Chief Hark sat sullenly in his hut. There was no sign of Arten, nor the undead man that had fallen from the sky. This could be both good and bad, but something was gnawing beneath his long-dead flesh. He hadn’t felt much anxiety after he had been touched by the gift of undeath. Even in the face of betrayal, he had been calm.

There were too many unknowns. The villagers were growing restless. Human food was running low but no one dared to leave the village after the events of the past week and a half. Strange things were brewing in the swamp and peaceful times were ending. Without Arten and his spell, their huts would eventually fall to the eroding waters, if they were given enough time. It could take months or years, but they would. None of them knew how to preserve their village or fix water damage, and the damned ranun wouldn’t trade their secrets. Arten was the only one who could speak with the toad people too, apart from a few who spoke the common tongue... they hadn’t come in a while. The strange disease spreading through the swamp didn’t make things better.

Some of the guards had noticed shadows lurking in the night a few days ago. Ghouls from the depths of the swamp. They were few, acting like scared animals, wary to come near. But Hark knew ghouls. The rich and powerful undead bred the disgusting creatures in their dungeons. They were too stupid to rebel and smart enough to be trained to perform tasks. Like trained rats who would leave nothing but the thickest bones of whoever dared to stay in the way of their horde. Hark had been responsible for taking care of feeding not one or two nests.

The fall of the strange undead from the sky had been another twist of fate. His appearance had made many ask questions and wonder if the one they had stolen from hadn’t found them. A herald of change, that one, even if he himself didn’t know it.

The spell that had brought them here had been a one-way ticket. And now, losing their mage was about to turn into another tragedy even though many had been glad to have him away.

To top it all off, the child was growing suspicious of them.

Maybe Vela was right, and it was time to use the child, as much as it pained him to do so. He didn’t agree with making children suffer or using them as tools. It was wrong. However, the devil blood was a treasure, an opportunity. To many of them, the child was the only thing of true importance they’d gone near in their lives. Small people didn’t handle large responsibilities well. And it was a matter of time before they suffered further, under her unlucky star.

Yes, it pained him. But the good of the many took precedence over the life of the one. Such was the way of existence. He was the chosen chief, and it was up to him to listen to reason.

There was only one solution if they wanted to survive the challenges ahead, even if it meant falling. Hark vividly remembered the believer they had met once. The man had been happy, even as his body burned on the pyre. Hark often thought of that happiness with longing and jealousy. Even as the skin melted and the blood evaporated, the smile hadn’t left the man’s face.

Hark had tasted death and because of that, he was afraid of it. Often he remembered the cold feeling of darkness’ embrace – it had nested itself deep in his soul and reminded him daily of what awaited them all. Of what he had lost. Hiding the child was not a solution and waking up to live again in undeath was a gift he didn’t want to squander for another. He clenched his fists.

It was known that the Divines never turned away new worshippers. And it would be so easy to pray to one of them. Vela knew how, and she was sure their prayers would be heard. How she had come to possess such knowledge was a mystery, but he knew all they needed was a whisper of a name and belief. Maybe he would be given his former power back?

After all, the Divines walked the same world as them and knew them well.

And they always listened.

***

Their group of three continued after a short rest. The toad lady was a silent follower now, looking around and snatching leaves from the bushes and trees they passed. She would weave them together and adorn her clothes and herself. The swamp seemed comfortable for her and she had no issue following the two of them.

Sunday let her enjoy it. Small pleasures were one of the things that made life bearable. I could murder a pina colada, damn it. He didn’t need food or water to survive, but survival also included knowing how to deal with stress. Old Rud’s habits had rubbed off on some of them and Sunday had never been shy to admit that he made use of some of the old bastard’s unhealthy practices to deal with life. A drink here or there never hurt anyone.

He dreamed of the day when the swamp would be but a distant memory of mud and frogs and rot.

Arten seemed to have a plan, of sorts. And Sunday was making a simple one too. He wanted to trust the human man. It was lonesome not having anyone to trust around, but it would also be foolish to consider him as anything different than Jishu. Maybe he was not half as tricky or creepy and didn’t have a horde of mind blasted ghouls to fulfill his wishes, but humans were humans in the end. And who could compare to the maddening selfishness of humans?

