Swamp-Songs in the Distance

[Guppy]

Her head jerked upwards as soon as she heard those phantom words whispered into the depths of her head. They echoed within her lonely skull. She very nearly wept in relief. A nearly-painful nostalgia welled in her. Abruptly, unable to stop the downward slash of her blade, for it had only been seconds, the voices vanished and she was alone again. She was almost unable to stop the panicked bleat that left her lips. Instead, she steeled her jaw and summarily scrambled towards the creatures rising from the muck.

The two abominations at her back were left alone as she focused on the larger creature behind the others. Ignoring her wound as best she could, she allowed the strength of her magic to carry her forward. One hand pressed to her side and she ducked past the two sentinels that lunged towards her slim frame. She darted, she danced and weaved through the beings towards the waiting lord at the rear.

"Imprisoned? Who is imprisoned?," she asked, demanded, standing a yard from the humanoid - panting as if she'd just run a league. Her eyes snapped and danced.

Gloria called at her back, the words dulled. Noura never took her eyes from the being, but turned her head slightly. The lumbering creatures were moving between them, behind her. They were made of mostly plant matter. "Burn them down, Gloria. They will fall."

This one, though, would answer her questions. She held out a hand.

[Rance]

Behind the seamstress, a thrum of gossamer wings. A needle-fine edge punched into the upper left of her back. It lodged into her, flicking, driving, sucking. Pinching agony surrendered to a wave of numbness that crawled through her. Over her shoulder, bulbous insect-eyes reflected a thousand flickers of orange flame.

Burn them down, Gloria. They will--

Gloria swept around and crushed her spine against an outcropping of stone. The fragile snout of the mosquito attached to her snapped like a brittle twig. She bucked her back once, twice, and then a third time into the porous rocks. The mosquito flinched, twitched, writhed, and then -- like a boil -- it burst. "Cunt," the girl seethed, for it was the quickest, most heinous word that came to mind. "J'uk'ad," she blurted, another curse levied as the lifeless insect fell away from her, the cilia on its legs clinging like burs to her muddy skirts.

Her breath blowing out of her in frightened gasps, she pushed away from the cave and swung the burning length of wood in an arc. Fetid air made the flames flap. Fire cackled with a sound like wind passing along a loose banner.

A few sprinting strides later and Gloria -- her dark neck splattered with a tattoo of warm ichor -- butted her back up against Noura's. The mossbeasts bent away from the swinging lump of wood and fire. Terror scrawled creases on the seamstress' face as she jutted the burning log up high above both of them. Wiry vines and creeping curtains of kudzu were visible, cast in orange.

The figures in the bog skirted in a circle around the girls. More mosquito wings screamed and sang, hovering just beyond. The heat, the promise of fire, forced the lumbering constructs to recede, slither back, or vanish altogether. Silhouettes still splashed and glided in the fen, waiting, waiting...

The sporefiend leaned over Noura, the mottled specks of white and black fungi fluttering like gills. An algae-wet maw opened, the tongue a tendril of pale plantlife. It coughed. A cloud of mold burst as powder from its throat, filling the air.

"Our keeper, our keeper, our keeper."

[Serrus]

The storm grey rouncey moved in a steady trot along the forest trail, hooves clopping the familiar staccato step of horseshoe on clay and stone. The beaten track crested up as it headed southwest, old trail marks and broken stones scattered over its sloped surface, nimbly avoided by both the horse and rider as they moved through the quickly dimming dusk light, the stallion's blue roan a near darkened black in this light.

It was a short cut off the main southern road, a risky and not recommended shortcut at that, but necessary if he wanted to keep pace and catch up with his fellow acquaintances in Aithne. They'd told him they would wait until first light before heading south into Heath, and from there, cross the Albourne into Thessilane. As such, he would need to keep pace, though there wasn't a great urgency to get there, the winding road and niggling doubts keeping him from breaking his mount into a canter. Niggling doubts that had his mind wandering from the road, and to previous conversations on the night before.

** ** **

She'd came to him the night before after he'd returned to the den of iniquity that was the Ewe's Udder, all smiles and hospitality. She had such a beautiful figure, and would have carried such a beautiful face were it not for the gorged out eye socket that left a blackened scar from cheekbone to forehead.

He was sitting back at the old trestle, drinking more ale than he cared to reflect upon. She carried her zither in her arms, cradling it as if it was her firstborn, her fingers strumming a sweet chord as she took a seat opposite from him, smiling all the while. He wasn't if she was 'working' or simply curious.

