Suffering Rancor

INTRODUCTION

503 years AgO

Morragh, Lord Elsworth, and Promund Salisburn arrived at the Grand Entrance to Edenheart Castle almost simultaneously. Though the Mundane Movement had only existed for a few decades and had only recently become an influence at court, Lord Elsworth outranked the Promund socially, and both men knew it.

For his part, Morragh had seen the potential for congestion from a distance and had spurred his Rhinocorn, Nightmare, into a trot to arrive at the same time. As he predicted, his presence turned an awkward moment into a tense standoff. He slowed Nightmare as he approached and watched the politicians stumble over themselves with insincere gestures of humility.

After you, said Promund Salisburn, bowing deeply.

No, no. After you, Sir, replied Lord Elsworth from the window of his carriage.

I must insist, said the Promund.

If that’s really how you feel, Morragh interrupted. A slight telepathic nudge signaled his stead forward onto the drawbridge.

The clunk from the Rhinocorn’s hooves on the drawbridge echoed from the Castle walls, but Morragh could easily hear Lord Elsworth harrumph his disapproval. The Promund suffered the offense without a sound. Morragh used the tiniest and most useful of his innate magical abilities to scry over his own shoulder. The reverse image clearly showed the Promund, red-faced, leading his entourage onto the bridge.

The Promund preceding Lord Elsworth told Morragh just how much power the Mundane Movement may have gained at court. Morragh entered the Castle gates without challenge. The King’s Own Guard knew everyone on the guest list by site, and they knew that if Morragh weren’t invited, they couldn’t stop him. It was difficult to keep an average magic wielder out of something as large as a castle, and Morragh was not average.

Morragh was a Rumm’n: a creature of myth and mystery to most ordinary humans. The Rumm’n didn’t need spells or incantations to perform magic. Though most of their magic came from innate ability, some took intention if not actual effort. Much like physical strength, Rumm’n could run out of magic and need to rest: A fact that Rumm’n did not disclose to humans.

Inside the walls of Castle Edenheart, Morragh banked left and headed for the stables. While he lacked the large entourage of retainer priests like Salisburn or the servants and guardians of Lord Elsworth, he had not come alone.

Two invisible bodyguards, called Chimmaran, flanked his Rhinocorn. From another plane of existence, the Chimmaran, normally abstained from meddling in the affairs of men, but they were old allies of the Rumm’n and they had an interest of their own in the outcome of today’s discussions. Only the magic born could see Chimmaran. In fact they had no corporeal body, but they could manifest themselves telekinetically if they needed to. A lot more men had been in the presence of a Chimmaran than believed they really existed, which suited the Chimmaran just fine.

Morragh’s Rhinocorn mount was physically and magically powerful, and more intelligent than most humans. Pre-teen Rumm’n rode dragons. Battle hardened adults, like Morragh, rode sturdier mounts, like Rhinocorns: choosing to forgo flight and flame for raw power and endurance.

At the stable, young men tripped over themselves trying not to be the one who had to handle Nightmare. All were afraid, except for one young lad of about five or six. Morragh found it hard to judge age on human children. They all seemed to mature so fast; especially the lower class children. Rumm’n considered their offspring children clear into their seventies. Morragh had seen three-hundred years and just begun to turn grey.

Morragh had the innate ability to sense potential magic wielders. The boy’s raw, untrained power had been calling to him since he passed the castle gates. The boy’s gaze passed from the Chimmaran to Morragh, to Nightmare, and back with eyes wide. Little tykes like this one inspired the Rumm’n decision to work alongside the humans in their coming war with Rancor.

Many of Morragh’s people had voted to wait until the humans asked for help. Why should they get involved? Morragh was not certain the Rumm’n could defeat Rancor alone. There weren’t that many Rumm’n and it would be difficult to deliver a deathblow to a foe who fed upon your wounded and dying.

Morragh dismounted and said, I’ll tend to her myself boys. She’ll only be here a few hours. He patted the Rhinocorn on the neck and turned to leave. Then he turned back and said, If she tries to leave, he paused for emphasis, for pities sake, don’t try to stop her.

Morragh threw his saddlebags over his shoulder and walked out into the mid-morning sunlight. The boy chased after him clearing his throat again and again, hoping to be noticed. Morragh turned back to him one last time. If I don’t die here, I’ll take you with me. Is that fair?

