That shortcut had been a terrible idea.

  The little purple toad led Kassil and his entourage into the most disgusting, treacherous, fetid marsh the Stolen Lands had in store. Tartuk repurposed the long stick he was carrying his bundle on, and used it as a vaulting pole to travel from tussock to tussock, snickering at the Aldori detachment that tried to emulate him without a similar tool and lost their footing more often than not. Kassil's trousers were already soaked with swamp water at the worst places, sticking uncomfortably to his skin, his boots made squelching sounds in the mud, and what his feet were doing in his boots was not much better, either. Not to mention the clouds of mosquitoes or the odd sturge.

  It was funny what such a walk in pristine nature did to one's mind.

  In as little as one or two hours, Kassil came to hate Guelder and her laissez-faire ideas of barony building from the innermost depths of his heart, and he was determined to let Lady Jamandi hear about that, too. (Not that he hadn't yet mentioned it to her in a couple of his letters, of course.) It was high time to grab that crazy druid by the scruff of her neck and make her create a proper country here, with nice and tidy farmlands, vineyards, orchards, mines, roads, towns and cities. Kassil wondered whether setting up prerequisites to the monetary aid from Restov or relying on an ancient dragon's persuasive force would be more efficient in this regard. Maybe both at the same time, considering Guelder's intransigence.

  From the third hour onwards, Kassil realised the truth of the saying 'clothes make the man.' As his once elegant outfit gradually fell victim to the swamp, his mask of a distinguished young gentleman started to fray, and the desperate, frightened urchin buried deep underneath began to show his ugly little face. Soaked, dirty, hungry, probably outsmarted, and most of all, furious with life in general. Kassil had no love for his old self that was supposed to remain in a rundown alley of Restov, like a discarded cocoon after the butterfly had hatched. He'd been rescued, adopted, educated, made into an Aldori Swordlord, empowered to spread his wings. Then why did he feel like a soft, starved, exposed caterpillar again? And why was he comparing himself to godsdamned bugs, of all things?

  Guelder. The root of all evil happening to him right now.

  Someone yelped, then a sloshing, bubbling sound was heard.

  By the time Kassil woke from his resentful musings and identified the source of the sound, the only thing he saw was a large, mottled brown, scaly body disappearing in the murky water that suddenly began to throw up bubbles and turn red.

  Whatever that beast was, it took Nangatrad.

  Sotha screamed at the top of her lungs, and Kassil seriously considered joining in. Instead, he drew his sword, took a fighting stance (as much as the limited space on his currently occupied tussock allowed), and tried his best to look huge and menacing. If it worked against big felines, perhaps it could work against big scaly things as well. However, his posing with his duelling sword felt ridiculously inappropriate instead of intimidating, even for himself.

  Swearing under her breath, Sarami released a couple of arrows at the red stain spreading in the water. It was a senseless waste of missiles, but Kassil couldn't find it in his heart to stop her. They all needed the illusion that they were doing what they could to save their gnome friend.

  The beast didn't emerge anymore, and neither did Nangatrad.

  "Ssstop ssscreaming, ssstupid!" hissed Tartuk at Sotha from a safe distance. "The ssswamp takesss its due. Be glad that it wasn't you, and let'sss go. I sssupposed you were in a hurry, eh, Kasssil?"

  "What... what was that?" muttered Thopros, staring numbly at the water.

  "A hodag," explained the kobold. "Elusssive beastsss. Sssome sssay they don't even exissst. Falssse."

  Of course. Amiri had killed a big one somewhere in the Narlmarches, and its taxidermised head still decorated her bedroom, along with a huge boar's head, facing each other from opposite walls. Guelder had barely managed to talk her out of adding all kinds of Bloom monster heads as well, insisting that less was more.

  Sarami gingerly wove her way between puddles and teammates until she reached Sotha, and offered her a hug, while Kassil continued seething. If the baroness couldn't be bothered to drain the swamps, at least she could have cleansed them from dangerous wildlife. But no, she had to let them live and procreate and feed. On people like Nangatrad.

  "Fuck the ecosystem," he growled between his teeth, appearances be damned. Also, fuck this swamp, the rangers, the druids, and most of all, the baroness herself. Perhaps that would set her brain on the right track. He hadn't sworn since his early youth on the streets of Restov, but now it felt right.

