Mud clung to his boots, building a thick layer of muck with every step. Mox readjusted his cloak again, it kept slipping, and the rain was pissing down hard. Frogs croaked in the distance, as he traveled deeper into the swamp their song slowed and faded into the mist. Not much lived out this far into the swamp. His legs ached and his chest burned, but he couldn’t stop yet. Behind him the mud swallowed up his footprints, his vision honed in on the path ahead. The damn cloak slipped again and he had half a mind to leave it in the reeds. He wouldn’t need it anyway. Koff said he had everything ready at the cabin, so Mox hadn’t even bothered grabbing a water skin. It was supposed to be just a day’s hike into the swamp until he would see Koff’s red scarf. Tied to a tree, or weighed down by a rock, either way he should be able to find it.
Mox looked up from the muddy trail he’d been following. No scarf. Not yet. A little farther. The swamp was still, only the sucking sound of his boots in the mud breaking through the crash of the rain. This place was sacred, it was the perfect place to lie low for a few days. Mirewolves and wisps usually kept to themselves, and the rain was a surprisingly useful cover. If something with teeth was nearby he wouldn’t even notice, he was too determined to get to the cabin. Dry room, warm bed. Then he could rest. All of this would be over soon. No more running, no more hiding, no more stealing just to eat. Koff was well connected too. Joining him meant becoming a proper sellsword, he wouldn’t be catering to the Silver Serpents anymore, and with all the extra coin his debt would be paid off for good. Koff promised to train him on the sword and get him a proper set of armor. He’d even mentioned dining with lords and fighting with armies across the sea. No more sleeping in stables with one eye open, this was the life he always dreamed of.
The days blurred after that. Light bled into dark and back into day, the swamp rain maintained an unbothered constant downpour. His stomach twisted in on itself and his feet had gone numb somewhere around the second night, he didn’t know which hurt more.
A tangled root grabbed at his foot and dropped him with a wet thud. Fuck. He found his footing and stood, lifting his face to the rain, letting it wash the streaks of earth from his skin. For a moment he regretted everything. The rain rolled down his cheeks and dripped off his chin. He had to keep going. He couldn’t turn back now. They’d kill him. He’d pushed off his debt for too many moons, and the Serpents were tired of his excuses. He’d shown his face to too many shopkeepers too and it was getting harder to swipe shiny things and cut purses without someone noticing him.
He should have just gotten on the boat to Verness with Neg and Reever. Not the brightest thieves, but at least they were getting out of town, and there was food on the boat. His stomach churned. Koff promised the cabin had everything they needed. Just have to lie low a while. Koff always had it handled. When they needed a cart to transport everything from the farm siege, he knew someone who owed him a favor. Or that other time when he saved him from the guards after he swiped the daggers from the merchant with the eye patch. Mox didn’t know they were a custom set for the King. He would have lost his head too, but Koff was there for him. He always had been.
He kept along the trail before the rain finished erasing it. Dusk was near and what little sun there’d been behind the clouds fading fast. The rain didn’t let up either, and a chilly darkness crept in through the swamp. Mox steadied himself on the slick mud, cursing under his breath. The crooked trees threw ugly shadows as the rain thinned to a fine mist. Miserable. Just a little further. He searched for the scarf again. Nothing. Koff had said a day’s hike, the sun was going down again and the rain hadn’t slowed him that much. Maybe the weather had been kinder for Koff. Had to have been. The thought of the cabin, and felt the weight of his cloak on his shoulders. Drenched with rain it was slowing him down. He dropped it in the mud, he wouldn’t need it anyway. Soon, he’d be with Koff, out of this swamp, spilling mead in castles across the sea. Out of this wretched swamp, with its rot stink and piss rain and shit mud.
The scarf.
There, tied to a broken branch. Gods be good. North from the scarf, into the brush, that’s what Koff said. A glimmer of hope fluttered in his chest. The sun was sinking behind the trees to his sword hand, he hoped that was north. Koff had taught him that much, at least.