"You're not going with them... with your friends?" she asked.

"Left this morning," he replied, more interested in his drink than glancing her way. "An' they ain't me bloody friends, neither."

"Oh, so you don't like them?" She strummed a minor chord, aiding the rhetoric of her enquiry.

"Don't like 'em or 'ate em, as like. Just know 'em, is all." He glanced over his mug towards her, not feeling welcome to her company. "Get into a spat with that 'alflin' lover o'yours, did we?"

She chuckled at that, leaning back into her chair and plucking a few strings, her eye looking wistfully to the rafters. "He's not my lover. Hayden is... a friend. Yes. A good friend. We're... quite close." She looked back down towards him. "Don't you have any friends?" She played the same minor chord again with a smile, a smile marred by the hideous scar across her face.

"Don't need none," he replied. "Got meself, got me horse an' I got good work 'ere an' there. Don't need no friends."

She shook her head, as if bewildered. "Horses don't know any better. Work is, well, work, and it's never enough to get by. Friends you can always count on, otherwise, well, they wouldn't be friends, would they?" She plucked a few more notes.

"If y'came over 'ere lookin' t'find yourself some work, woman, you ain't gettin' none from me."

She clicked her tongue, shaking her head with a 'tsk'. "I don't shit where I eat. Not since they took my eye away." Undaunted, she continued to strum the soft strings until the notes became a melody, smooth as silk. "All I wish to say is that everyone needs friends. Even you."

"I ain't got no bloody friends, and I don't need no bloody friends," he spat back in anger. "Ain't you got some clients t'go fuck, or summat?"

Her fingers struck the zither with a twang, her good eye narrowing toward him. "You think you're such a bad man? What, a bad man with your strong words and your steel?"

"There ain't no good or bad men in this world, luv," he scoffed in rebuttal. "Only good choices an' bad choices. Or smart an' dumb ones, more like."

"No." She placed the zither down onto the table and folded her arms, her right eye glaring. "There are bad men in this world. I have seen them. Men that rape children, men that cause misery, men who kill not for money and not for war, but because they take to murder like a man takes to his lover. I have seen these men with my own eyes, until they burned one from my skull when I chose to say 'No' on the very night a lord wanted me to say 'Yes'. I would trade every last sovereign I have collected for one more night with him. One more night with a warm bed and a sharp knife to slit his throat." The words came in a torrent, and when she was done, she leant back in her chair, looking to him askance. "There are bad men in this world. But you are not one of them."

He stared at her for a long time, scowling, as if she'd struck another sort of chord.

"You don't know me from a hole and a shit-stained arse, woman."

"No, I don't know you very well," she replied, collecting her zither carefully as she stood. "But I do know that you still have her ring, where most bad men would have sold it."

She was gone before he could think of anything else to say.

** ** **

The rouncey pulled up, hooves clapping to a stop on the murky road ahead. Wind tussled a thick unkempt mane as it turned, ears swivelling to prick upwards, nostrils flaring to the west. Ahead of the thick grassland beyond stood the dark line of trees that led into the deeper realms of the forest marshes and the Silver Lake. The soft sounds of frogs could be made out faintly, with the soft buzz of night insects. The stallion whickered a slight, front hoof kicking momentarily, tail whipping side to side.

Serrus looked non-plussed, eyes turning away from the road to follow the horse's gaze. "What the bloody hells is it now?" He peered out towards the trees, noting nothing of interest. "C'mon, y'grumpy shit. This road ain't gonna travel by its bloody self." He clicked the his tongue upwards, flicking on the reins, but the grey stallion remained just as it was, whickering again as it's ears shifted about. The animal could smell and hear far better than he could, and it's ears heard the faintest sound of trouble, and it's nose picked up the faintest scents of blood. Where most horses naturally shied and fled from the smell, the Thessil war horse became excited by it, and it kicked a hoof again, tail swishing.

Serrus turned his head to the side and spat, flicking on the reins again. "The fuck's gotten into you, eh? Y'don't want t'be goin' in there, there's gnats an' toads an' beasties that'll eat ya for bloody breakfast. Move!" He gave the horse a soft kick in of his heels, and it whinnied in protest, circling about with kicking hooves before stubbornly moving forwards towards the thick grass.

The man swore, flicking on the reins in agitation. "I fed ye 'fore we left. Fine, y'wanna eat some grass, eat some bloody grass, but we ain't gonna be lingerin' 'bout. I fookin' hate this place."

