“You’re…” The man’s voice wavered as he peered at Brittle with a startled glimmer in his eyes. “You’re just a child.”

The audacity! Brittle could call himself a wee lad, but that didn’t give anyone else the right to. He was almost halfway to being a full grown bog log beast. One of the oldest in the swamp, in fact – never mind that this was only because there were so few left. “How dare you, mister. I’ll have you know I nearly had to get a job today! How’s that for grown, huh?”

The man’s face reddened. Not from anger or physical exertion this time, but something different. Something Brittle wasn’t used to seeing from a human. The man’s jawline softened as he unclenched his teeth, exhaling a shaky breath. He eased back down into a sitting position, eyes moving to the stick still clutched in his right hand. With a disgusted shake of his head, he tossed the branch aside, murmuring, “A child. I just threatened a child.”

Brittle tapped his cork bark toes against the ground with a tsk. “I liked Foul Beast better.”

At least that sounded formidable.

“I’m sorry. That was ungentlemanlike of me. I can see now that you’re a, erm, person of upstanding moral character.” He raised a shaky hand to his face and mopped at the sheen of sweat sticking his golden curls to his forehead. “To whom do I owe my thanks?”

Brittle twisted his head from side to side, checking to be sure the man wasn’t talking to someone else. The only other person watching was Gilly. Brittle doubted the man even saw her. The great big lizard was crouched in the shadows beneath a chokeberry shrub, watching with fury in her black eyes. Wordlessly, still confused by the man’s question, Brittle turned back around and pointed to himself.

“I meant your name.”

“Brittle Rotten Wood?”

The man extended his open hand towards Brittle expectantly. “Hello, Brittle. I am Sir Thomassin the Noble.”

“My great grandpapa was part noble.”

“Oh?”

“Fir, I think.”

The man’s hand was still stretched in the air towards him. Brittle studied it, warily. He’d seen the village children perform similar rituals, where they slapped their palms together, chanting incantations in eerie, singsong voices. “I don’t patty-cake with strangers.”

“I would like to shake your hand.” Sir Thomassin explained further when Brittle’s confused expression remained unchanged, “It’s a human custom meant to signify peace and that we bear one another no ill will.”

Brittle wondered how humans, a largely fruitless species, could bear anything at all. There wasn’t time to mull it over, however. Gilly, having taken great offense to the man’s outstretched hand, slithered from her hiding spot. The lizard barreled towards them, dirt and dried needles roiling in her mighty wake.

Sir Thomassin moved swiftly to his feet, sheltering Brittle with his strange, shiny body. “Get behind me, Brittle! It’s on the attack.”

“She,” Brittle corrected.

“Pardon?”

“Gilly is a she, not it. She is on the attack.” Brittle supposed most anybody would be primed for the attack if they were called ‘it’ all of the time.

“You know this swamp monitor?”

“She’s my neighbor. Likes to drag me on adventures. Rather fond of getting me into trouble.”

Keeping her angular head pointed in Sir Thomassin’s direction, Gilly performed an elaborate side step sidle until she’d navigated all the way around the man, reaching Brittle. Clasping Brittle’s woven moss and lichen coat in her mouth, she started back towards the trees, heaving him with her.

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Brittle allowed himself to be pulled along as the alternative would have looked rather silly. He’d yet to live down the time Gilly carried him home in her mouth, one piece at a time. He waved his goodbyes to the man. “Gilly says our adventure is over now. So long.”

“Well hold on, I haven’t rewarded you yet. A noble knight repays his debts twofold, after all.” Sir Thomassin made a quick search of his person, hands darting into hidden pockets tucked beneath his hard outer shell. His head rolled backwards with a groan when his efforts came up empty. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“No, I don’t think so. Gilly seems pretty serious.”

“My haversack,” the man wailed. “I dropped it. Those no-good horse thieves must have nabbed it while I was indisposed. It had all of my money, my map, my food, my...”

“Food?”