  "It's all your fault!" cried Sotha, and it took a moment for Kassil to realise she was talking to, no, yelling at him. "Why couldn't you just mobilise the troops and march them to Glenebon, like a normal person?"

  "So it's suddenly my bad that this fucking country has bogs instead of roads?" he snapped. "My time is limited, my resources are limited, my troops are limited, my everything is limited! Also, how dare you question the decisions of your superior?"

  "I never questioned you, and I wish I had! Perhaps Nangatrad would still be alive! All that you want is to show off to that Varnhold chick! See where that got us!"

  Where in the world did that come from? Just because Darlac had an honour guard of three and Kassil chose to have four? For all the good that had done to her. She was likely dead, considering that Guelder was annexing her fiancé's barony right now. How could Sotha be so mean?

  Well, Kassil did have an appropriate answer to meanness, rooted deep in his past he didn't normally care to think of, hitherto hidden under layers upon layers of polite and civilised behaviour.

  The backhand was quick and clean, sweeping Sotha off her feet, straight into the mud.

  "Do not talk to me like that ever again."

  Through the cold, white fog covering Kassil's brain, he watched with satisfaction as the woman scrambled to her feet, only to slip up again and fall back, her clothes getting even more thoroughly soaked.

  "This is it, Kassil Aldori," she growled, spitting out a mouthful of mud and blood. "I'm out. Call me a deserter, I don't care. I'm done with the military, done with Nightvale, and most of all, done with you."

  "Go, then," said Kassil coldly, certain that she would come crawling back soon, broken and humiliated, and beg him to take her back.

  "Sotha, please don't go," pleaded Sarami. "You can't survive this place alone!"

  "If I have to choose between dying alone or dying with this dickhead, I prefer the former, thank you very much!" snapped Sotha, already on her way, barely even looking back.

  "Are you guysss done sssquabbling?" inquired Tartuk. "Make sure to feel all brave and dauntlesss, by the way. Will-o'-wisssps are waking, you know, and they are attracted to fear."

  Kassil wasn't worried. He felt angry and frustrated with this butthole of the River Kingdoms, but not scared. If anything, Sotha's cowardice would draw in all the will-o'-wisps of the neighbourhood. It was down to him to see that her self-imposed sacrifice would not be in vain.

  They trudged on through the muck in uneasy silence. The air felt increasingly humid and suffocating, making them sweat, and sweat attracted insects by the hundred. Small, tickly, annoying insects, some of which also bit. Then the bugs disappeared, replaced by something worse. The vapours compounded into a kind of foul-smelling fog rolling above ground, curling its tendrils, making it harder and harder to follow their pint-sized guide. Instead, Kassil and Sarami had to rely on the sound of Thopros coughing and wheezing.

  "What's that?" muttered Sarami.

  "What's what?" asked Kassil, bringing up the rear, lest anyone else got the same idea as Sotha had without him knowing first.

  "Someone is moving through the fog. Ahead of us. About your height, but thin and red."

  Kassil couldn't determine which possibility was more frightening: a brand-new swamp monster circling their little group, or Sarami hallucinating. The fog only reached up to his chest and Sarami's shoulders. She could breathe safely. Then what was going on?

  "Am I allowed to shoot if I see it again?" she asked, her voice laced with apprehension.

  "No, Sarami. No shooting in the fog. Just keep your eyes on –"

  Thopros.

  Sarami almost tripped and fell over the dwarf crouching in a puddle on all fours, coughing his lungs out, weeping, drooling. Kassil grabbed him by the shoulders and yanked him up to shake some life into him.

  "What's wrong with him?" wondered Sarami.

  "Must be the fog," muttered Kassil. "Thopros! Heal yourself up! Now!"

  Too late. Thopros was in no state to cast anything but a desperate glance at his superior, wordlessly begging for help, before his eyeballs turned inside and he collapsed in the mud.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  There was no choice. Kassil had to sling Thopros over his shoulder and carry him like a bag of potatoes, making his peace with the thought of the dwarf drooling onto his back. It didn't really matter anymore. But if Thopros was wrecked by the poisonous fumes this badly, how did Tartuk manage?

  Where was Tartuk at all?

  As if answering his unspoken question, the kobold's voice called through the mist:

  "Hey! Over here! Move!"