The rouncey pulled up to the thick grass, wet marsh squelching under hoof as it lowered its head to the ground. Shaking its mane and snorting, a pair of nostrils flared as it sniffed along the ground, yet it showed no interest in chewing any of the grass.

"Oh, so ye a pig now, that it? Diggin' up bloody truffles. Can we go now?" Using the whip wasn't Serrus' first notion, as that tended to make the grumpy horse even worse, though the thought was crossing his mind. But as he leant over to reach for the best thwacking implement available, he noticed the thick indentations leading towards the marshes, and besides them, smaller ones. He listed to the left, peering down, before swinging off the saddle, his boots landing in with a not so pleasant squish of mud that went higher than his ankles.

"Listen, I've just had 'bout enough of you an' your shit, yeah?" he grumbled to the stallion. "Else y'want me to beat you bloody senseless from here all the way t'Derry..." He tried to get the horse to look his way, only it was looking in the tree line again, ears pricked. It let out another whicker, turning side to face him before looking forward again.

It was then that he saw it. Faint at first, a tussle in the wind, but it was caught between thorn and branch. He stepped forward, near wading, boots squelching through thick mud before he reached and procured the fabric that had caught on the prickly bush. The fabric was nondescript, but the pattern....

"The bloody hell's that girl doin' out 'ere?" He looked puzzled, glancing to the fabric, then back to his horse. The stallion stood tall, head raised and ears up, tail swishing side to side. If a horse had a certain body language that could look smug, Serrus supposed that was the closest resemblance it was going to get. He scowled, glaring at the animal.

"I fookin' hate you."

Mud squelched and squished underfoot as he trudged back towards his mount, shaking his head as he swung himself back onto the saddle. The rouncey kicked a hoof in anticipation, mud caking around its ankles and knees. "Still, a dead woman can't pay her bloody debts, can she now?" he remarked, tightening his grip on the reins as he kicked in his heels to lead the horse into a trot.

"Let's go, y'grumpy shit."

This time, the horse eagerly obeyed, and the two began weaning their way through the forest marshes toward the lake, to where and what, he wasn't sure, but the voice in the back of his head was telling him this was probably one of his 'dumber' choices.

[Guppy]

Noura cast a quick glance behind her when Gloria's back met her own. She reached out, attempting to press a fingertip to the blood staining the other's collar. She lifted it to her view, if she managed, and would wipe it upon the cloth draped upon her thigh. Gloria was hurt and they could not linger here much longer.

The rune upon Noura's neck continued to glow, unnaturally warm against the sun-blooded seamstress with her proximity. The fear did not touch her companion. While the abominations paced at the edge of the light like wolves in the shadows, Noura paid them no mind at all. Her gaze was focused on the larger creature and its dust-covered words.

Her eyes narrowed, attempting to understand. "Your keeper is imprisoned? Who are they? Can we help?," she asked the monster standing before her. Hands fell to her hips. "And really, there is no use in terrorizing two girls in the swamp. You should be ashamed of yourselves," she chided.

She blinked once, the movement slow and obvious. She was having difficulty remaining upright. Her magic had her by the collar, kept her on her feet. Reserves were running low.

[Rance]

"Our keeper," it answered, "languishes. Imprisoned so very close. What is shame? You have nothing to offer except muscle and blood. Free her. Free our keeper!"

Diplomacy was a discipline reserved for human minds. Not for mosquitos, mossbeasts, or sporefiends. Swamps were dangerous places, where corpses could rot without interruption, where whole lives began and end bidden by laws of poison, fang, and claw. In such a domain, fire was a fragile substance, volatile but ephemeral. The musty shadows of the bog surged forward, driven by commands unheard and unspoken, carried in the flecks and plumes of white mold.

For fear, like diplomacy, was a human construct in this reeking place, and it found no sanctuary amid bark and moss.

"Noura?" the seamstress whispered behind her, her voice strangled with fear. Wet vines licked at the hems of her skirt, spiraling up around her ankles and clenching at her knees. They swept her off her feet. Gloria teetered to hip and knee in the bog. The flaming log leaped from her fingers, spun in the air, illuminated the night like a flare of spellwork.

It splashed into the murky water. Fire vanished. Fey-light eyes sparked with new hunger.

