamp could be significant. He knew patience was key.
The hunters dispersed into the trees, silent as the mist that clung to the ground, leaving the camp quiet once more. Jason paused at the edge of his tent, feeling the weight of the swamp pressing in from all sides. The day was clear, the light muted by a grey haze that seemed thicker than usual. He didn’t know what waited for them, but he knew instinctively that the Delphinian Swamps were watching, always watching, and patience alone might not be enough.
He ducked into the tent, checking the edge of the map he had drawn so carefully. His finger traced the lines marking safe hunting grounds, noting how far the men could safely venture before the mist began to swallow everything beyond recognition.
The camp was quiet except for the soft rustle of returning hunters and the occasional splash of swamp water from trudging boots. Jason stepped out from his tent as the first figures appeared, dragging several adult-sized deer and medium-sized boars. Behind them, baskets of rabbits and fish clinked and thumped with careful weight.
He studied their faces in the fading light. Fatigue, relief, and a hint of unease showed on all of them. Of the dozen hunters, three had small injuries, scrapes on arms, torn clothing, bruised shoulders, but nothing life-threatening.
Jason walked toward them, his boots making muted impressions in the soft mud. “Well done,” he said, his deep voice carrying a calm authority that cut through the swamp’s damp air. “You’ve provided for the camp today. Every life you brought back will feed us all.”
He stopped beside the first injured hunter and shook his hand firmly. “This scrape will heal. Good work.” Then he moved to the next, giving a nod and a word of encouragement, repeating the gesture with the third. His eyes swept over the game they had brought, measuring the bounty.
The hunters straightened, a little taller now that their efforts had been acknowledged. Jason allowed himself a brief glance around the camp: the fires smouldering, the tents orderly, the soldiers quietly preparing the evening meal from the day’s catch. For a moment, it felt almost normal, like any other day of hunting.
Yet even as he gave thanks, a faint unease tugged at the back of his mind. The swamp beyond the safe zones was silent tonight, too silent. Every rustle, every movement in the mist had become a test of alertness, a reminder that nothing could truly be taken for granted.
Jason turned back to the hunters, offering a final nod. “Rest tonight. Eat. Recover. Tomorrow, we continue, but tonight, we honour the work you’ve done.”
The hunters relaxed slightly, murmuring their thanks in return, yet even in their small smiles, the unspoken tension of the swamp lingered.
Jason stayed watching them for a moment longer, taking note of each face, each cautious step, before finally retreating back to his tent as the last light of day faded into the mist-shrouded night.
Chapter 38: Ghostly
In the middle of the Delphinian Swamps, a camp lingered where no camp should be. Captain Jason Moore and his men had been trapped there for two decades, bound by a curse none of them understood. If they strayed too far from the rough circle of their makeshift settlement, their bodies began to wane, their outlines thinning into mist. A few who tested the boundaries too boldly had dissolved entirely, fading into the swamp’s heavy fog until only silence marked their absence.
Travellers on the outskirts of the swamp told ghost stories of spectral soldiers. Blue-white figures seen in the reeds, drilling and patrolling with hollow eyes, bound forever to a war that no longer existed.
The captain had tried to resist despair by enforcing order—training drills, ration schedules, patrol routines. He clung to discipline as though it might anchor them to reality. His men followed, because what else was there to do?
Only one among them could work magic, and even then, only the barest scraps of it. The healer-scribe. His aura was cream-coloured, a strange shade, pale and unsettling against the swamp’s shadows. He could close wounds, soothe pain, and hold off fever, but little more. His efforts had saved lives, but they could not break the curse.
At first, Jason had considered the scribe a blessing. But now… the man unnerved him.
The healer muttered to himself more and more, scribbling notes no one else could read, lines that blurred into nonsense the moment another set of eyes looked upon them. His gaze was restless, his hands always trembling as if listening to a rhythm only he could hear.
He claimed the swamp was alive. That it was listening. That every disappearance was not chance, but hunger.
At night, the captain sometimes woke to see the scribe sitting cross-legged in the mud, whispering the names of every man in camp as though making an offering. He was no cause of the vanishings, that much Jason knew, but the way the scribe stared into the fog, eyes wide and wet with feverish light, made it feel as though he was waiting for the swamp to take them all, one by one.
