Story #21 - Waterlogged

Waterlogged

Merris was dead.

A sad thing to lose a son before a father, even if the nobles couldn't spare more than a thought for it. Oh, they'd been willing enough to provide the compensation they promised to the member of any landworking class that lost a laborer, but that did little to ease the pain.

Merris had always been foolhardy and when Kita, his prized pup, had run off into the damp, he had followed without thinking.

Adjusting his pack on his shoulder, Syne cursed himself for a fool once again. The damp was much like death itself; inevitable but random. Men had made it through unscathed night after night for years, only to disappear and never return on a quick trip from home.

He had his wife had been careful to keep Merris away from it as much as possible, but he was a curious lad, always poking at the edges of things he shouldn't know about and didn't need to learn – bad traits in a landworker.

Still, Syne could hardly complain. Merris had been the most hardworking, the most loyal of his crew and other landworking fathers looked at Syne as though he were akin to a noble himself. He had been immensely proud of Merris, something he was sure he'd told him often enough, until...

A drizzling rain came up and Syne pulled his thin hood from his shoulders. He would take an oath that it had been clear five minutes ago but the damp hardly played by the rules. The rain was a warning, an chance to turn back before they appeared, before all hope was lost.

Syne pressed on, staff digging into the spongy loam and heavy pouch slapping at his hip. One of the village elders knew more than he'd thought possible about the Hydren and had been able, with the encouragement of a few good meals, to provide information that might just give him a chance.

Myndene thought he was a fool and proclaimed it loudly to anyone in the village who would listen, but he knew her well enough not to take it to heart. Merris had been her first and only son and the chance to find his end, even if it meant the death of his father, was worth the cost.

A few steps more and the drizzle turned to a pattering rain that quickly soaked through his wool cloak and tunic. The night was warm enough that the moistness was no more than a minor physical inconvenience, although the mental implications were far more dire. This was their realm, their hour. He had come to them seeking answers and revenge, and even were his heart open and his mind pure they would be unlikely to receive him well.

The origins of the Hydren were as the head of a river too long to navigate. It must exist, but too much time had passed, too many lives had been lost for anyone living to know where they had come from and what their purpose was.

It was enough for those of the Republic to know that the damp was to be feared and that rain outside the villages served as warning more than water.

The sound of cresting waves brought his head up and he drove his hand into the pouch at his waist. They came.

The thing made no attempts at subtlety, simply rose from the small bog pool before him, congealing to match his height and shape as he watched. Travelers who had seen Hydren and lived often spoke of a mirrored moment, a reflection of themselves in the things before they turned and ran for their lives.

Indeed, the one in front of Syne bore his stooped form, bowed left knee and even carried a liquid reflection of his walking staff. It was hard to look at the thing; each moment saw it swirling and pulsing, holding a shape but as loosely as a mother held a babe.

Even in the damp-light the thing shimmered and sparkled, a beautiful sight to behold and one that he knew was intended to distract him, beguile him as the thing readied to strike.

It came as an avalanche down a mountain slope, flowing into the night as it deformed and sprung toward him.

A tightening of the hand, a flick of the wrist and the thing hissed as gravel pellets struck its surface, scattering it to the night. It split around him, edges touching the long sleeves of his coat; he'd been warned to come fully clothed.

Spinning, he found it behind him, smaller than it was before but still mimicking his form.

“One of you killed my son. Take me to it. Now,” voice dusty as the gravel he thew. He raised another handful to show he was serious and the thing trembled in front of him.

It was a gamble, and more; if the creature called others he'd never be able to fight them all off and there was no guarantee the thing even understood what he was saying.

After a long moment the Hydren raised one imitated hand and pointed deeper in the swamp, then slipped off on unmoving legs. Syne followed quickly, pouch at the ready – this could go wrong at any moment.

It led him to a small clearing, a thing of squelching mud piles and scattered tufts of grass. In the center sat a large rock, flat-topped and with a faint reddish tinge. Laying on its top was Merris.

What had been, at any rate.

With a cry Syne ran to him, taking the body in his arms as he reached the stone. It was lifeless and broken, with black marks along its length and burned tatters of clothing at the ends of arms and legs. A storm of weeping took him, unmanned him for a the creatures to see, but Syne didn't care. His son was found.

After a long moment his vision cleared and he saw that he was surrounded. Hundreds of the things had risen up from the damp, form upon form duplicating his own. His son's body spoke of a secret.

“You did not kill him.” It was not a question, but he hoped for an answer nonetheless.

One came, a sighing on the air, a steady drip of syllables into his mind.

“Not...us...Firewen,” it was not one voice but many, a chorus, layered with meanings he could not grasp.

Firewen? The Storm Lords came!

He needed to get back to the village.

- D