The sporefiend lunged forward, howling, its gnarled hands reaching. Countless other mossbeasts swept toward them, collapsing the circle around the girls. The mosquitoes, with their tubular, sword-like mouths poised to murder, dove in for them. Where she was half-suberged in a brown, opaque pool, Gloria's dwarven knife winked and glinted, slicing and scraping at whatever figure pressed down above her. The motions were mechanical, necessary, never remembering when her remaining hand had retrieved the knife again, but only knowing that it had, that she must--

Countless arms buffeted hacked at Noura the wildling, determined to overcome the novelty of magic with the pure brutality of force.

* * * *

On the outskirts of the swamp, silence prevailed. The stillness of the algae-crusted waters consumed the marshland's natural noises. No belching frogs, no rattling sounds of forbidden creatures. Beside Serrus's ear, a swarm of gnats swept by.

A flash of dying firelight glowed -- then disappeared -- in the distance.

[Guppy]

Brows knit together, troubled. She tilted her chin so that she might direct her comment to the woman behind her, flush against her back. "Do you think it speaks of the creature in its bottle? Is this where you kept her?," she asked, more curious than demanding. As casual and inquisitive as if they were speaking about the weather.

The uncertainty in Gloria's voice made the wildling's hand steal down in an attempt to lace their fingers together in a show of support. The questing vines wrapping around Gloria's ankles had other ideas. In an instant, the other was gone and Noura lifted her gaze to the torch as it flew end over end away from them. She reached out a hand, but there was too much distance between the two objects and it plunged into the swamp.

Abruptly, there was darkness and silence.

The moss-beasts roared and lunged at the two girls.

Gloria was lost to her.

She went down when one of the beasts caught her yawning wound with its oaken fist and her vision swam.

The runes flared, flickered, and died.

[Rance]

The wildling's fingers had squeezed hers, clammy and feverish. And then the whole swamp seemed to want to consume them.

Rancid water filled Gloria's mouth and nose as she thrashed beneath a paw formed of moldering wood. Its prying fingers viced onto her jaw, applying vicious pressure to her tongue and teeth. The mouth of the mossbeast above her erupted with shoots of swampnet and slimy vinework that slithered into the collar of her dress and ripped the sopping bonnet from her head.

Noura. Where was Noura, why couldn't she see her, why didn't she hear--

The knife-point cracked through the mossbeast's muddy temple, driving like a peg through its bark-capped skull. The blade peeled out, then drove in again, punching a new hole into the beast's fragile cranium. Gloria tried to force it off of her with her stump, cramming the handless appendage into one of those winking eye-sockets, screaming, screaming the whole time. In her peripheral vision, she saw a mark, a rune fading like an afterimage of the Glass Sun. One of the channels carved in Noura's skin. In her mind, a mantra of her own creation stifled the madness of the attack--

A wolf couldn't. Giuseppe couldn't. The Storyteller couldn't. Not Rhaena or Solena. Not It, not Catch and his Black Smoke, not the Third Calamity. Not Jernoah, not Golben, not Silver Lake...

The knife hacked, gouging into bark, splitting free snapping vines and waterlogged root-fingers. She aimed for eyes and knuckles, elbow-hinges and jaws, anything that she could cut or rend. Her arm had lost its feeling. Mossy knuckles beat into the arc of her spine and against the bend of her ribs. At some point, the seamstress vomited, and every way she crawled or clambered, it was in the interest of wrapping herself around her abdomen, protecting it, keeping it safe.

She found herself squatting over Noura's still frame, cringing, her dress a sodden mess of swamp-water, her trembling knife a slanted comma swiping at the air.

Do you think it speaks of the creature in its bottle? Is this where you kept her? Noura had said only seconds before.

The creatures stopped attacking. Powdered mold choked the air. Everything stopped. "Another," rattled the sporefiend. "Another comes, on the outskirts of our keeper's bog. Approaching." Its attention turned to the girls. "Just this once, skinlings, I ask: Where is this bottle of which you speak? Where is our keeper imprisoned?"

"Caliir," Gloria sobbed in Noura's ear, trying to stir her, for it was the only word she could utter: "Caliir!"

[Serrus]

Horse and rider moved through the marsh in a pattern that to the unobservant might easily appear as haphazard and chaotic, zigzagging a wake in their travels between trees, marshes and wet grass. It was hard going at first, and the horse showed no liking of the slippery ground, mud caking past it's ankles onto its lower belly, hooves finding no purchase on the wet, slippery ground that sunk beneath every tread. It snorted, whinnying in frustration at the painstaking nature of their approach, and the rider was just as eager to voice his displeasure at the difficult terrain every so often.

