021 - Journey to the East

Dead. I'm dead.

Again.

Magnus looked down at his own grotesque face, black lines criss crossed over his nose, pus filled blisters on his lips, his cheeks. Someone had vomited on his chest, Magnus tried to look around but the room swam out of focus, a thick white fog covered all. He was floating just inches above his own body, tethered to it by two thin strands of red thread.

Can I cut it? Last time I pulled . . . do I want to go back? Magnus felt his ethereal form grow weaker, as he was losing focus.

Live!

You must live!

Whatever you do, no matter how small the chance, you must do everything to live Magnus!

Magnus focused, reached out with ghostly hands and grasped the red thread pulling at it with every ounce of might he could muster. An electric shock, the warm buzz, he heaved again and again, struggling to pull himself those inches back into his own body.

The white fog cleared, the world shook and Magnus felt a rush of hot air enter his lungs, felt his heart thump weakly against his ribs.

"!"

"Sis! Sis! He ain't dead!"

Magnus blinked and opened his eyes. It was day time, he was outside and he was on his back inside a wheelbarrow. Sitting up Magnus saw the stable hand from the Lonely Soldier drop a shovel and run back into the tavern raising a commotion.

Magnus fell out of the wheelbarrow, his legs and arms stiff, he staggered against a wall.

"The boy's alive? Don't be lying to me Cyrus." A feminine voice called out.

"Not lying sis!" Cyrus said excitedly "Just as I was about to bury him he starts moving, really!"

"Well, that's a bit of luck. Now we have someone to charge for the damages to my dining hall."

What now? I don't have time to hang about. Magnus coughed, spitting out a glob of phlegm and blood. Don't have time to hang about . . . he lost balance and fell heavily to the ground. Have to get a move on . . Magnus heaved himself up, stumbling on.

"Hey! Hold on!" A middle aged woman and the stable hand hurried out of the tavern easily catching up to the unsteady Magnus. "Where do you think you're off to lad? I've got a mountain of broken furniture and wasted ale and you to thank for it . . what's wrong with his face?"

"I told you sis, he looked real sick." Cyrus pinched his nose. "And he smells like rotten eggs!"

"Dying. I've got the plague." Magnus lurched toward them. "More than happy to stay, 'mam," He pulled the bandages from his face and arms revealing the black lines and festering blisters.

The woman and stable hand fell back, "No, no. You be on your way . . go on, Cyrus go get your pa. Stay back!"

Magnus chuckled, turning away from the two and stumbling on down the road. Ain't got time to waste, he muttered. Gotta go to the east . . . but where? East, east . . . I'm not going east - I'm going to the Witching Road! Gotta ask . . maybe someone knows. He thought of going back to the Lonely Soldier, maybe one of the travellers they knew? Too late now, they'd just chase him out, who'd want to deal with a plague bearer? Ah hell. Bloody Caj. Bloody thief. Why did I think it was a good idea to trust him at all?

My mind's going . . . Pa, Uncle, oh ye gods, Rolf, I miss you so damn much, why did this have to happen to me? Festus . .

Not even a week had passed since he'd set off from the fishing village, not even one single week and already he'd lost the horse, lost the gold, even lost his life again. Ha ha ah . .

Magnus walked the whole day through, nothing else mattered so much to him and the path under his feet and being able to put one foot in front of another. His stomach rumbled, then stopped. His throat grew dry, painfully dry, then nothing. After the first day he no longer felt the need to eat or drink.

He stopped at night, unable to see to walk, the moon a thin sliver hidden by grey clouds. All day he'd walked and tried to stop passers by, calling out to them if they knew where the Witching Road was, none replied.

On the second day he walked until blisters formed and burst inside his boots, blood and pus seeping out between the stitches. Three days walking, then four, now the fifth - barely able to put one foot before the other, falling exhaust onto the dirt at the side of the road at night, being ignored by every passer by. One thought and one thought only consumed him - I must live. I must live. To live I must go east, I must find the Witching Road.

The road led him south, then split - one path east and another south. Magnus took the road east - on the horizon he saw a glittering thread, illuminated by the midday sun, the sparkling waters of the river Stor. The Empire Swamp was east of the Stor, the only lead, the only hope Magnus had was that there might be some germ of truth in Caj's lies.

Magnus marched onwards, five days of constant walking taking an enormous toll on his body, his clothes and bandages filthy with sweat and pus.

His foot hit a rock and he fell face first into the dirt, lying still. Traveller passed by in both directions, wagon went around, for hours Magnus simply lay still in the middle of the road.

Late in the afternoon there came a rumble of hooves and marching feet. All the travellers on the road stood to a side, wagons and carriages all took to the mud with haste. At the head of a column of horsemen was an enormous banner, held proudly up by a rider in polished iron armour. The banner was pristine white with a single golden key emblazoned in its centre. Behind the riders was a long line of ragged men chained to one another.