And the worst part, Jason couldn’t decide if the healer feared the swamp… or had started to revere it.
Jason rose before dawn, joints stiff from another night of restless half-sleep. He pushed out of his tent flap, stretching his arms wide as the first thin light of day pressed against the swamp’s choking mists.
A few soldiers patrolled the perimeter, their armour damp with dew, boots sinking into the mire.
Near the fire pit, the healer-scribe sat hunched, rocking forward and back. His robes were stained, his face pale, his lips moving in constant whispers Jason couldn’t quite catch. His eyes were hollow with sleeplessness.
Jason’s jaw tightened. He had seen men break before, but never this slowly, never under such a curse.
“ATTENTION!” Jason’s voice split the swamp air like a whip-crack.
The camp stirred immediately. Thousands of boots scraped against the mud as men rushed into formation, two thousand soldiers falling into their rows with the precision of long practice. Metal clinked, throats cleared, the weight of discipline cutting through the swamp’s silence.
The healer-scribe flinched violently. His head snapped up, eyes wide, rocking halted. Jason strode toward him with heavy, deliberate steps, then stopped just behind him.
“ATTENTION!” he bellowed again, directly into the man’s ear.
The healer-scribe nearly jumped out of his skin. He scrambled upright, fumbling with his robes, and stumbled into formation beside the soldiers, face white, hands twitching at his sides.
Jason turned to face the ranks, shoulders squared, his voice calm and commanding now.
“Start your stretches!”
The soldiers moved as one. Rows of men bent, twisted, stretched their limbs in martial warm-ups drilled into them over decades. Mud sucked at their boots, armour creaked, and their breath came in unison.
The healer-scribe struggled to follow, movements jerky, his eyes flicking from soldier to soldier as if unsure whether he belonged among them. His lips still moved, muttering some half-chant, half-prayer under his breath.
Jason’s gaze lingered on him. Order kept them alive—routine, discipline, structure. The swamp had stolen everything else, but it would not take that.
And yet, even here in the safety of the camp, Jason felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck at the sound of the healer’s whispered words.
Jason paced to the front of the ranks, his boots pressing deep into the swamp’s soft earth, then turned so his back faced his men. The morning mist curled around him, half swallowing his outline, but his voice rang out steady and strong.
Without hesitation, he dropped into the warm-up himself. His arms cut the air with sharp, controlled precision. Fists clenched, shoulders rolling, his body moving in practised rhythm. Shadow-boxing sequences flowed from him like water — the kind of clean, efficient motion that only decades of discipline could carve into muscle memory.
Every pivot, every strike, every deliberate breath told his soldiers the same truth: this is why he wears the rank, why he commands two thousand men even in this cursed hell.
The soldiers responded instantly. A ripple moved through the formation. Where before their stretches had been measured and sluggish, now they doubled their effort. Boots stamped harder into the mud, torsos twisted deeper, arms snapped with renewed energy.
The sound of hundreds of men moving as one filled the camp: the creak of leather, the rasp of steel, the stomp of feet. A living machine, following the rhythm of their captain.
Jason drove his fists forward in a brutal flurry, elbows tucked tight, strikes so crisp they cracked against the damp air. Behind him, the army mirrored him perfectly, two thousand shadows boxing the mist.
It was unity. It was survival. It was defiance of the swamp’s curse.
Only one man faltered.
At the edge of the formation, the healer-scribe jerked awkwardly through the motions, his limbs out of sync, lips still muttering their vague, unsettling rhythm. His eyes flickered between Jason’s sharp movements and the trees beyond the camp’s edge, as though he was watching something no one else could see.
Jason didn’t slow. He drove his heel into the mud with a kick that sent earth spraying, then snapped back into guard, movements crisp and unforgiving. His men followed, harder, faster, stronger.
The soldiers’ movements froze mid-strike as the sound rolled in, not a single noise, but a cacophony, a wild frenzy that shattered the camp’s discipline.
Screeches, croaks, guttural squeals, every beast in the swamp was shrieking, as though some unseen hand had struck a terrible chord through them all. Wings battered the fog. Frogs wailed. Something heavy crashed in the reeds.
And then silence cracked wide open.