In truth, the rider's route was calculated, avoiding the sink holes and looking for sturdier ground. He was not experienced in this sort of terrain though, and every so often the horse would drop halfway into the muck with a cacophony of equine noises before pulling itself to another bank. They soon learned the pitfalls and made better progress, the man's hisses and barks of encouragement keeping the stallion moving, though every time he passed his third tree or so his doubts came crawling back up again to remind that he was making a stupid decision.

What was the girl doing down in a shithole like this, anyway? She certainly didn't come over as some expert fisherwoman, and this was the least likely of places to find some poor, down-trodden net-caster looking for their next catch of shad, bass and trout to take home. Why here, and why now? Had she been foolish or impatient and tried to go seeking out the other werewolves? He didn't take her for being so rash, but then again he hardly knew the younger woman anyway. Maybe she was just as touched as the simpleton boy she'd befriended?

He reined up the horse near a thick tree, mud squelching as hooves slipped on moss and soaked roots, taking time to find a place to be still. The horse whickered, tail thrashing left and right at the ravenous gnats biting at its flank, it's ears flicking them away every so often. The air was rancid, the humidity from the summer eve uncomfortable. It took some time for his heart to slow and his ears to accustom to the silence, the heavy breathing of the horse to still, its own heart beating to its own drum. The man swatted his neck at biting gnats, before leaning through the trees and listening. The stallion seemed to listen too, ears pricking upwards, nose flaring, as they peered through the canopy of trees, where the reflecting of the lake could just be seen. The visibility seemed as poor as the terrain, though he could make out the bank and every once in a while hear the soft lapping of water, near still without the wind.

Then he heard them, faint as the lap of the water or the buzzing of the gnats: Shouts. Screams. They pierced the night air like a knife, before it fell silent again. The rouncey's head raised up, alert, chewing its bit nervously. More shouts came, another scream. A flare, orange and bright, lit up from the north, and for the briefest moment, he saw the outlay of the lake through the trees, orange sprites reflecting upon the liquid glass and in the black pools of the stallion's wide eyes. Then to his right, in the distance, he saw shapes.

Not shapes... figures. Figures of men... men and.. things. Too many to count. And there were things in the sky, too.

He kicked in the heels of the horse and it lurched forward with a start, sluggishly at first with hooves slipping through wet mud, until luck would find them solid ground -- mossy roots, thick and hard and three breadths across. The horse snorted, eager, and before the rider knew it, the rouncey stepped up to canter, hooves striking wormwood in a beating drum. He rounded an old marsh tree, the ground below still hard, bless the gods. Two more trees to the clearing lay ahead of them, to the marshes that preceded the lake. Then we'll see the devil in the details.

Suddenly, as if a candle had been snuffed, the amber light was gone, and he was plunged back into the moonlight, the horse's coat of blue roan stained black with the mud, their shadows cast long upon the trees around them. As he began to clear the trees, another light was ahead, much like the moonlight, but this was on the ground. It baffled his mind that light from the moon could actually come from the ground, and in that instant all the hairs on the back of his neck pricked, and a wave of heat rushed through him, as if someone had stepped on his grave. It stunk of the arcane, of fae of the magics, and he was breathing heavily, though he didn't know of it or hear it. Hooves clopped upon wet wood as he broke through a thick clump of low branches in the line of trees and found himself at the bank of the swamp.

It was the faintest light ahead, blue and phosphorous, a lantern in a shop window with its last drop of oil. And from that light he saw them. One of them stood in the circle, one he could only assume was the seamstress, with another he did not know, in the fleeting glimpse he had of her among all the other things surrounding them. Other.. things.. Things that moved, that crawled, that flew. It was one thing to hear tales legends of the beasts of Myrkenwood's forests, another to read about them. But nothing could ever prepare one to see them as they truly were.

When Serrus was nine, he'd seen a wyvern scream from the heavens, spewing a vaporous stream of fire across an entire field in one pass. When he was twelve, he'd seen a mountain giant dash a knight's brains across a rock as if his helmet were made of melon. Horrors such as these were soon forgotten, passed in a fading memory, but they quickly surfaced when he saw what stood no more than a hundred yards from him.

