The Demons in Marek

Marek to the swamp strode, sure-hooved and full, snug in the silvery armor of his breed; of the many ripe Dukes and Marshalls fetched up in the tumbledown keeps of the Chase. The sun gushed thin upon his steel, anointing the chrome of his codpiece.

The swamp trembled at his iron foot. He stood, statuesque, upon its skirts. He girded his pluck and swallowed his stony fears, and then, mightful Marek over the edge of the swamp came on. Hands, pale and icy, bloomed elbow high from the mince mud and dragged brave Marek down. A crow cawed.

“Where is this foul hovel? Who dwells herein? I demand you release me!” Bold Marek, trussed like a duck, with ropes of twine and reed, gave out a booming whisper.

“Oh, demand is it?” drawled the shadows. “Yes well, I daresay. But first, oh shiny helmet, tell me what you would here without invitation or summons?”

“I come to slay the foul bog witch,” croaketh he. “Now show your — “

The blood from Marek’s courage seeped as she shuffled on, the bog witch, baleful sorrow bringer, extending the shadows, her outline broken by twigs and paling finger bones and hair that moves in stillness. The bog witch up to Marek floats and by a nail props up that trembling chin. A solitary tear of scarlet onto her finger plops. Sucks she the blood up into her maw as to one with the shadows it-she returns, and wheezes like a prickling north wind.

“Know you the tale of ten demons?”

“I know not such a tale,” he gave in a tight voice. “Release me.”

“Released you shall be. Will you listen to my tale or no?”

“Tell your accursed tale,” quoth Marek, afflicted by the binds that tighten at each shiver and at each pulse.

“The hero he has ten demons. The demons, they will kill him presently. Though he struggle, they will do it, all is seen and none can stop it.”

“What tale is this? Your tale is poorly told.”

It hissed forth, the bog witch, as a steaming pot that has brewed too long on the fire.

“Dim Lord Marek. The tale is not good or bad. It is not poorly told, nor well. It is. Listen?”

“Very well,” creaked Marek.

“The demons live inside the spleen. He cannot see them. Where e’r he goes, the demons brings. He lives, they live, he dies, they die. Into the foul green woods goes the hero and wherein he comes upon a certain bloom. Blue it is, ringed about with rot. And neath the rot blue fungus lies a scroll. Upon the scroll is writ a certain rune, and if a man pronounce the rune, his demons shall appear and he shall take his chance to reckon them and fairly deal with each.”

A silence smothered the hovel and poor Marek strained, with popping ears and bulging veins. Sudden came a sorrowful sigh that might have been the air hissing from a fetid mud pit’s belch.

“Alas, the hero saith the rune and there appear his demons, ten. He smites them one at one at one and finally, he falls down dead.”

From out the shadows, glides across the floor the bog witch, breathing darkly, closely comes to Marek and deep into those bulging eyes she seeks.

“Learned you this lesson well?”

Poor Marek nods as best he can and the bog witch wheezes swamp-gas breath.

“The demons there, of you, they are not put in by a witch. They are not devils. They are not sickness. They are you, and all shades of you. And if you kill them, kill yourself you shall. But calm them, tame them, turn them from their rage, and then, a hero shall you be.”

A flick, a click, and the binds that squeezed poor Marek’s life are gone. To the dry leaf floor falls Marek, and when breath returns, he swears that lesson hath been learned. He begs the bog witch let him leave and he will teach her story to the kingdoms north and west. In the quiet there is naught but the bubbling soft of some foul broth, and the snaps of twigs and the sighs of wind.

“No,” quote she and with a finger click, brave Marek to some distant screaming place is gone, where none return and all is dust. Into the shadows slideth she, and whispers as the silvery breeze.