From the mist lumbered a shape, massive and unnatural. The soldiers’ eyes widened as it emerged into view, a white boar, its hide ghost-pale, bristling with coarse hair that shimmered faintly in the half-light. Its tusks curled like sickle blades, stained at their tips with old, dark rust.
The thing was enormous, dwarfing even the largest warhorses Jason had ever seen.
“No one… move,” Jason hissed, barely audible, his voice more commanding than whisper. “Not. A. Muscle.”
The swamp seemed to hold its breath.
The boar’s hooves sank deep into the mud as it scuffed at the ground, its small black eyes glinting. It lifted its head, nostrils flaring, and fixed its gaze on one man, the healer-scribe.
The poor wretch’s chest rose and fell too quickly. His lips trembled. Then, with a strangled whimper, he began to shift his weight backward. Panic trembled in his knees, every fibre of his frail body screaming to run.
Jason’s voice cut across the silence, sharp as steel.
“Hold him.”
A soldier moved like lightning, clamping a hand around the scribe’s arm before he could bolt. The healer’s eyes went wide with terror, but the grip held.
The white boar lowered its head, tusks scraping the earth. Its hoof dragged across the mud once, twice, as if considering the charge. The healer-scribe whimpered louder, but the soldier’s grip only tightened.
Then, its ear twitched. A sharp movement.
The monstrous head jerked toward the tree line, as though something else in the swamp had caught its attention. With a snort like the hiss of a forge, the creature swung its bulk around and lumbered back into the mist, vanishing as suddenly as it had appeared.
Only the churned mud and the stink of fear remained.
Jason’s jaw clenched, but his voice was steady.
“Form ranks. Nobody breaks. Nobody moves unless I say so.”
The healer-scribe’s knees buckled beneath him, sweat slicking his face, but he dared not speak.
The silence didn’t last.
A ripple of whispers broke through the ranks, like cracks in glass. The men glanced at each other, some wide-eyed, some muttering low. The healer-scribe was the loudest, voice high and fevered as he pointed a trembling finger toward the swamp where the boar had gone.
“It’s an omen,” he croaked, “a sign from the depths! We are cursed — cursed already, you fools, and now the swamp itself is sending its beast to—”
“QUIET!” Jason’s voice boomed like thunder.
The scribe flinched, teeth clacking shut, though his wide eyes still glittered with paranoia. The whispers swelled for a heartbeat longer, soldiers exchanging quick, worried glances, until Jason’s glare cut across them like a drawn blade.
“Form. Up.”
He unsheathed his sword with a ringing hiss, the sound sharp enough to silence the swamp itself. He stepped forward, boots sinking into the mud, and raised his blade high. His body flowed through the first stance like water into steel.
A forward cut. A sidestep. A block, a twist, a parry, the rhythm precise, powerful, clean as any drill-master’s dream. The swamp’s haze clung to him, but Jason carved through it as though fighting an invisible foe. Every slash was discipline. Every parry was defiance.
His men hesitated, then one by one, steel rasped from scabbards. They mirrored him. Imperfectly at first, clumsy from fear, but slowly the lines began to move in unison. A tide of sharpened intent.
Jason expected nothing less. He gave no order. His soldiers needed to see strength, not hear it.
Behind his mask of calm, his thoughts seethed.
The white boar. That monstrous thing, larger than any beast he’d faced in his years of war. Why the scribe? Why did it choose him? Three times now the swamp had howled in unison, and now this.
Omens are for the weak. Symbols are for the fearful. But still…
His blade twisted, caught the phantom strike of an enemy unseen, and he slammed it down hard into the muck, sending droplets flying. His men copied the motion with a roar.
Jason forced his grip to steady. Forced his chest to remain calm.
But the image of the white beast lingered, pale hide, curling tusks, those black, patient eyes.
And deep down, in a place he would never confess to his men, a single thought gnawed at him.
That wasn’t the swamp testing us. That was something else entirely.
The healer-scribe had been pacing like a trapped rat, his cream-coloured aura faintly glowing in agitation as he muttered to himself. His eyes darted everywhere, to the trees, the mist, the swamp mud bubbling at the camp’s edges. Then, as Jason’s blade flashed through another clean stance, the scribe’s muttering rose into a scream.
“You’re a fool!” he howled, voice breaking as spit flew from his lips. “A blind fool, Jason! You’ll kill us all!”