Ahead, the brush knotted thick, thorny branches with spiny leaves. Mox swallowed the lump in his throat, wrapped his cloak around his forearm, and pushed through. Branches scratched at his shoulders and face. A sword would’ve cleared the path in one swing, but if this brush was all that hid the cabin, best to leave it standing. His hair caught every cobweb as he shoved deeper, boots snagging on roots. Every inch of this thicket was probably crawling with spiders and the little things that suck your blood. He shut his eyes and pushed on. No turning back. Not now.
He broke through the last of it. Fucking Gods. A small cabin sat ahead, roof sagging, shutters hanging from the dark windows like sad eyelids, lichen crawling up the walls from years of relentless rain. Mox checked over his shoulder for any sign of Koff before pushing the crooked door open. Inside was cold and damp, the air thick with the kind of mold that lingers in the abandoned warehouses down by the docks. No Koff. A stool sat in the corner by the window, an empty crate beside it. Bottles littered the back wall, all empty. Mox investigated the crates at the far end of the room. One held a coil of rope and a small leather pouch with a few copper coins which he left alone. No food. No real supplies of any kind.
Mox searched again, growing frantic. There had to be more. More crates in the corner, empty, all of them. His stomach tightened. Koff said there’d be food, beds, a place to hole up for a few days. There wasn’t even a dry patch to build a fire. He sat on the stool. This had to be a mistake. How many red scarves could there be in this swamp? How many cabins? No, this was the place, it had to be. What if he misunderstood what Koff had said? He replayed Koff’s instructions in his head, turning over every word, dissecting it and looking for where he could have gone wrong. Everything they needed, at the cabin, for a few days, that’s what Koff said. Mox had slept in rat-infested sewers and eaten blight-rotted crops before, he was no stranger to hard conditions. But that wasn’t how Koff did things. Every time Mox had met him it was warm inns and dry stables. This shouldn’t have been any different.
He thumbed the rough edge of the stool and thought of the boat again. Neg was probably tearing into a cheese wheel the size of his own head, Reever choking down fine summer wine. The dread sank deeper into his bones. Without them, there was nothing left for him back in town. Koff was all he had now.
The last of the light drained from the room, and with no candles, Mox decided it was worth resting while he could. He stripped down to his underclothes, a chill taking him instantly. No blankets either, for fuck’s sake. There was a slightly dry spot between the crates on the floor where he decided to lay. Tomorrow, maybe, Koff would come with some bread, cheap wine, and dried fruit. The thought of a full belly made his stomach churn.
Sleep took him quickly. Flashes of home lit up his dreams. The farm, his first clean pickpocket, meeting Koff. All simple times. The warm sun on his skin felt all too real. He plucked a yellow apple straight off a tree and bit into it. The tart flesh and sticky juice on his tongue tasted like summer. Home.
He opened his eyes to the damp cabin. No apple. Still no Koff.
Mox got up, his neck stiff, a sour taste lingering at the back of his mouth. He checked the crates again for anything he might’ve missed. Luckily the rain outside was busy creating puddles of water he could suck dry. Mox looked for any signs of Koff’s return in the middle of the night but the cabin remained untouched.
He stepped outside into the cursed rain once more. The swamp had smelled of rich soil and promise when he first arrived, now it just reeked of shit. He pissed into the ferns nearby. If he’d packed a blade, he could’ve caught something and gutted it by now. That’s what he got for leaving in such a hurry, a day’s hike hadn’t seemed worth much packing.
A branch snapped behind him. He quickly made himself decent and turned, expecting to greet Koff. No one was there. Just him, the cabin, and the piss fern.
He squinted up at the sun behind its blanket of cloud, it was already midday. Koff had to be close. The spiny brush he had entered through stared back unforgiving and the rain continued to grind the path out of the swamp into an unrecognizable slurry. Mox sighed and headed back into the cabin.
The brush shook behind him. He turned in time to watch a branch bend, wobble, and bow slowly to the ground.
“Koff?” he called.
No answer. Just the patter of rain in the mud, and something rattling.
Mox waited, staring at the brush.
His breath became shallow, he went still, listening.
A Mirewolf? He cursed himself for not bringing a sword, what was he thinking. He would be safe inside the cabin, if he stayed quiet maybe it would leave.
The movement stopped.
