Page 24 of The Blight of Hollowmire

I open my eyes.

The first thing I see isn’t sky or bog or the dripping, sprawled remains of swamp spider. It is a pair of eyes the color of oxblood, deep and dark—watching me with an intensity that makes the breath catch painfully in my throat.

6

Vireth

“Gods, you humans do bleed a lot. How can one body hold so much blood? I think half the marsh has been watered by you by now. Do you not find that distracting? Do you feel like you’re sloshing around every time you walk?” Questions pour out of me as quickly as this man’s scarlet blood seems to pour out of him.

The man groans, which I take as a promising sign that he’s not yet dead.

The human is my second surprise of the morning. The first was seeing the bogunder hauling itself up upon the makeshift causeway—I’d assumed they’d all been wiped out by now.

I’m not sure why I interfered. Perhaps it was pity, or curiosity. Perhaps it was an unconscious action, like pulling a hand away from a hot stove. Now, unfortunately, I’m left with the consequences of my compassion. Namely, dragging an unconscious human through the bog while he leaks blood all over my favorite boots.

I’ve never seen a human in person—only heard the stories my parents told from a time when our realms weren’t so… separate. Usually the tales involved loud voices, stronger ale, and humans doing something reckless that—I’m sure when they retell it—becomes heroic instead of foolish.

I’m not entirely sure this one will survive long enough for anyone to embroider the details.

“The bogunder’s bile isn’t poison to my kind,” I murmur to the insensate man, “though it does encourage festering in a way I rather admire. I can’t say whether your body will share that appreciation, though.”

The human groans again as I haul him a little farther along the muddy path. He’s lapsing in and out of consciousness—sure to be a bad sign. I don’t wish for another bogunder to sense us here on this feeble, little-traveled pathway, so I attempt to heft the man back towards the woodland on the opposite end of the bog. He’s heavy—much heavier than he looks—and the bog isn’t particularly accommodating to travelers who wish to drag unconscious men through it.

Still, I’m managing reasonably well until he begins thrashing.

At this moment, his horse—a beautiful black destrier who’s been giving me a wide berth—nickers in warning and trots after us.

“Cease your flailing, human, or your guts may spill out,” I grunt, shouldering more of his weight. “I assure you the bog would appreciate the offering. As for me, if I wanted you to come to harm, I simply could’ve left you to the creatures of the bog. The bogunder is hardly the worst of them, and they would’ve made short work of you with all that tasty blood leaking out.”

His eyes are closed, but they flutter at the censure in my words, and some of his fervor stills. Finally his eyes flicker open, glazed and unfocused, but aware enough to understand that I am speaking to him.

“Where…?” he rasps.

“You were being eaten,” I say bluntly. “Now you are not. Try not to undo the progress.”

He squints at me through the fog of pain, clearly attempting to determine whether I am friend or foe. His gaze drifts over my messy top knot of white hair and garnet-brown eyes.

His brow furrows. “What… are you?”

Ah, isn’t that the question of the day? Fae woman, mushroom-happy outcast, bitter old woman, burgeoning apocalypse goddess. I consider how to respond, then think better of it, seeing as how I suspect he won’t remember whatever truths or untruths I lob at him.

“Alive,” I settle on. “Unlike you, if you insist on continuing this conversation.”

He grunts, which I take as reluctant agreement, and his eyes slide closed again. Good.

With the immediate crisis postponed, I allow myself a moment to properly assess the situation. The human’s armor is dented and smeared with mud, but it’s clearly well-made—polished steel with a faded crest etched into the breastplate. A knight, then. Or at least someone who wishes to look like one.

Surveying the damage done to him, I note several smaller injuries in addition to the impressive gash along his leg. Beneath his fine armor, there are deep purpling bruises along his chest and stomach where the bogunder tested its meal before settling in, and a wound on his shoulder that appears older and is doing a remarkably poor job of healing. Interesting.

Whoever this man is, he’s clearly had a rough go of it. Concern sparks in my chest and, shamefully, a fledgling sort of excitement at the prospect of being useful. Digging through my bag, I pull out the bandages and salve I packed earlier and begin to quickly clean and dress his wounds. The wound on his leg will need stitches, and without delay I whistle for Nibblebones, instructing her to go find me something that will serve as a needle. By the time I’ve bandaged his chest and stomach to help stabilize his broken ribs, she’s returned to me carrying an impossibly small, sharp rib bone from some unknown creature. Knotting it with a fungal filament thinner and stronger than spider silk, I sew more carefully than I ever did during embroidery lessons.

Warmth settles low in my belly—pleasure from doing a job well, from doing something that needed doing, maybe even from the physical contact of another being. I’m concerned for the human, of course, but the cost to my quest is but a few hours of delay, and the reward is fresh curiosity and a strange kind of companionship.

It takes me quite some time to finish my work, but his bleeding finally slows and he stills peacefully, not in death. Pleased with myself, I stand to find the freshwater stream I can hear nearby to wash. As I make my way down the slight sloping embankment, I hear the tentative thuds of hooves on the packed dirt—his horse following me.

“This water is clean and safe, handsome one, if you need a drink,” I say softly. Looking over my shoulder, I notice the burns on his forelegs and make a soothing noise. “May I clean your wounds, too? I fear they’ll fester if I don’t.”

I approach slowly, holding out my palm for the beast to scent. The horse’s expressive ears flick forward and back, scanning the forest for threats—or perhaps determining if I myself am one. Fae have complicated relationships with domesticated animals, aligning more easily with wild ones. Yet this one seems to agree that I’m less of a threat than septic, tainted flesh, and stands as still as an oak while I clean and bandage the painful burns on his legs.