Henge's Crossing wasn't just a trading post; it was a living ledger of the Free Marches. The dim interior smelled of cured leather, dried sage, pipe smoke, and the faint, earthy tang of marsh mud tracked inside. Bundles of furs hung from the rafters – coarse marsh wolf, glossy otter, even a magnificent, if slightly moth-eaten, bear pelt. Barrels held salt fish, dried beans, and withered tubers. Shelves groaned under tools – serviceable iron knives, fishhooks, rolls of tough cordage, flint and steel sets.
Henge, the bear-like proprietor, proved shrewd but fair. He examined Ash's rabbit and vole pelts with a critical eye, running thick fingers over the scraped hides. "Clean work," he grunted approvingly. "Takes patience." The smoked fish drew genuine appreciation. "Sweet smoke. Good alder, that. Rare find these days." The jerky he sampled himself, chewing thoughtfully. "Garlic and sage? Savvy. Better than plain." He offered a fair price in trade: a hefty sack of coarse-ground travel bread, a small, precious block of salt wrapped in oiled cloth, two new flint and steel kits, a much sturdier skinning knife for Ash (trading in the blunted kitchen blade), and a roll of strong twine. News of the road west, however, cost extra – a fine russet fox pelt.
"The Westmarch Trail," Henge rumbled, unfurling a roughly drawn map on his countertop. "Follow the Great Reed Channel southwest for three days. Watch for the stone marker – worn owl carving. Turn west there. Trail cuts through the Deep Fens." He tapped the map where a vast, blotchy area was marked. "Nasty bit. Sinkholes. Quicksand that looks solid. Things in the water with too many teeth. Stick to the marked path, such as it is. Poles are your friends. Test every step. Five days through the Fens, you hit drier land. Trader's Way then. Leads to the border town of Kelp's Watch. From there…" He shrugged. "Depends where the wind blows you. Salt holds value everywhere." He eyed Perry, who was quietly examining a roll of waxed canvas. "Lad looks sharp. Keep your eyes open. Deep Fens swallow the unwary."
They left Henge's Crossing with lighter packs filled with essential weight. The tension Ash carried, while lessened, hadn't vanished. The trade was necessary, but visibility was risk. He caught the assessing glances of a grizzled trapper eyeing Preston's hands – too fine for a peasant boy's, despite the dirt and nicks. They poled their raft southwest with renewed purpose, the Great Reed Channel unfolding before them, a watery highway bordered by walls of whispering reeds taller than a man.
The rhythm of the marsh travel seeped into their bones. Days were measured in miles poled, fish caught from the raft's edge, and the constant, watchful scanning of the banks. Preston, shedding Perry only when truly alone, proved invaluable. Her sharp eyes spotted the subtle bird warnings – kingfishers fleeing a stretch of water, herons standing unnaturally still – that often signaled lurking predators or unstable ground. She identified safe drinking water seeps and found patches of tart marsh berries Ash hadn't known were edible.
One afternoon, while Ash navigated a tricky bend where the channel narrowed and the current quickened, Preston spotted something half-sunk in the reeds. "Ash! Look! Starboard side!"
Nestled amidst the dense growth was the skeletal prow of a much larger boat, ancient wood bleached grey and gnawed by time and water. Curiosity warred with caution. They poled closer cautiously. Tied to the rotting hull, surprisingly intact, was a small, watertight barrel. Ash fished it out with a hooked pole. Inside, wrapped in oiled canvas, they found treasure: a compact, well-made fishing net, a small grappling hook with surprisingly strong rope, and a roll of fine, waxed sinew thread – far superior to what they'd been using.
"Shipwreck salvage," Preston breathed, her eyes wide. "Fortune favors the swamp-rats!" Her genuine excitement was infectious.
"Or the observant," Ash conceded, a rare flicker of something akin to warmth in his eyes. The net would significantly increase their catch.
That evening, camped on a rare patch of relatively dry ground – a hummock crowned with tough, salt-resistant grass – they put the net to use. Ash waded into a calmer side channel, setting it strategically between reed beds. Preston gathered wood for a fire, expertly building it with dry reeds and driftwood to minimize smoke. As dusk painted the sky in bruised purples and fiery oranges, Ash hauled in the net. It writhed with life: plump silver perch, two fat eels, and even a small, iridescent-scaled fish Preston identified as a 'marsh jewel,' supposedly a delicacy.
"Feast night," Preston declared, already cleaning the fish with deft strokes of her stiletto. Ash tended the fire, preparing flat stones to roast the perch and eel fillets. The marsh jewel, its scales shimmering even in the dying light, they decided to smoke whole, wrapping it carefully in sage leaves before placing it on their makeshift rack near the coals.
The smell of roasting fish and herbs filled the humid air. They ate in companionable silence, the only sounds the crackle of the fire, the chirping of night insects, and the distant splash of something large moving in the deeper channels. The tension of Proudmorth felt like a bad dream, momentarily held at bay by the vast, indifferent marsh.