A blade came crashing down to his right, burying itself in the cabin door with a heavy thud. Mox reflectively dodged the blow, whipping his head to the side, eyes wide. The rusted sword swung again, nearly opening his waist. A bony hand gripped the hilt, flesh peeling back from the fingertips. His eyes followed the hand up to a wrist and then to an arm, the thing was half a man, half rotten corpse. Skin hanging off its face in pale sheets, hollow eyes, stringy hair matted with filth and mud. Mox shrieked. The creature raised the blade and drove the pommel into Mox’s cheekbone. His teeth crushed down on his tongue and he tasted blood. The impact ricocheted through his face.
The thing lunged again. He dodged another blow and opened the door, slamming it into the monster just as a second creature burst from the spiny brush. His heart hammered in his ears, his breath caught in his throat as it tightened. He grabbed the stool and held it up like a shield as the first corpse forced its way past the ruined door.
They collided. Using the stool, Mox pinned the thing’s sword against the wall and drove his fist into its bloated waterlogged face. He punched again and again, the sound of each impact a sickening wet thud into the decaying creature. His next punch went wide and cracked into the doorframe instead, pain shooting up his arm. The creature thrashed, brought its sword down again, this time catching the stool and shattering a wooden leg into splinters. Mox tangled the broken stool around its arm and shoved it off balance into the crates.
The second one charged through what was left of the door, opening the wooden gap enough to stumble through. This one was all bones, bleached white from the sun, wielding a buckler with one boney hand, the other arm missing entirely. It lunged. Mox grabbed the rusted disk and the creature twisted back trying to regain control of the shield. The rusted metal bit into Mox’s hands as he wrestled it free, wrenching the creature’s hand loose at the wrist in the process. He swung down the buckler wildly into the creature’s face. Its brittle eye socket exploded on impact. Mox struck again then again, obliterating its shoulder, scattering shattered bone. It staggered, folded into the doorframe, the dry ligaments holding it together finally giving out. Fuck You! Mox stomped on it. Once. Twice. Teeth clenched, sweat stinging his eyes. Again. Again. Each blow cracking bones like kindling. He lifted the buckler overhead and brought it down one last time, caving in what was left of its hollow skull.
Behind him, something rattled in the wreckage of crates, the first creature, stirring. Then the front door moved, or what remained of it.
Koff shoved through the doorway, holding a sack of goods over his shoulder.
“Where the fuck have you been?” Mox screamed, blood and spit thick in his throat. His breath was choppy and strained, tangled brown hair slick on his forehead, ears ringing.
Koff dropped the bundle and drew his sword as the first creature lurched up out of the boxes. “Mox, get down!” He charged, two-handed, and buried the blade into its neck, cutting the rotted meat of the creature like soft cheese. He wrenched the bastard sword free, effortlessly twirled his blade sideways, flicking the mud and flesh from it’s edge. Then he drove it forward again straight into the creature’s gut, pinning it to the wall until it went still, mouth hanging open, milky eyes fixed on nothing.
“What are these things?” Koff shouted, working the blade loose. The corpse slid down the wall in a spill of mud and swamp water.
Mox gulped air, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins. “Gods only know. I’d take a mirewolf over whatever these are. You didn’t know about these?” He stared at it, still half in shock trying to understand. “Where were you? Where’s the supplies?”
Koff sheathed his sword. “I had supplies. You took too long getting here.”
“I took too long? You said a day’s hike.”
“It took me a few days too.”
“What? How does that make any sense?” Mox bit down hard on his back teeth as he tried to steady himself.
Koff tucked his dusty blonde behind his ear and knelt and unloaded the sack he’d dropped on the floor. “Look, I found this stuff on a trader. I was scouting and ran into him. He was hurt, so I ended it for him. Now we’ve got food.”
Mox tore into the parcels. A box of salt wrapped in greenish linen. A chunk of hard cheese in an oily rag. A wineskin gone to vinegar. Copper trinkets. A small personal teapot. “What is all this?” He flung the teapot back into the pile.
Koff rubbed his stubble. “There’s cheese, at least. Let’s split it.”