The other one, a woman, a girl, he couldn't tell at this distance, fell, and the blue light faded then vanished, the moon's light casting everything in a blotted shade of grey. But they were still there, en masse, surrounding the other two. Only mere instants passed by, a few beats, a glance, a breath. But in that time his mind became a flurry of thought and indecision. He had every opportunity to flee. To leave them, to go back to that hard, winding road that was dry and earthy, to lead him somewhere else. Anywhere but here. Why stay? What benefit to him? To his horse? A promise of iron, a family heirloom, and for what? To drown and die in this gods forsaken place?

The smell of the things then came upon man and horse. Gone was the rouncey's pricked ears, the eager clapping hoof, the beating heart of excitement that waited for the charge. To run. To sprint, to be free. Men on fields of grass it knew, with their sharp claws and their hardened fists. Men it did not fear. But these were not men. The stallion's ears flicked back, blue roan coat pricking a thin black ridge along it's back. It's mane flared, eyes widened to see the whites, opening its mouth agape as it screamed, rearing, hooves breaking through leaf and branch. But the rider didn't hear its scream or feel its fear. He dug in his knees before he knew what he was doing, pushed at its back, and the horse was back on all fours, panting. It circled, once, twice, and in those two turns, a few mere seconds, the man felt as if he was on the slowest carousel the world had ever seen, his mind racing.

'Fuck them. What are they to you? Get back on the road. You want to die here, in this shithole?'
'My contracts are binding.'
'Forget her, she's nothing to you now. Never was.'
'My promises are iron. Were fortunes and pots to piss in worth leaving for?'
'There are bad men in this world. But you are not one of them.'

It came on him like a wave. Men had different names for it. Battle fever, bloodlust, frenzy. Some just called it fear, though it was as far from fear as fear could get. His thoughts dwindled away, until the voices became silent, his mind became still, and he no longer thought about the marsh, or the two strangled girls, or his horse, or himself, everything simply became nothing, until all he saw was the marsh before him, a path to weave through, and the largest one of the things standing in the muck. The hand-and-a-half saber came from its scabbard and was gripped in his right hand without him even thinking about it. His legs tightened as he turned the horse, it's hooves shifting, kicking in fear. With a single stroke, he hit the flat end of the blade against the horses flank, and it leapt forward in a surge.

It was a mess at first, clumsy, pathetic. The horse lurched, a whinny of protest as hooves slipped in the muck, though the fear seemed to slip now that it the master had enforced it. It had a task, a command... something to do, and it felt in control again. Rider steered towards flat logs and harder ground, and hooves welcomed the harder surface. From trot it broke to canter, from canter to gallop. Serrus bellowed at the horse, a yell of encouragement, and the cry broke through the animal's fear as it lowered its head and charged. The thunderous beat of hooves clamped upon wet wood and moss, muck and mud spraying them both, but neither of them felt it nor cared. The wind rushed in the man's ears as scrub and trees whistled past, the horse's panting breath streaming vapour from flaring nostrils as its hooves thundered their menacing rhythm of death.

What do monsters fear? Nothing...

As he began to close the gap, the rush surged through him again, until his knuckles became white and almost numb. Mud soaked through his streaming black hair, his dark brown eyes narrowed with intent. He raised his sword to bring it level with the ground, bellowing forth a gut-wrenching scream as horse and rider charged toward the encirclement of horror.

[Guppy]

Her magic had given all it could. Her stubborn streak had lasted as long as it might.

The wildling was limp in the seamstress' eyes, though they fluttered behind her lids.

Her pulse was slow, but steady and the infected wound at her side bled freely again from all of the activity.

She did not stir. Not yet.

[Rance]

Perhaps an agreement could be fostered. A pact. Some understanding--

A scream.

The sound was deep and guttural, wholly unfamiliar. On the spine of a thundering shadow, an outside force shot like an arrow through the curtains of vines, spraying mud from pounding hooves. Wide nostrils. The shine of flat, equine teeth. At first, the newcomer was nothing more than a blur, a dream-image in the dusky gaslights of the swamp. A beam of steel -- no, a sword -- winked near the steed's ribs.

A man.

The mossbeasts looming over of the girls twisted and swiveled around, sending ripples of muddy water out in circles at their submerged hips. The contingent of brittle defenders instantly forgot about the seamstress and the wildling; instead, their focus rolled like a wave toward the new threat, the one that hoisted a longer blade astride a slick-fleshed meal. The sporefiend gasped out another cloud of dusty mold into the air, which brought with it a new imperative:

Eliminate it.