The formation faltered. A ripple of unease coursed through the two thousand men, boots shifting in the mud.
Jason didn’t flinch. His sword cut smoothly through another parry, his eyes locked on nothing but the phantom foe before him.
His second in command moved without hesitation. The man’s armoured boots pounded through the muck until he stood face to face with the healer-scribe. His fist shot forward, iron-hard, cracking into the scribe’s jaw with a sickening snap.
The healer-scribe dropped like a sack of grain, his body half-submerged in the swamp mud. His head lolled, blood trickling from his split lip, but he still twitched and muttered faintly even in unconsciousness.
The second turned on his heel, mud spraying, and marched back into formation as if nothing had happened.
Jason’s sword stilled. He gave his second a slow, deliberate nod, not praise, but recognition. Order restored.
Breakfast was called not long after. The camp moved like clockwork: rations passed out, men seated in their units, the stale smell of dried meat mixing with the swamp’s stench. Normalcy forced itself into being, as it always did.
Jason retired into his tent, beckoning his second to follow. Inside, the canvas walls cut them off from the drone of soldiers outside. Jason sat, his great frame hunched forward over the scarred wooden table, while his second remained standing until Jason waved him down.
“What did you see?” Jason asked, voice low. “The beast.”
The second’s jaw was still tight from the punch. “A white boar. Too big, Captain. Wrong in every way. And it stared at him—” he jerked his chin toward the direction of the unconscious scribe outside, “—like it knew.”
Jason’s fingers tapped hard against the tabletop, then curled into a fist. “And he called me a fool.”
The second leaned forward. “He’s unravelling, sir. If the men see him as an omen-bearer instead of the healer he is, we’ll have panic. You know what panic does to men out here.”
Jason’s eyes narrowed, steel-grey and sharp. “Then we give them no room to panic.” He leaned back, shadow falling across his face. “The next time that beast shows itself, it dies. By my hand, before the men.”
The second inclined his head. “So it shall be.”
But as Jason stared at the candle flickering on his desk, his thoughts churned with unease.
The swamp had been silent for years. Then came the animals’ screaming. Then the white boar.
And the boar hadn’t looked at him. Or the soldiers.
It had only looked at the healer-scribe.
When the healer-scribe finally stirred, he sat up in the mud with his jaw swollen, eyes glassy, lips moving in half-formed whispers. No one moved to help him. Two thousand soldiers stood in their units, eyes fixed forward, boots rooted like stakes in the swamp. Not one hand reached down to drag him out of the filth.
When he did pull himself to his feet, listing side to side like a drunk, the air around him seemed to bend. A thin silence followed in his wake, men shifting subtly to widen the space between themselves and him. By the time he rejoined the camp proper, he walked in a bubble of absence, every soldier avoiding his path as though his skin radiated sickness.
At breakfast, the separation grew sharper. Tin plates were handed down the lines, ration packs opened and shared. But when the scribe reached for his portion, the man beside him turned his back and slid down the row. Another soldier passed the ladle across the circle instead of serving him directly.
The healer-scribe’s hands shook as he took what he could, muttering to himself through cracked lips. His aura glimmered faintly cream, flickering like a guttering candle. The soldiers pretended not to see.
But their eyes betrayed them. They glanced from the corners of their vision, lips tight, jaws clenched. The whispers began, too low for officers to catch, but loud enough to spread.
“Marked.”
“Cursed.”
“Boar looked straight at him.”
“He’s the tether.”
One man, braver, or more foolish, than the rest, spat into the muck as the scribe limped past. The spittle mixed with swamp water, but the message was clear.
Jason watched from a distance. He said nothing, his expression carved from stone. But inside his mind churned like the swamp waters beneath the surface.
The men were right to fear omens. Fear was survival in this cursed place. Yet if the healer-scribe lost all standing with the soldiers, order itself could rot from the inside. And in this swamp, there was no margin for rot.
By nightfall, the healer-scribe sat alone at the edge of the firelight, rocking again, murmuring to no one. His food lay untouched at his side. The men gathered in tighter clusters, their voices hushed, their eyes flicking nervously toward him.
The camp had always felt like a prison. Now it began to feel like a million insects crawling all over him.