The boy nodded and his face filled with joy. What’s your name? asked Morragh.

Wyregree, said the boy.

* * * * * *

Later that afternoon, Morragh relaxed in his private booth at court. It wasn’t crowded like the others; just himself, the two incorporeal Chimmarans, and the freshly-washed orphan boy formerly of the stables. Wyregree would act as his servant until they returned to the Rumm’n schools in the North.

The boy sat with his back straight and his hands folded in his lap, as though this whole dream might disappear if he twitched. It might be, that quiet attention was natural to the boy, but to Morragh it made him seem mature and likeable.

Prince Velinew of Kardoma entered the court chamber and took his seat on the throne, drawing Morragh’s attention. Another boy, thought Morragh, this one made of entirely different stuff. Perhaps if he’d spent more time in the stables…

The Prince cleared his throat, and then spoke, We are going to discuss the civil crises this morning, We will entertain possible solutions as soon as the portal opens.

Two court mages stepped onto the dais and mumbled incantations at a gilt-framed mirror. The glass appeared to turn to liquid and the reflection it cast clouded. Instead of running onto the floor, the liquid stayed suspended in the frame and an image appeared. King and Queen Anuell of the great nation Restorloke smiled and nodded.

Greetings, Your Highness, said King Anuell.

We are honored by your presence, the Princes tenor voice cracked.

Aha, thought Morragh. He must be about fifteen. That’s when human males experience an awkward change to their voice.

The Prince’s Uncle would rule as regent for another year or two, and as such he held the title Court High Chancellor. The Chancellor stepped forward and called for the first Lord to speak. While an aged lord droned on about the civil unrest on his land, Morragh studied the face of the High Chancellor. Something was wrong with him and Morragh couldn’t put a finger on it.

The Chancellor wore fine robes. His thin dark hair; grey at the temples; was slicked back, and he held a ceremonial staff with a bell set in its top. By tapping the staff on the floor the bell would ding, signaling the end of a Lord’s speaking time. The Chancellor raised the staff an inch and let it slide through his grip. The bell made a rather pleasant little sound and the aged Lord began to speak faster, wrapping up his complaint.

Morragh doubted any of the Lords would name the real culprit behind these problems. One of Rancor’s best weapons was apathy. He could inspire the bravest of knights to sit with his fingers plugging his ears and his eyes clamped shut, while townships burned to the ground. Morragh had no qualms about naming names and when it was his turn to speak, things would get livelier.

The Prince fidgeted. He wore a light green tunic and dark green trous; as if he intended to go hawking after the court finished wasting his time. The second Lord began his accounts of the devastation on his lands. Morragh found it more interesting and noticed the rest of the court appeared to perk up as well.

A plague had hit many of his cities. One in ten citizens was dieing or dead. Also, his herds had vanished overnight as if they’d walked off by themselves. His herdsmen had slain each other or themselves: some madness had taken hold. The only survivor, a very old man, had bitten his tongue and died to avoid questioning. A day later one of the major crime bosses in his county seat had turned himself in, asking for protection. He’d been having nightmares and his organization turned on him. He only slept when the chyurgeons drugged him.

Morragh wanted to hear more about this crime boss and his dreams, but the second Lord’s time ended and it was time for Promund Salisburn to speak.

The Promund stood and spoke with the clear, loud voice of a practiced orator. Ladies and Lords, I am saddened by these continued attacks on your domains. But we all know who is behind these things. The Dark Lord, Rancor.

Well, well, thought Morragh as a buzz swept the room. The Promund has stepped in the right direction.

For three years, perhaps longer, this nation has been under attack, continued the Promund. Our enemy is one, about whom, little is known. Few have resisted him, much less tried to spy on him or infiltrate his ranks. He has planted his agents in every town and castle, with impunity. He has cast his spells and curses against our people without fear of retaliation.

My my, thought Morragh. This is too good to be true.

The Dark One has obscured himself behind a veil of myth, so that no one, great or small, would dare to speak his name for fear of drawing his attention. Fear does much of his work for him, but he is not all powerful. He can be stopped, if we move against him before his power is complete.