“No, Koff, what are you doing? You said there’d be supplies. No blankets, no food, no water, no weapons. You said you’d make me a sellsword, how, with nothing here? I trusted you.” His voice cracked.
“You worry too much. There’s a boat coming up the river, it’ll take us to the next town. Everything’s there.” Koff shrugged, wrinkling his nose. “You’re such a princess.”
“Fuck off. If I’d known there’d be nothing here I’d have brought a sword myself! That thing nearly took my face off!”
“You worry too much. It’ll work out.”
“How can you be so fucking sure? When’s the boat coming?”
“He didn’t say. We’ll walk down in the morning and see.”
“And if it’s not there?”
Koff gathered the parcels back up. “Then we wait, Mox. What do you want from me? The boat’s coming. I paid the man good coin.”
“That’s not-” Mox let the sentence die in his throat and sighed instead.
“I said I’d take care of you. I’m going to. Just trust me.”
Mox looked at the skeleton corpse on the ground, eyes losing focus. “Yeah, I trust you.”
They dragged the remains outside afterward, piece by piece, flinging bones deep into the bushes and leaving the fleshy parts in a pile in the mud.
“Think there’ll be more of those things?” Mox asked, tossing an arm bone overhead.
Koff’s gaze dropped to the bones in his hand. “Never seen them out here before. Usually just mirewolves, giant rats, leeches. Hope not, but we’ll find out.”
“It’s dark magic. Has to be. Nothing else raises the dead like that. Necromancers of something.”
Koff kicked the last of the bones under a bush. “Whatever they are, we’ve got each other now. I’m not too worried. When you’re a sellsword you’ll run into all sorts, long as there’s a blade in your hand, it’s not a problem. I’m going to teach you how to fight too.”
Back inside, the sun sank behind a creeping fog, the night was silent, no frogs, no buzzing bugs, just the wind and a chill. Mox dropped his shoulders and rubbed his neck as they settled in. “You think the boat’ll be there tomorrow?”
“Sure, Mox. We’ll go look.”
They sat on the floor, backs against the wall, shoulder to shoulder. Koff picked at his nails, bitten down to raw stumps, peeling the thin layers back and flicking them to the floor.
“You think it’ll really be there?”
“Shut up, Mox.”
Mox woke stomach burning, weak, and limbs heavy. Koff was already up, packing the odds and ends into the sack.
“Hey, let me get some of that cheese, I’m dying.”
Koff didn’t look up. “Already ate it. Boat’ll have supplies.”
Mox said nothing. He grabbed the buckler and the rusted sword, at least he had those.
They left the cabin without a backward glance, Mox had tried to erase it from his mind with every step forward. The bonemen, the hunger gnawing at his gut, it would all be over soon. The boat would be there, it had to be, then his new life would begin. They’d sail out of this horrid place and Koff would finally make good as he promised. He thought of Reever but quickly dismissed the thought.
The trail was slick with mud and reeds sharp enough to slice their legs open as they pushed through. Every step was a gamble, with soggy patches everywhere. Mox was grateful for the reeds anyway, even stabbing into his palms, they gave him something to grab when he slipped.
The reeds thinned into twisted dead trees lining a dark, still river.
No boat.
Mox stopped in a puddle of mud. The river was like glass, no fish pecked at the surface and the empty banks were shrouded in a hazy mist. No boat in the reeds, nothing pulled up into the mud, empty like the promises that sank deeper into his gut.
“We’ll wait here,” Koff said, tossing the sack onto a mossy spot near the water.
“Wait? Out here? What if more of those things…”
Koff raised a finger to his lips.
Mox went quiet and listened.
Footsteps. Sludgy and heavy, beyond the treeline.
Koff crouched low and went still. Mox followed.
The footsteps kept coming, squelching, and under it, the ring of metal on metal. Armor.
Mox studied the treeline, breath shallow and even, waiting for shapes to resolve out of the fog.
A dozen, maybe more, shambling to the riverbank like the swamp had been holding them, just waiting for something worth surfacing for. They weren’t like the ragged things in the cabin. Instead they wore armor, rusted and green with rot, cuirasses, helms, greaves, a few still gripping shields, and blades of all sizes. Whoever they’d been, they’d died with steel in their hands, and death hadn’t loosened their grip.