Jason’s fingers traced the cold metal of the fifty-three dog tags hanging from the hook. Each one represented a man lost before they ever even left the camp, fading into the swamp’s cursed edges. Their names whispered in his mind, fragments of voices caught on the wind through the trees, yet impossible to hold.
He remembered the missive from Rubian Blackthorn, still crisp in his hand despite the damp. The King’s seal had been flawless, the instructions clear: take all two thousand and fifty men into the heart of the Delphinian Swamps and crush the enemy hiding there. Jason had obeyed without hesitation, as he had been trained, as he had always been trained. Yet here they were — trapped, tethered to the camp, unable to stray without losing themselves to the swamp’s merciless grip.
A low murmur of voices drifted through the canvas walls of his tent. Jason barely heard the sounds over the pulse of memory and the rhythm of his thoughts. The healer-scribe was now safely ensconced in his own tent, guarded by two soldiers as Jason had instructed. The man’s mutterings would carry no further tonight.
Jason leaned back, staring at the map pinned to the wooden wall, the inked lines now seeming like a mockery. The winding marshes, the jagged waterways, the unseen paths through knee-deep fog, every detail he had memorised now felt like a trap designed just for them.
He let out a slow breath and reached for one of the dog tags, weighing it in his palm. Each tag was heavy not with metal, but with the weight of responsibility. Fifty-three men gone, their absence pressing down like a stone in his chest.
Jason’s jaw tightened. He had failed them. Not by choice, not by hesitation, but by circumstance — and yet, somewhere deep inside, he knew the swamp would not forgive another misstep.
The candle guttered, casting long shadows across the tent. He imagined the soldiers outside, moving silently in their tents, the healer-scribe muttering in his own twisted rhythm, the strange, unseen forces that lay waiting just beyond the firelight.
Jason pressed his palms to his eyes, trying to summon clarity. He had plans. He had orders. He had duty. And yet the weight of the lost men, of the fifty-three names, pressed down with a cold, unyielding force, reminding him that in the Delphinian Swamps, survival was never a certainty — only vigilance, and the iron discipline of a captain who had no choice but to endure.
He lifted his gaze from the dog tags. Somewhere in the distance, the faint cries of swamp creatures echoed through the mist. Somewhere else, perhaps, the white boar moved again.
And somewhere else still, the healer-scribe muttered his strange, half-formed incantations, unaware of the dread growing in the camp around him.
Jason’s hand rested on the hilt of his sword. The weight of command was never lighter at night, never quieter, never free of the ghosts it carried.
Jason’s eyes followed the falcon as it lifted from the branch, wings slicing the damp morning air with a precision that seemed almost unnatural. For two decades, the swamp had been their prison, its mists hiding predators, its waters claiming the careless, and yet never had a falcon come near the camp. And now, here it was, watching, observing… as if it carried a message only he could feel.
He frowned, gripping the hilt of his sword. Something about the way it had cocked its head, the almost human intelligence in its gaze, made his instincts prickle. He could not place it, could not name it, but the unease settled like a stone in his stomach.
“Second!” he called, his voice firm but low, careful not to alarm the sleeping camp. “Keep eyes sharp. No one leaves the boundaries without my command. Something’s… different.”
The second in command nodded immediately, disappearing into the rows of soldiers, barking orders to clean and maintain their gear. The metallic scrape of whetstones on blades and the careful polishing of armour echoed across the camp like a ritual, a familiar rhythm meant to keep fear at bay.
Jason turned back to his map. The boundaries were clear, the safe zones sketched in meticulous lines, fishing and hunting grounds marked with care. He traced a finger along the edge where the swamp’s mists began to blur the ground into nothingness. He had memorised these lines long ago, but the falcon’s presence suggested that the swamp might be changing, or that something was stirring just beyond the edges of their known world.
The healer-scribe remained confined to his tent, mumbling incoherently at times, a soft cream-coloured aura flickering around him. Jason didn’t trust him, not fully. Yet the scribe’s presence was a necessary nuisance, a small anchor to the mundane in a place where the swamp threatened to unravel all certainty.
Jason straightened, squinting toward the trees where the falcon had disappeared. Every sense in him was alert. The swamps were always alive, always watching, but this… this felt like something new. Something deliberate.
He clenched his fists, feeling the familiar weight of command and responsibility settle over him like armour. The soldiers could sense it too; even in the swamp’s oppressive damp and gloom, discipline would be maintained.