That reminded him. Brittle had forgotten all about his breakfast. Tearing free of Gilly’s iron maw, he scurried over to the chokeberry shrug to retrieve his satchel, relieved to find its contents still safely tucked inside. Throwing the strap over his shoulder, Brittle was about to slip away when a final parting glance at Sir Thomassin made his stomach perform a pathetic summersault.

The man’s head sagged like the bent branches of a willow. Only sadder. Willows were rather carefree trees, after all, despite what they wanted everyone to think.

Brittle’s good nature, once more, got the better of him. With a plaintive sigh, he tottered over and settled onto the ground beside the slumped knight. Retrieving his breakfast from the satchel, Brittle folded back the lily pad casing that kept the bread free from outside moisture. He tore the sandwich in half and offered Sir Thomassin the larger portion. “Hungry?”

Sir Thomassin accepted the gift, lower lip quivering. “Thank you.”

Gilly’s tail thumped against the ground in protest, but Brittle ignored her. All of their adventuring had made him hungry. He tore into the sandwich with gusto, relishing the way the clumps of thick, rich loam disintegrated over his coarse tongue.

Sir Thomassin took a tentative bite, eyes widening as his mouth pulled tight, fighting the urge to scarf the whole thing down his gullet, no doubt. “...What is it?” he managed between polite chews.

“Toast and loam.”

“I think I’ll save the rest for later,” he said, setting the uneaten portion onto the ground beside him.

Brittle supposed he could demonstrate his good manners by making conversation as they ate. “How’d you end up in the trap anyway?”

“I was lured into it,” Sir Thomassin grumbled. “Having traveled all night, I stopped to take a rest not far from here. A pair of thieves jumped me in my sleep. One took off with my horse, prompting me to follow. Alas, I stumbled witlessly into their snare, allowing them to get away with everything but the armor on my back.”

“Shame.”

“They can keep the blasted horse for all I care. Stay Away Canyon is only half a day’s march from here. I should be able to reach it by foot.” Sir Thomassin added, with a forlorn sigh, “Could have, had they not taken my map as well.”

Brittle chewed thoughtfully on his sandwich as he considered what could possibly be of interest near the canyon. Swamp folk never wandered any farther than the surrounding woodland. For good reason, too. Strange happenings took place around Stay Away Canyon. “You got some kind of business there, mister?”

“Well.” Sir Thomassin paused, admitting, “I probably shouldn’t say.”

“Fair enough.”

“It’s a bit of a secret.”

“The best secrets are the kept ones.”

“Alright, Brittle, enough. You’ve convinced me.” A giddy grin crept across Sir Thomassin’s smooth face. He leaned closer, whispering, “You’ve heard of the war mankind has waged on the gods, yes? The conflict’s been caught in a stalemate for years now, without either side gaining ground. That’s all about to change, Brittle, my boy. Sadar, God of Glory, fell three weeks ago. Slain by mortal hand.”

A clump of loam fell from Brittle’s gaping mouth. “What?”

“It’s all a lie.” Sir Thomassin’s eyes mirrored his sudden, manic smile. “Immortality is a myth the gods fed mankind to keep us subservient. We have the advantage now. Upon hearing the news, King Eluard sent his knights across the land to topple the local nuisance gods and goddesses. That’s why I seek Stay Away Canyon, Brittle.”

The man’s face lit with glee, his voice lowering to a ragged whisper. “I’m going to kill a goddess.”

Horror turned to fury. It bubbled up from Brittle’s hollow core, threatening to spill over. “And you call us monsters?” Brittle rose onto stiff legs. “You horrible, ungrateful, stinky beast! Shame on you! Shame, shame, shame!”

“Now see here, there’s no need for that sort of lang–”

Overcome with rage, Brittle did the unthinkable – he wasted a perfectly good toast and loam sandwich. The soggy bread struck the side of Sir Thomassin’s face with a wet slap. Clumps of dark loam oozed out from beneath the bread, slowly dripping downwards.

Brittle wagged his finger at the man with unbridled fervor. “Shame!”