Later, as Ash meticulously scraped the day's catch of rabbit pelts (using his new knife with satisfaction), Preston worked nearby, braiding lengths of the salvaged sinew into stronger cord. She hummed softly, a tune Ash didn't recognize, probably some courtly air now stripped of its pretension.
"You never said," Ash began, the scraping rhythm of his knife against hide steady, "what Lord Cray did to make running into a swamp seem preferable." He kept his eyes on his work.
Preston's humming stopped. The braiding paused. The firelight danced on her face, highlighting the fading scratches, the determined set of her jaw. "Brantley Cray," she said, the name like a curse spat into the fire, "is a collector. Not of art, or coins. Of people. Broken people." Her voice was low, tight. "He has… tastes. Specific, cruel tastes masked by courtly manners. Whispers followed him. Servants vanished from his estates. Others reappeared… changed. Silent. Broken." She picked up the braiding again, her fingers moving with sharp, angry jabs. "My father heard the whispers. He chose not to listen. The trade concessions Cray offered were too tempting. My well-being was… collateral." She looked up, meeting Ash's gaze across the fire. Her hazel eyes held a deep, cold fury. "He saw me not as a daughter, but as a rare porcelain doll to add to Cray's macabre collection. Running wasn't preferable, Ash. It was the only alternative to being shattered."
The raw honesty hung in the humid air, heavier than the marsh mist. Ash stopped scraping. He saw not the headstrong noble or the capable survivor, but the terrified girl who'd stared into an abyss worse than Silas's blade. He understood that kind of betrayal, the commodification by one's own blood. He gave a single, slow nod. No platitudes. Just acknowledgement.
The next day, they found the owl-carved stone, ancient and moss-covered, almost swallowed by reeds. The turn west into the Deep Fens was immediate and jarring. The wide channel vanished, replaced by a labyrinth of narrow, stagnant waterways choked with thick, slimy reeds and draped with curtains of grey moss. The air grew thicker, cloying, smelling of decay and stagnant water. Sunlight struggled to penetrate the dense canopy overhead. The marked path Henge mentioned was often little more than slightly less dense reeds, requiring constant poling and testing the murky bottom with their poles before stepping onto seemingly solid hummocks.
Ash's senses, honed by paranoia and magic, prickled constantly. Unseen things slithered through the black water. Strange, croaking calls echoed in the gloom. Preston was hyper-vigilant, her hand rarely leaving the pole or the hilt of her stiletto. They moved slowly, silently, communicating with gestures and glances.
On the third day in the Fens, disaster nearly struck. Preston, testing a hummock ahead, plunged her pole deep – and kept going. The seemingly solid ground was a thin crust over sucking mud. She lurched forward with a gasp.
Ash reacted instantly. He dropped his own pole and lunged, grabbing the back of her tunic just as the mud reached her knees. He hauled backwards with all his strength, the thick mud resisting with terrifying suction. Preston scrabbled desperately, finding purchase on a half-submerged root. With a sickening schlorp, she came free, collapsing onto the slightly firmer path behind her, coated in foul-smelling black slime up to her thighs.
They stared at the spot where she'd sunk, the mud already smoothing over, looking deceptively solid. Preston shuddered, wiping muck from her face, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "T-Thanks," she managed, her voice shaky.
"Test every step," Ash repeated Henge's warning, his own heart hammering. He handed her a waterskin to rinse the worst off. "You alright?"
She nodded, pushing wet, muddy hair from her eyes. Her expression was grim, but resolute. "Just… adding to the perfume. Deep Fens indeed." She managed a weak, shaky smile. "Remind me to buy Henge a drink if we ever get out of this stinking bog."
They pressed on, the near-disaster a harsh reminder of the marsh's indifference. Yet, even here, they found moments. Ash spotted a cluster of broad, waxy leaves sheltering perfectly ripe, deep purple berries Preston identified as safe. They tasted like tart sunshine, a burst of vitality in the gloom. Later, Preston found a patch of pungent, spear-shaped leaves. "Bog myrtle," she announced. "Keeps biting insects away. Useful." They tucked sprigs into their clothes.
That night, camp was a cramped affair on the most stable hummock they could find, barely large enough for their bedrolls and a tiny, smokeless fire of dried reeds. They ate smoked fish and travel bread, the air thick with the hum of mosquitoes held somewhat at bay by the bog myrtle. Above, through a rare break in the canopy, a scattering of stars glittered, cold and distant.
"We're halfway through this stink-hole," Preston murmured, staring up at the stars. "According to Henge."
Ash followed her gaze. The vast indifference of the marsh, the nearness of death, Preston's shared horror… it stripped away pretense. "Kelps Watch," he said. "Then… somewhere the salt holds value." He didn't say 'safety'. He wasn't sure such a place existed. But for now, they had the rhythm of the poles, the watchful silence, the shared weight of survival, and the stubborn, defiant spark in the eyes of the girl beside him, covered in bog muck but unbroken. The Deep Fens whispered threats, but Ash and Preston whispered back with every careful step west.