Jason’s boots sank slightly into the damp swamp soil as he walked toward the group of hunters waiting near the camp’s edge. Their faces were grim but alert, seasoned by years of forced routine in a place that seemed to punish the careless. The swamp was quiet, too quiet, as if holding its breath, and every snap of a twig or rustle of leaves drew Jason’s trained eyes and ears.
“Rabbits, boar, and deer,” he called to the hunters, his voice low and precise, carrying the weight of authority without need for theatrics. “Salmon and mackerel only if we’re lucky. Do not overreach. Do not overextend. Watch the swamp, and watch each other. Stay within the safe zones, and stay alert at all times.”
The hunters nodded, murmuring their agreement. Their eyes darted nervously toward the shadowed edges of the swamp, where the mist rolled in like a living thing. Jason could feel the tension in their shoulders, the subtle unease that had grown among the men during their time trapped here. Even the healer-scribe, usually a source of distraction with his muttering and frantic pacing, had finally stopped, keeping his distance from the others and watching silently from the camp.
Satisfied that his instructions were clear, Jason turned sharply on his heel and walked back toward his tent. His second in command, a tall, imposing man with a hawkish face, fell into step beside him.
“They’re ready, Captain,” he murmured. “But… something about today feels different.”
Jason didn’t reply, his mind already turning over patrol rotations and observation points. His own night post had revealed nothing so far, but he was determined not to be caught off guard. Every shadow, every whisper of the swamp could be significant. He knew patience was key.
The hunters dispersed into the trees, silent as the mist that clung to the ground, leaving the camp quiet once more. Jason paused at the edge of his tent, feeling the weight of the swamp pressing in from all sides. The day was clear, the light muted by a grey haze that seemed thicker than usual. He didn’t know what waited for them, but he knew instinctively that the Delphinian Swamps were watching, always watching, and patience alone might not be enough.
He ducked into the tent, checking the edge of the map he had drawn so carefully. His finger traced the lines marking safe hunting grounds, noting how far the men could safely venture before the mist began to swallow everything beyond recognition.
The camp was quiet except for the soft rustle of returning hunters and the occasional splash of swamp water from trudging boots. Jason stepped out from his tent as the first figures appeared, dragging several adult-sized deer and medium-sized boars. Behind them, baskets of rabbits and fish clinked and thumped with careful weight.
He studied their faces in the fading light. Fatigue, relief, and a hint of unease showed on all of them. Of the dozen hunters, three had small injuries, scrapes on arms, torn clothing, bruised shoulders, but nothing life-threatening.
Jason walked toward them, his boots making muted impressions in the soft mud. “Well done,” he said, his deep voice carrying a calm authority that cut through the swamp’s damp air. “You’ve provided for the camp today. Every life you brought back will feed us all.”
He stopped beside the first injured hunter and shook his hand firmly. “This scrape will heal. Good work.” Then he moved to the next, giving a nod and a word of encouragement, repeating the gesture with the third. His eyes swept over the game they had brought, measuring the bounty.
The hunters straightened, a little taller now that their efforts had been acknowledged. Jason allowed himself a brief glance around the camp: the fires smouldering, the tents orderly, the soldiers quietly preparing the evening meal from the day’s catch. For a moment, it felt almost normal, like any other day of hunting.
Yet even as he gave thanks, a faint unease tugged at the back of his mind. The swamp beyond the safe zones was silent tonight, too silent. Every rustle, every movement in the mist had become a test of alertness, a reminder that nothing could truly be taken for granted.
Jason turned back to the hunters, offering a final nod. “Rest tonight. Eat. Recover. Tomorrow, we continue, but tonight, we honour the work you’ve done.”
The hunters relaxed slightly, murmuring their thanks in return, yet even in their small smiles, the unspoken tension of the swamp lingered.
Jason stayed watching them for a moment longer, taking note of each face, each cautious step, before finally retreating back to his tent as the last light of day faded into the mist-shrouded night.
The Journey, Book 2: Chapter 39
Chapter 39: Date The clearing lay tucked between willow trees, their long silver leaves brushing the surface of a narrow stream that gurgled softly over smooth stones. Sunlight dappled through the canopy, painting the grass with shifting patches of gold. A blanket was spread neatly near the...
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