Bestial hands swiped and hacked for Serrus Belcaw from below. Living treelimbs lashed out at him and his horse. The rouncey's hooves kicked and crashed through smaller constructs as it ran, blasting them back into the waters. From his height, perhaps Serrus could have seen all of them: ten, at first, then twenty, then thirty pairs of wisp-like eyes slogging through the marshes toward him, the vines sticking to their heads and shoulders like hair as they glided across the stinking, sucking bog.

Gnats became flies. And the flies, snapping, buzzing, were as fat as a thumb-tip. And then there were the mosquitoes darting for him, their pointed mouths as long as his sword, swiping and jabbing, swiping and jabbing...

It was time enough.

Having no response from the wildling, Gloria inspired herself to stand. Against the tightness in her muscles and the bruises that formed map-patterns and whole continents on her spine, she snared her blunted arm in Noura's, set her feet, and started dragging the other girl through the mud and filth toward Caliir, Caliir, whose form slumped not so far away. Hand and stump worked in unison with weak, swollen tendons. Gloria threw Noura across Caliir's hips, a feat that would have been impossible if not that logic had long ago fled. All that mattered now was leaving this place.

She clambered to Caliir's wheal-peppered back and whispered in his ear only one word: "Please."

He obeyed. Gloria slumped against the pack-beast's neck. He turned, turned, turned...

Behind her, sucking in a breath, she shouted, "Serrus!"

[Serrus]

He intended to break the circle, to render it apart or to break through it. The first part of his plan had worked splendidly. Only now, the circle had become a mob.

And the mob was coming for him.

Had he thought about it, he might have seen the bane stupidity of his charge, that a tactful and quiet approach would have suited the moment. Only he wasn't thinking any longer, no thought or careful process in the works. He was only doing, and doing without even thinking, the world a blur, his mind a blank line drawn straight for the largest of the mossbeasts that swarmed upon the marshes.

The flies were upon him like a vapour, choking the air and blinding his vision. He raised an arm to shield his eyes, but something slimy and moss green snatched it, a long tendril reaching out like line of a fishing pole out toward the murky waters. His sword swung through the air, cold steel bit, and the tendril reed broke with an audible snap. Something half the size of his horse came at his right side, a maw that could swallow half the animal whole, appendages of muck and slime that slithered and lurched towards the quadruped. Again the sword swung through the air, and again it bit, cutting through the moss beast like a scythe through a hedge, but much like a hedge, it seemed to do little to stop the thing from its onslaught, and only a sudden kick and savage bite from the stallion was enough to beat the horror back to the murky swamp... and that was only one horror among hundreds.

Vines reached, grabbing, snaring, tendrils and claws and teeth reaching towards the flesh and hair covering the horse. One strong vine, one closed jaw, one hoof to twist around a log was all that was needed to send rider and horse falling to their watery grave. An ordinary marsh was hell enough for any horse, and a cursed marsh often a death sentence. Yet by luck, by fate, or by chance, and perhaps by the wild fear that coursed through the rouncey's veins they stayed aground, hooves not slowing the stallion's charge despite the onslaught brought upon it.

Again and again, the long blade cut through the hazy muck and gunk that smeared horse and rider. Again and again, the stallion butted, bit and kicked its way through the torrent of bodies. A mosquito broke through the swarm of flies, proboscis slashing like a rapier. It bit through cloth and leather and steel, slicing into Serrus' leather jack of plates, burying the stinger into Serrus' right hip, its wings beating against the man's face. Another of the giant mosquitoes found the horse's flank and leapt upon it like predator to prey, the stinger going deep. The saber bit and then bit again, the first near slicing first mosquito in twain with a spray of blood and innards, the second slicing the other at the thorax, and it broke off in the same destructive manner as the first when the horse kicked it, leaving the proboscis jutting out the stallion's flank like an archer's arrow -- only this arrow had two beady eyes and a head.

He broke through the mob, if only temporarily, for they did not stop in their chase nor tire like men. The thrum of the insects was a roar, the movement of the many mossbeasts a ear-splitting hiss of water and scraping wood. The sellsword fumbled through over the horse's back, near drowned in mud, moss and blood. Wet and soaked, it might prove useless, but the man wasn't thinking about such things, every action autonomous, every movement second nature. The way he handled the horse, his sword, seemed to speak nothing of a back-alley cutthroat or gutter-rat thief. Even so, he was no cavalier. It was hard enough handling a horse through a marsh in a gallop -- handling it in chaos was a feat few could boast or believe possible. Despite this, he found the arm-length crossbow slung on the horses back in all that mess, drowned in moss and sludge that fell from it as he swung it out in an upwards arc. The sinew string and horn prod were wet, the catch was soaked through, and he was galloping in a death marsh surrounded by horrors almost unimaginable. He didn't know how he found the trigger lever, or how he managed to lever the tiller against his other forearm and take aim with his better eye, but he somehow did, and he aimed for nothing else but the largest of the mossbeasts, with its pungent gas and putrid flesh that stood tall in the marshes.