Another wave of murmuring swept the room, but the Promund continued, I have dared to spy on him. I have sent my bravest of agents to gather intelligence in every part of this land where the Dark One has attacked. I can describe to you the pattern of his attacks, so that we may know where he is at work. I have also discovered his weakness.

The room went silent. The Promund moved forward from his box and onto the floor of the court where he leaned on his staff. Light from the overhead windows glinted off the metallic church symbol, which topped the Promund’s staff. I can tell you that the dark one has agents in this very room. The Promund paused, shifting his staff so that light sparkled in random directions. The way to defeat the dark one is… Ding! The Promund was cut off. Ding, da ding.

I’m sorry Promund, said the Chancellor. Your time is up.

I don’t think it is, said the Promund, earnestly.

The Prince shifted in his seat and opened his mouth as though to speak, but at a glance from his Uncle he closed his mouth again.

Next to speak, Lord Elsworth.

Lord Elsworth stood. A beam of light from the Promund’s staff landed on the large bald area in the middle of Elsworth’s head. If not for the tension in the room Morragh would have laughed. Lord Elsworth spoke in measured, deliberate cadence. I believe I should like to concede my time to Promund Salisburn.

I don’t… the Chancellor started, but he was cut off as Promund Salisburn resumed his speach.

Firstly, Rancor has no power to compel anyone to act against his own will at this point. He can, however, corrupt anyone with any inclination toward evil, lust, or greed.

Yes, but how may he be defeated? shouted someone.

It’s quite simple really, if a bit unpleasant. He gains the ability to live by drawing life from his normal human victims. The Promund paused as if considering his next words. He gains power from those he kills… He paused again, changing tack.

You see if he kills the aged he survives, but if he kills the young he grows a bit younger. Similarly, if he kills someone who wields magic, he adds much of their power to his own. It is them he seeks most.

The hairs on the back of Morragh’s neck stood up. Trouble was coming. He leaned forward and whispered in Wyregree’s ear. When the fighting starts you must escape this place. Flee the capitol and live as a normal boy until Rancor is captured or dead. Do you understand? Morragh pushed a bag of coins into the boy’s hands and clenched his fist over the boy’s. I’m not an asset to you right now, but a danger. I’ll seek you when this ends. Until then hide your secret. Do you understand?

The boy nodded.

What we must do, continued the Promund. Is starve him out. We must gather everyone who has magic and either put them to our service or intern them in a building where they can be protected.

One of the court mages stepped forward, This is madness.

The Promund turned on him, The Prince’s loyal subjects would gladly serve him unto death, soldiers do it in every battle whilst you mages hide back in a pavilion doing god knows what. Now you balk at your first chance to play a pivotal role in the protection of your nation because it means some inconvenience to you. Where do your loyalties lie?

You’re playing right into his hands, said the court mage.

Behind the first, vocal Court Mage, a second, older Court Mage slumped in shock and horror. He took one stumbling step and braced himself on the frame of the heavy mirror that connected one Great Nation to the other. His color grew pale.

The younger Court Mage turned to the Prince and to the mirror. Surely your Highness’s can see that this is a ploy of the Dark Lord. He sows chaos and persecution before him. He is trying to get neighbor to turn on neighbor, brother on brother. He wants you to fight your own mages, to drive them to him for protection. The young mage’s voice trembled.

Like the young Mage, Morragh could see it all. The Dark Lord would use such an inquisition to route out minor magic wielders, to make them homeless and friendless. He would scoop them up as easy prey and turn them to his service or consume them. Stronger mages forced to flee, would disperse across the nation, where they could be picked off one at a time.

The Promund continued, The Church is the only instrument to accomplish what must be done. We’ve been aware of the Dark One’s tactics for some time now and we’ve vetted our membership. We humbly offer our services. The Church can provide its soldiers to guard Prince Velinew until the King’s Own have been screened for spies. Then we’ll screen the army. Within a year’s time Rancor will be cut off from anyone who could add to his power and we’ll have a force of loyal soldiers with which to destroy him.

I don’t believe what I’m hearing, said Queen Anuell of Restorloke.

Her husband patted her hand where it rested on the arm of her throne. Actually my dear, if Kardoma goes forward with this plan we’ll have to follow suit.

What, she gasped.

If they, he paused, if we become the only source of magic wielders Rancor will surely come here.

Very wise, you’re Highness, said the Promund.