  Finally, the ground began to feel relatively dry and firm under their boots. Tartuk was perching on top of a fence surrounding a small vegetable garden. Amidst the rows of herbs, a tidy little hut squatted, guarded by a suspicious-looking scarecrow.

  "We should knock and ask for help," suggested Sarami.

  She had a point. Whoever spent their days in the swamp must be familiar with all sorts of poisons it produced. Also, if the inhabitant of the hut was kind enough to offer them hospitality, they could finally dry themselves by a cosy fire and get a hot meal into their bellies instead of dining on soggy rations.

  Kassil had the weirdest feeling as he went to knock on the door: as if the scarecrow were watching him with disapproving eyes. He had to actively reassure himself that, not being a bird, he didn't belong into its default scope of targets. Unlike the kobold, sitting on the fence like a weird, scaly vulture, feathers sticking out of his creepy headgear.

  He rapped on the rotting wood, as forcefully as he could without demolishing it completely. The door opened to a crack, and an old woman's wrinkled face peered out. Her skin was a curious, greyish shade of green, a bit like Kassil's own whenever he ate something bad. However, the woman's features were too soft to hint at an orcish heritage, and she didn't have the tusks, either.

  "Not buying dead dwarves," she grunted. "Move along."

  What?

  Kassil recovered from his surprise just in time to put a foot in the gap before she could slam the door on his nose.

  "Wait! I'm not selling anything, least of all dead dwarves."

  "Good for you. Now buzz off before I feed you to my scarecrow."

  Once Kassil caught a peek of the woman's black robes and pointed hat, the threat didn't feel as unrealistic as it should have. That scarecrow looked downright evil. Still, he braced up to push through his apprehension.

  "I am Kassil Aldori, General of Nightvale."

  "Again, good for you. So what?"

  This was more difficult than expected. Apparently, the old crone had no idea about the existence of the barony she lived in. Or she pretended not to.

  "I am on a mission on behalf of Baroness Guelder."

  A spark of recognition twinkled in the woman's light green eyes.

  "Are you bringing me mushrooms?"

  "Erm... no?"

  "Herbs?"

  "No."

  "Too bad. Go get me a dozen black rattlecaps and at least three bunches of dizzyhead. The more, the better. Then we can talk."

  The door slammed shut, although Kassil didn't remember pulling his foot back. He hammered on the door with his fist for a little longer, even giving it a kick for good measure, to no avail. Gently, he laid Thopros down in front of the scarecrow, barely holding back from making a rude gesture towards it, and drew back to gather momentum and break down the door.

  "Stop!" Sarami threw herself in his way. "You're just inviting more trouble! She can't bring him back!"

  "What?"

  Only then did it occur to him to actually check on his aide. The dwarf's open eyes were glazed, his mouth ajar, his skin cold to the touch, his beard soiled by sickly green froth.

  "Another one bites the dust," muttered Kassil, shoving down his nausea and scooping up the body from the ground. "He'll get a proper burial."

  "Jussst be quick about it," crooned Tartuk from the fence. "The ssswamp takesss its due, and it'sss raising the taxesss."

  A little walk from the witch's hut, the orphaned remains of a village stood among the willows. A well, a few houses surrounding what once had been a square, even a cemetery. Translucent white shapes idled around their former homes, doing chores in aimless, repetitive motions.

  Kassil remembered reading about this place in Linzi's chronicles. A love triangle between a village girl, her suitor and a dryad, curses, rings, letters, coins, flowers, a crazy tree on a killing spree... just an average weekday on the Stolen Lands. The ghosts, quiet and peaceful, didn't bother the living. Guelder had sorted this one thing, Kassil had to give her that. But by the time Kassil finished digging a grave for Thopros in the soft soil of the cemetery, saying his farewell and burying the body, twilight fell upon the land. It was time to set up camp for the night.

  Tartuk insisted that the passageway to the First World was just outside the village, at the foot of a hill. Wherever it was, Kassil preferred to brave it next morning. Tonight they were exhausted, broken, sick to the stomach, but also famished. Well, except maybe Tartuk. He didn't seem the least bit shaken by what they'd been through – thank the gods, because Kassil needed him in perfect physical and mental shape. The kobold was key to his plan. All the others were, strictly speaking, dispensable.