There was a shower of water, a soft thunk like a ruler hitting a desk, and the taught sting loosed the barbed quarrel towards the larger foe, bolt spinning through air in a whistle, wood against wood, only this wood had a steel bite. He had no time to turn, to see if the bolt flew true, for if he slowed, he would die. If he stopped, he would die. If he turned.. he would die. He had no intentions of coming back -- he'd made his distraction, foolish as it was, but he wasn't about to stop and check for survivors, not with everything that walked, crawled, flew and squatted in the muck charging after him and horse, looking for an early night snack.

He heard his name through the din and chaos, faint, but he could not see where it came from. Foggy mist came up from the wet marshes, his numerous adversaries within arm's reach from him and his mount. Unable to see ahead, he prayed for solid ground before ducking his head and clasping his hands about the stallion's mane. The fog of the marshes surrounded horse and rider in their wake, both fading into the mist before vanishing entirely, the stallion's depreciating hoof beats the only remaining sign of life.

They had their opening, their chance to escape. He'd given them that, at least.

[Rance]

A swinging sword. Massive mosquitoes with their bloodthirsty bodkins jabbing for ribs and meat, the black gems of their eyes excited and blind and useless all at once.

The wild hell of the moment culminated with the loosing of a quarrel, a thin, resonant snap-crack of string and wood. Like an insect itself it whistled through the damp air of the bog and struck.

The sporefiend staggered back. A plume of mold belched out of its leftmost eye as the narrowed edge of the missile drove itself in through the dark knothole of its socket. Flaring gills of fungus and mold became mouths that puckered toward the sky and let loose a distorted cry of agony and surprise. The bark-bodied beast staggered back, whipping out aimless vines and limbs that whacked and thrashed in the air. Some of the smaller mossbeasts were shattered, while others were split in twine by the displeasure of their master and left to sink into the algae-ridden depths.

"Our keeper," the mold-mouths bellowed. "Bring us our keeper, skinlings. Bring to us our keeper, else we'll feast like kings upon your entrails should you ever return!"

Serrus fled like a ghost in the night. The rouncey's hooves pulsed against mud and soil, but their sound was soon enough swallowed by the hungry mist of the marsh.

Gloria Wynsee could barely piece together the chance of his appearance. Had she the mind, the patience, the time, she might have sought to calculate it, to play games of numbers with their fortune and luck as if they were stitches on a sleeve-cuff. Instead, her cheek against Caliir's mane and her only hand tangled in Noura's dress-hem, she drove her sloppy heels into her boy's ribs--

Caliir hadn't sight or strength, but this he knew like instinct: that, for the girls on his spine, he must make haste. With the foam of half-chewed apple speckling his beard, the weak creature found a distant reserve of resilience. His four cloven feet drummed against the swamp's floor. Muscles that had rendered themselves dormant for years sprang into use. His old heart screamed inside the cage of his chest as he ran, he ran...

Swamp-ceiling turned gradually to the canvas of night. Mud became true soil.

Flecks of mold clogging the girl's ears -- and perhaps those of Serrus Belcaw -- whispered a lone word to them as they, in disparate directions, all fled the marsh.

"Phoaug'derro. Phoaug'derro..."

The spores blew away.

* * * *

At the Rememdium Edificium, Caliir collapsed.

White-clad figures swept the wildling inside. A bed was found. Her clothes were stripped away. They bathed her with fire-warm cloths and soaked her lips with sour drops of medicine. Filth was scraped from her skin and what seemed like a hundred different hands crawled across the festering wound that gaped in her stomach. Wellsmiths probed and cleansed, prodded and examined. Time was immeasurable, sloughing away in minutes and hours, a temporal carapace gradually chewed apart by herbs and medicine...

Gloria asked someone, "Will she be well? Will she?"

A garbled retort.

"And Caliir? And my child? My belly, my baby--"

Sleep had the power of an ocean.