And what would the Church require in exchange for this great service? asked the Prince.

The Promund bowed while the rest of the room stared in surprise. Only the authority to accomplish the task, my liege.

I knew it, shouted the High Chancellor. I knew he was after my job.

The Chancellor’s face flushed in rage. He turned toward the Prince clutching the bell staff in both hands. I rule this nation, you’re not ready you rotten little brat.

The Chancellor raised his staff over his head and swung for the Prince’s head. It landed with a thunk-clang on the back of the throne. The young mage raised his hand to cast a spell on the Chancellor, but before he could complete it, Promund Salisburn lowered the tip of his staff and a dart shot into the neck of the young mage.

Morragh was on his feet now. The crowd gasped. With remarkable speed for his age Lord Elsworth reached the Chancellor before he could bring the bell staff down again. Lord Elsworth, the Chancellor, and the young mage crumpled to the floor at the same time. The older Court Mage took a step forward and checked his young friend, announcing, He’s dead, you’ve killed him.

The Chancellor continued to rant, and the room erupted in a cacophony of accusations and protestations. Only Morragh noticed the old Court Mage produce a knife from his robes and slip it under the younger mages robes. The old mage’s face grimaced with the exertion of forcing the knife up under the younger man’s ribs.

Morragh whipped a crystal on a leather thong from around his neck and dropped it in Wyregree’s lap. Wear it everyday for long life. On your seventeenth birthday hold it up to the light of a full moon and repeat your name three times. It will begin to instruct you in the ways of magic. Morragh bent quickly and looked the boy straight in the face. Remember your promise to me. You will live to see Rancor defeated plus a few decades more, but no magic until your seventeenth birthday. Wyregree nodded, tears brimming in the corner of his eyes.

On the Dias, the old mage looked up, his eyes black as a moonless night, and smiled as he caught sight of Morragh.

Morragh leaped the wooden rail in a single jump. At that same moment, his Rhinocorn, Nightmare, burst into the room sending the oak and iron doors to the court smashing open. The two Chimmarans came instantly to Morragh’s side. All four allies advanced even as the Dark Lord Rancor rose to cast his first spell.

That’s when all hell broke loose.

* * * * * *

492 YEARS AGO

THE FALL OUT

Wyregree stepped into the moonlight. He’d aged perhaps a year in the eleven years since the fight in the High Court of Kardoma. He had survived that day at court along with about half a dozen others. Also among the survivors were the Prince, Lord Elsworth, Promund Salisburn, and the High Chancellor. The last, by jumping through the mirror to Restorloke, where he was arrested.

Another survived also, Rancor. He’d outlasted the four heroes, but only just. The Promund had brought him down with a blow from his staff to the back of the knee. Gasping for breath on the cold, flagstone floor Rancor turned to fog and seeped out through the storm drain.

The Prince immediately appointed Promund Salisburn the new High Chancellor and Lord Elsworth as regent. A year later, Lord Elsworth abdicated regency and crowned Prince Velinew, King of Kardoma.

Salisburn remained both Promund and High Chancellor until his death in the final battle with Rancor. His replacement Salisburn II had also been named High Chancellor, quelling rumors that the inquisition might end. Though Rancor never again plagued Kardoma, the Movement never acknowledged his death. Some claimed Solisburn II exiled or imprisoned him somewhere, rather than be without a nemisis. Whatever his fate the Mundanes continued their persecution of all those gifted with magic.

Now seventeen and alone, Wyregree raised his necklace to the moonlight and repeated his name three times. The sight it unlocked in him confirmed what he knew in this heart to be true. Rancor was not dead, and he would return. But it also spoke of a hero and a heroine that would rise up in time to fight Rancor. If Wyregree could just hang on long enough, he could prepare allies for them. He could explain to them the battle they had been thrown into and how important it was to finish it this time. He had born witness and now he would keep faith, until the hero and heroine came.

CHAPTER 1

pawns

Vinton’s foot slipped on the shale causing him to slide on one knee. He maintained balance and kept his crossbow pointed skyward until his booted foot came to rest just on the edge of a pool of black, putrid mud. He smirked, confident his reflexes and experience would keep him out of trouble until he got his land legs, even in this swamp. As he struggled to stand, a hand seized his upper arm and pulled him further onto the shale walls of the gulley.