  Kassil sought out the only hut in the village that was not inhabited by one ghost or another, and set up the group's headquarters there. They made a meagre, smoky fire from moist plant parts (the Bag of Holding with the firewood had disappeared underwater along with Nangatrad), useless to dry their clothes or to cook over. Alas, Tartuk's presence made it impossible for Kassil to get a little warmth from Sarami's closeness.

  Sarami took the first shift to keep watch, while the kobold nested himself in a corner, removed his headgear and curled up to sleep. Kassil, too, tried to get some rest beside the sorry excuse for a fire, shivering on his waterlogged bedroll, his innards in a tight knot. Hell, he'd never thought that paying a visit to a dragon would be fraught with so many difficulties before he even got close to her lair. It had better be worth the hassle. There was practically no problem that couldn't be solved with a dragon, he told himself. The Tiger Lords, the Surtova, perhaps even Nyrissa herself...

  It was time to organise his thoughts and actually come up with an offer he could present to Ilthuliak. Perhaps the barony's throne would interest her. She would surely do a better job ruling Nightvale than Guelder did, although she would probably be just as hard to rein in. Of course, first he'd have to check the state of the roads and other infrastructure around her lair... With the last flicker of his consciousness, he realised the absurdity of this idea. Then he fell asleep, with his hand on the hilt of his sword, just in case.

  He wasn't even surprised when he woke to a scream.

  Sarami stood on what used to be the main square of the village, her eyes widened in horror. When Kassil arrived, wearing only his underwear and his sword in his hand, she pointed at a piece of purplish rag on the ground, all the while whimpering without words. Kassil poked at it with the tip of his sword once, twice, then lifted it up. It was then the realisation struck him. The thing dangling from his sword was not a rag but Tartuk's scaly skin, masterfully flayed off in a single, complete piece.

  Shit.

  Apparently, the agreement was moot. There was no more Tartuk to lead Kassil to Ilthuliak, since Kassil had failed to deliver on his promise and protect him from the Flayer. There was only him and Sarami, in the middle of a cursed marshland, with no guide, no healer, no contact with the outside world. And his mother was expecting the reinforcements from Nightvale. What to do now? Admit to his failure, scurry back to Tuskdale in disgrace and start the mobilisation, asking Lady Jamandi to stall until he got there with the army? Or find the hill with the gateway and go ahead with his plan, with only Sarami to support him?

  For lack of a better idea, he embraced his last remaining aide to help her calm down, awkwardly, still holding onto his sword. His heart wasn't in it, though. The Flayer was out there, pulling pranks on him like some silly fey creature, and the entire story just didn't add up. Morhalan was a mad tailor who'd unexpectedly started to expand his portfolio with horrifically grisly products, not an assassin stalking decent humanoid folks while they were going after their business in a godsforsaken swamp. And why leave the hard-earned skin behind, instead of using it for new masterpieces, if not in order to send a message?

  Whatever that message was, Kassil had trouble deciphering it.

  He cupped Sarami's tearful face in his hand, coaxing her to look into his eyes.

  "We must stay strong," he said softly. "The success of the mission and the salvation of Restov and Nightvale depends on the two of us. We can and will brave the impossible. But I need you to be in the right mindspace, Sarami. I need you to have my back. Two Aldori against the world. Me and you. We can do this."

  Sarami nodded repeatedly, as if trying to convince herself, but she was still trembling. Perhaps a kiss would do the trick. A general had to motivate his soldiers using whatever means were available.

  Her lips tasted... unusual. As if he'd licked an ancient corpse's disintegrated remains.

  "Sarami, what did you eat... last... ti –"

  What the hell...? His tongue just stopped working mid-word. And not only his tongue. He couldn't let go of either Sarami or his sword. He couldn't take a step backwards and scream for help, desperate to rally the ghosts or the swamp witch or even the scarecrow, someone, anyone, to his side.

  An ugly grin appeared on Sarami's face. She removed her chin from Kassil's helpless hand, and gently but firmly pried his fingers off the hilt of his sword, letting it drop to the ground. That was strange. She'd always been meticulous about weapon maintenance, avoiding any unnecessary risk of rusting.

  "Worry not, Kasssil, I'll have your back all right," she crooned. "And your front as well."