The Other of One: Book Two by Brian G. Burke

Author:Brian G. Burke [Burke, Brian G.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2015-02-17T05:00:00+00:00

- Chapter Thirteen -

Infiltrating the Gates

Protruding from the midmost point of that enormous island of rock was the same shelf they saw from above, and it was frighteningly colossal. It would take, at the very least, several hours before they even reached the entryway of the Bohàr Pass alone, and then uphill into the gorges themselves. Beyond that, it would take yet another significant amount of time before they stumbled upon Drevol’s lair. Not to mention that quantity of, God knows what else was waiting for them along the way. But it is generally believed that one always finds a task easier when they focus on one little step at a time. To otherwise wallow upon the magnitude of any one objective alone does the spirit no good. It impedes one’s drive to carry on. William and his crew understood this principle better than most.

The coming storm tested them further, and how it had not yet struck but was surely on its way. Awash with waves of blacks and greys, they could but watch those devastating clouds roll forth as they swelled into a wild and domineering ocean of the skies. All they could do was consider it, this impending and unstoppable thing.

They peeked over the lip, into the marshes far below; into a ghostly, lingering fog, wherefrom the wail of the Merrows rose into the atmosphere, chilling Stell’s bones.

Investigating the drop, he said, “Shhh! Do you hear that? Merrows!”

“Merrows? As in, sea-imps?” William asked.

“None other!” answered the Elf, so apprehensive about these demons that he could not but follow the trace of their calls with stillness. “I loathe Merrows! I would say that I fear them even more than…well…let’s just say, the other God-awful beasts of this realm.”

Khrum and the Grogoch crept to the brink and glimpsed over to distinguish but vague shadows splashing through the marsh waters below. Their faint bawling rang spookily through the seclusion of that nightly land, similar to a cat’s call at witching hour.

Merrows were a form of water imp; half-human, half-eel, whose russet flesh was peppered with scales of a withered, prune-like texture. Imagine the ugliest-looking witch you would never wish to meet and, even then, you would be nowhere close to the horrifying appearance of these frightening beings. Silvery eyes; swollen and dead. Bloated lips; crinkled and chapped. Hair; greasy and infested with molluscs of every kind. Noses; stumped and high, with a third nostril set upon the bridge for stalking mere inches beneath the waterline.

Legend has it that, should you ever wander the marshes late at night, the Merrows will be watching you. Spying on you from below, they would bide their time, waiting for you to make one false step into the swamp. Quicker than sharks to a seal, a pack of these hellions would then pile on you, scraping and gnashing with such ruthless hostility; all the time wailing. When through mauling their victims, the Merrows are said to drag them to their watery doom below the surface, where they would never be heard from again.

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