You don’t want to go in there, my friend, said Sidge. The Mybrock say black puddles are haunted.

And what do you say, Sidge? asked Wenold. The stocky, first mate polished a layer of green film from his spectacles for the millionth time that morning.

Sidge bent and flicked a fist-sized, hunk of rock into the expanse of black muck, then turned and replied, Tiny bugs. He held up his hand with finger and thumb nearly touching to emphasize that they were indeed very small. But I am just a galley slave. What do I know? He shot a glance at Vinton, the Pirate Captain.

The rock sank into the mud. Quicksand, most likely, Vinton observed with a nod. We know what it looks like now so we can avoid it.

Tiny, flesh-eating bugs, repeated Sidge. If you stick your arm in up to the elbow, in the time it takes the sun to set you would pull it out naked to the bone.

Vinton shook his head. One of the pirates said, Hells, would you looky ‘at. As they watched, the rock slowly resurfaced and moved to the edge of the mud pool.

Vinton pushed his hat back, Hmmn.

Does a pool of quicksand form at the bottom of a slippery hill? asked Sidge.

The group moved on, but they were quiet, deep in their own thoughts. Do you really buy into all this haunted swamp crap, Sidge? asked one of the pirates.

Sidge nodded. Yes, very much.

As they approached the tree line at the outer edge of the swamp, the group stopped to drink from their canteens. I’ve studied legends about this swamp since I was a boy, said Wenold. The pudgy pirate rested his back against a tree.

On the east side of this swamp the Ghist River, or Lahoni as the locals call it, falls off a cliff into a hole in the ground. Wenold swirled his hand in the air indicating a whirlpool. The river bubbles up throughout the swamp and eventually becomes a river again. It runs west to the ocean through a pass in the mountains. The group stared at him. What? he defended. There are ancient tales about this place.

He’s right, my own eyes have seen it, nodded Sidge.

I’ve been dying to see this place in person, said Wenold to himself.

I vowed I would never return, continued Sidge. For I would surely die. Now if I don’t guide you in, your captain will kill me. At least in there my soul will have plenty of company as it floats down.

Vinton removed his tri-corner hat and looked up at the sun. The sky was bright, and made him squint, though he couldn’t really make out where the sun was. A haze covered the sky from horizon to horizon. Vinton fanned his face with the hat trying to cool himself. Dew from the humid air and sweat had already soaked the hat’s rim and darkened its bright pink plume.

The group more climbed into the swamp than hiked. Paggo trees grew in tight clumps where mounds rose out of the marshy swamp floor. Paggo trees grew to about five times a man’s height with brown trunks, brown-purple needles and scab-colored flowers. Vinton noted that he could run his fingers down the needles but if he pulled them up his skin snagged on invisible barbs.

They saw waist-deep pools of stagnant water, which Sidge pointed to. Oh you don’t want to go in there my friends.

Tiny bugs? asked Wenold holding up his thumb and fore finger.

Big lizards, replied Sidge, with his hands held far apart.

Ship-sized trees with black trunks and pale leaves the size of a man’s chest grew out of the water pools. These saggy giants, known as grabba trees, leaned heavily on their huge air roots, which seemed to travel out, hit ground, and then rise again to another tree. Perhaps, thought Vinton, all the grabba trees in the swamp are one organism.

Hells, where can we go a’ won’t kill us lickedy split? asked a pirate. The trees?

Oh, I wouldn’t go there, said Sidge. Big snakes.

A tree branch began to creep. The pirates could just make out a snake as big around as a man’s thigh.

That’ll look nice on the wall of my cabin, said Vinton. The pirate captain took aim with his crossbow, and fired. The bolt struck the snake just behind its head. It writhed and its head dipped briefly in the pool of water then reemerged, tongue flicking wildly. A set of jaws lined with spike-like teeth shot up from the pool of water and seized the snake’s head. The tail of the snake, still coiled onto a tree limb, pulled taut but two tugs from the huge lizard and the head popped free. The lizard sank back into the water.

The snake’s body dropped to the ground, and a pack of furry, dog-sized rodents, sprang from the bushes and began devouring the rest of the trophy.

I’m afraid, your prize is gone, said Sidge, rolling his beady eyes apologetically. If you leave this swamp alive, your soul will be your only trophy.