Mox’s stomach dropped clean through the mud beneath him. He backed into the reeds, more were surfacing behind them, there was nowhere else to go. His boots sliding, the cold mud climbing up his ankles, they were trapped.
Another dozen pushed through the reeds by the trees, they were everywhere. Some brittle skeletons with sinewy tendons under chainmail, others with saggy purple faces with a stench that could only be described as death. The first of them were close enough that he could see the moss growing between the plates of its cuirass, close enough to smell the swamp rotting in its lungs. The dark slits of their visors honed in on them.
They didn’t move, they couldn’t. It was too late.
A blade came for his ribs and Mox got the buckler up just in time, the impact pushing him deeper into the mud. He swung wide, caught the thing across the wrist sending the sword flying, but only bought himself a half breath before the next one was on him.
Koff swung his blade expertly, slashing down two that advanced from the rear. He knocked one off balance with a hard kick to the chest and smashed another with his pommel before completely knocking the head off a fourth with ease. Mox slid in the mud trying to gain his footing, his reactions felt slower, and his lips cracked as he focused and tried to steady himself. Koff grabbed his arm and jerked him upright, gave him a nod and continued to fight alongside him.
Mox’s head pounded.
He fought. Ducked one swing that would’ve opened his throat, drove the buckler into a rotted knee until it shattered, put the sword through a gap in a breastplate. One more went down. Then two. His arms were on fire by the third, and still more of them appeared through the reeds behind the ones he’d dropped.
Koff was dripping in sweat but he didn’t slow.
More bonemen came through the fog, an endless supply of death.
A blade opened his forearm, he barely felt it, just the trickle of blood sliding down into his palm. Another caught the back of his thigh and his leg buckled. He went down hard into the reeds, blood and muddy water splashing up around his knees. He tried to get up. Couldn’t. Three days surviving on nothing, he already spent everything his body had left to give.
Koff torn through that were on Mox, sending rotting bile and flesh into the river as he pushed them in. A large one in full plate armor towered over Mox, houndskull bascinet blocking out what little sun was left in the sky. It’s glaive found his side, slicing deep into his flesh. A warm embrace of his own blood. He swung once more, wild, and it didn’t matter if it landed, the rusted blade ricocheted off it’s breastplate without making a dent. More advanced through the reeds, closing distance on them.
“Koff,” he shouted. “Koff, there’s too many!”
Koff looked to him, to the blood, to the look of terror in Mox’s eyes. He punched at the side of the helm of the larger creature. It stumbled down into the river and he lifted Mox closer to him. He quickly scanned the treeline, counting, his jaw working the way it did when he was figuring things out. Then something in his face settled. “Listen,” Koff breathed, gripping Mox’s shoulder, steady as he’d ever been. “Hold here. Draw their eyes. I’ll circle round through the reeds and take them from the flank.”
Mox nodded, it sounded like every plan Koff had talked him through, it was familiar and hope filled his lungs. He gripped the rusted sword tighter and rose half a step, angling himself toward the treeline, towards the armored dead. “Ok, lets fucking do this.”
Koff was already gone.
Sack of copper trinkets and a teapot’s worth of nothing bouncing against his back as he tore off through the reeds in the opposite direction, away from the river.
Mox didn’t understand at first, his eyes still on the dead. The reeds swallowed the sound of Koff’s footsteps first. Then the fog swallowed the rest of him.
He looked for the reeds Koff had gone into. Nothing moved there. There was no flanking charge, no blade crashing down to save him the way it had in the cabin. Just the sound of his own blood pounding in his ears.
He’s not coming.
It took him a moment to understand, the way you understand a wound only after it starts to bleed. He thought of the boat to Verness one last time. Of Neg with his cheese. Of Reever and his fine summer wine, and how easy it would have been to have just gotten on that boat.
Mox stood alone at the edge of the water, blood pooling in the mud, a rusted sword in one hand and a dead man’s buckler in the other. He watched the swamp present its dead, one armored shape at a time.
© Nicole Zupp. All Rights Reserved.