The reality of their situation began to sink into the raiding party. It had all seemed like such a good idea a week ago. Wenold had discovered one of their galley slaves, Sidge, had escaped another pirate’s ship once and fled into the swamp. A group of swamp dwellers, called Mybrock, had taken him in and guided him across the swamp where he caught a boat upriver to Ghist.

Eventually, Sidge made his way south to the heart of Kardoma, then out to the southern coast in search of work. There, he’d drank too much in the wrong tavern and woke up aboard Vinton’s ship—galley slave yet again. Wenold brought Sidge to the Captain with a plan to befriend the Mybrock and take their legendary horde of gold. Captain Vinton ordered the pirate ship to set sail for Lloy/Freeboot the two port-towns on either side of the river’s mouth.

How far is it to the Mybrock Village? asked Wenold.

Sidge shrugged his shoulders.

You don’t know! shouted a pirate.

I crossed this swamp with their help. I don’t know my way around it, replied Sidge.

Well how we gonna find the Mybrock if ye don’t know where their village is? asked a pirate.

Sidge shrugged again.

If’n you shrug a’ me one more time… began the pirate.

You don’t find them, they find you, Sidge interrupted.

Oh issss i’just great. The pirate moved his hand to the hilt of his cutlass.

Everyone just relax, said Vinton. We’ll just go back the way we came and camp outside the tree line. I don’t want to go traipsing about this place until we’ve made contact with a local guide. Vinton slapped at his neck and crushed a finger-sized bug.

Now, we came in that way, Vinton said pointing.

No, I’m certain we come from over yonder, said a sailor.

No, no it was that way, said Wenold, pointing somewhere entirely new. ’Cause look…

Everyone just shut up and follow my orders, said Vinton.

Not that a’way I’m not, said a pirate.

Stop it, stop it… Sidge was shaking his head. Just build a fire…the Mybrock will come.

I’m not spending the night in here, said a pirate.

Agreed, said Vinton.

We must not be fighting when the Mybrock find us, said Sidge.

And why’s that? asked a pirate.

The Mybrock helped me because I was defenseless. They will also guide people across the swamp for a fee, but if they even suspect you are pirates they will kill you.

Tis another thing you might’a mentioned a’fore we come all this way, replied the pirate.

Trust me, said Vinton, any poor bastard with the misfortune to be born here is not going to fight to protect it. But he reloaded his crossbow just the same.

You believe you are the first pirates to seek the Mybrock’s treasure? Sidge swallowed back his sarcasm and cast his gaze downward. I mean…Pirates raid here often.

Why would a flea-ridden, swamp man have a hidden treasure o’ gold anyway? asked a pirate. If’n you had two coin to jingle in a bag wouldn’t you take off on the first ship for anywhere?

Sidge moved closer letting the smell from his rotten teeth add insult to his words. These flea-ridden, swamp men saved my life.

Well, said Wenold. If they thrive here they must be hearty. That has got my respect.

Oh they are deadly, said Sidge. But the swamp claims them, too.

Sidge wiped the sweat from his forehead. Blood from a bug bite smeared with the grime of their long journey on his face. The site of the blood made him nervous but he continued. The Mybrock are governed by many strict rules and a sense of… well they have only one word for honor and it also means courage. They have no walls around their cities. If a swamp creature sneaks past the guards and takes a child from its mother’s arms, when she rises the next morning she says, I slept too deep, or my baby should have cried out. Then she goes on to help make breakfast.

More of your story telling, said Vinton.

This may be true, said Wenold. In a book I read once, it said they have twins and triplets on a regular basis. They aren’t allowed to breed until they win their last name in a challenge. They go on some kind of quest at age fifteen or sixteen that maybe half of them return from. Then they can breed.

They have litters, spat Vinton adjusting his hat. Like dogs.

Sidge ignored him. Fewer than one in ten makes it to the age of passage. Yes my friend, your book is true.

Think of it, Wenold said, patting Vinton on the back. For hundreds of years, only the best of the best have sired offspring.

While he prattles on, I’m going that way. Vinton started to point but stopped to swat at a fly with a giant needle at its nose and tail. The bug easily evaded him since it flew forward and back without preference.

We must stick together, said Sidge.

Then come along, replied Vinton.

The group moved a bit further, but made only a little progress. Sidge continued his story. They often speak many languages, but they read none.

They sound stupid, said Vinton.

Go on Sidge, said Wenold.

They show no care for which hand they use to fight or to eat. They use either one.

Fascinating, said Wenold. One could expect such a thing from a populous that breeds exclusively within its own ranks. What of eye color?

Every shade of green, sometimes black or grey. Never blue. Even their skin is pale green to blend in with the swamp.

One of the pirates interrupted. I just saw two fish of the same type try to eat each other.

Sidge stopped and turned to face him. I tell you this already, my friend. Sidge wiped the blood from his forehead and held his hand over a plant with a delicate orange blossom and a gentle fragrance. It was one of the few plants they’d seen so far to have any bright color at all. A single drop of blood fell and struck the plant in the center of its blossom. The plant seemed to swallow and as Sidge moved his hand back, the plant leaned out to follow until its stem stretched taut.

You begin to see, said the galley slave. Nothing here eats only plants. Everything here will eat whatever it can. The stem of this plant can be eaten, but the petals and roots are poisonous.

I’m getting a headache, said one of the treasure hunters. Another one nodded.

Even the air here is poison, said Sidge.

Hold on, said Vinton. You’re telling me don’t swim in the water, don’t walk in the mud, don’t climb the trees, don’t eat anything, and don’t breathe the air. Oh, and our guides will probably kill us if we act like pirates. Am I missing anything?

Sidge nodded, The bugs.

Hells, swore a pirate.

Sidge made a face and held up his fingers. This time he didn’t indicate anything tiny. They carry sickness…we will all get the squirty-runs before nightfall.

Any good news? asked Vinton.

Yes, replied Sidge. The Mybrock have been following us for some time and they have not yet attacked.

I thought that tree had eyes, said the pirate with the headache.

They stared where he pointed but nothing emerged. No my friends, the Mybrock are behind.

They heard a loud thud behind them and Vinton whipped around instinctively, firing the bolt from his crossbow. A thick man several inches shorter than Vinton but half again wider, had dropped from a tree. The Mybrock wore a loincloth belted to his waist and long, dreadlocked hair that grew like so many weeds from his scalp. Vinton’s bolt whipped through that long, hair-matt at neck level, but the Mybrock didn’t flinch.

Tell him I’m sorry, whispered Vinton from the corner of his mouth.

Noooo, said Sidge. This is good. You demonstrated your reflexes and he showed his courage. He thinks you missed on purpose."

The Mybrock stepped forward. Belted to the back of his forearms were boiled-leather bucklers with built-in sheaths. The Mybrock warrior flicked his wrist and the handle of a flat war club slipped from the sheath into his hand. He spun the club once about his finger bringing the other end of the weapon into view. The business end of the weapon looked more like a short sword combined with a hatchet, only made of wood. Chips of obsidian edged the blade, and the bone handle had a spiked tooth for a pommel. The Mybrock held it out in one hand and seized Vinton’s crossbow with his other.

Make the trade, whispered Sidge. And we’re in.

Vinton nodded, released the bow and accepted the club. It weighed about what the bow had, but the balance made it feel lighter. More Mybrock emerged from the swamp, none taller than the first. All were thick chested and well-muscled. One of the Mybrock sprung lightly over a patch of mud.

How do they move so well, asked Vinton. They must weigh 300 pounds.

Because, said Wenold, they are creatures of legend.

The Mybrock grinned, exposing fangs, and waved for the hunters to follow.

CHAPTER 2

Passage

Grey!

Greymar looked up from the ruksa he had been shoving things into and focused on the flat-bottomed boat anchored to the large air-roots of a grabba tree.

Grey! his father yelled again from the boat. Shake your tail, marnet-licker.

Greymar swung his favorite ruksa to his back and cinched the shoulder straps down. If all else failed he could survive with the utensils, tools, craft supplies, repair patches, leather, needles and other sundry he kept always packed. Grey snagged his other ruksa by the top handle with his left hand. This one held everything the first did. A Mybrock warrior always carried a backup just in case. He laced the fingers of his right hand through the binding on two bundles of trade goods, and sprang out the door of his family’s lodge. The thong straps felt like they would cut the fingers from