The frog lady extended a wreath made of the thick leaves of some swamp bush and a few wiry branches toward Sunday. He looked at it for a few moments then took it and donned it on his head, earning a happy croak from the ranun.

“She likes you,” Arten said from the front. The human was still walking unsteadily, and Sunday was ready to pull him out of the jaws of any opportunistic alligator that popped up. Traversing the goddamned swamp was certainly better with companions, even if they were as boring and untrustworthy as his two.

“I hope not too much. I’m trying to give up frog legs.”

“What?”

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

“Nothing.”

Arten threw a glance back, “I’ve heard of some humans eating frogs. We’ve done so a few times when we just came to the swamp. Don’t tell her though. They adore the things.”

Figures.

“Never had them.”

“You’re undead, you don’t eat normal food,” Arten paused. “What do you eat? Not to pry, but I don’t want your hunger to become a problem. You don’t look like you’re losing your mind, but you never know.”

“I’ll be fine if you can part with a finger or two.”

Arten turned sharply at the joke. It took him a few moments, then he grinned and swayed dangerously to the side. “If I wasn’t half-high from Vela’s bullshit, I’d have thought you were joking with me.”

“Might be, might be.” I wonder if I can eat humans. Not that I’d want to. Imagine if I can’t taste pizza ever again… and I wonder how interspecies relationships work around here. The kink scene must be bonkers. “What does the spell we’re after do again? And how do you know where to find it?” Sunday asked.

“It’s a weak attack spell. I saw it by chance one day and followed it to its habitat. It would’ve been a bit… dangerous to try and grab it then and there. I needed preparation and I’m not quite suited for some spells.”

“Habitat?”

“Spells can act as if they’re living things. They seek out places suitable to their nature. It varies, don’t know much about it. All I know is I saw the spell and followed it. Nasty piece of work, nothing flashy.”

“I see. I’m glad you’re being honest.” He’s growing comfortable with me. Is he desperate? Am I his only hope? Ha! This is too ridiculous.

The soft sloshing of swamp waters reached their ears and Sunday soon found himself staring at the familiar sight of the river he had so readily abandoned. He saw a few scaly backs resting in the waters, and the fleshy horns raising like snorkels above.

“We need to cross it. It’s just on the other side.”

You don’t say. Shall we hop on alligator backs under the sounds of funny music, or will we throw the toad into the waters as bait? He felt bad about thinking the latter.

“Come.”

Arten carefully walked, keeping a wide distance from the river. The toad lady was keeping an even wider one. She was short and stout, but she moved fast and her strange eyes never left the shapes moving throughout the water. Arten said a few words to her and she croaked once, before turning around and going further from the river.

“What’s going on?”

“She’s afraid of the horn lizards. Don’t blame her. She’ll wait for us to come back.”

The toad and the prince.

They soon reached a familiar place, devoid of scaly backs. Mostly. Sunday knew where they were and he frowned.

“There’s a shallow path nearby. Most of the horn lizards stay away because a big one lives here. It’s dangerous in deep water but slow on the ground. Got trouble breathing.”

Sunday would’ve paled if he could. Could he? Surely not without the proper circulation. Does that mean I fucked up by helping the fatty? Not that I meant to.

“I don’t know about that. Seemed to breathe just fine last time I saw it,” Sunday innocently said.

“You saw it?”

“We might’ve met.”

Arten furrowed his brow and looked at Sunday who met his gaze with the innocent expression of an expert politician. That only made the human frown further. Some people had a special sense for bullshit. The human mage then stepped carefully toward the bank of the river. Sunday tried to see what Arten was looking for. The river was moving lazily, its murky waters revealing nothing of the dangers that hid deep beneath. The opposite bank was covered in fleshy reeds that could have very well hidden a whole bunch of alligators.

Then he understood. The already slow current slowed down even further as if it was hitting an underwater wall. He didn’t know much about water flow and currents, all things considered. It was a detail he had missed last time when he had been preoccupied with the fat alligator and its nose.

“Here. Be careful.” Arten pointed, making sure Sunday didn’t throw himself in the deep. What an end it would be. I don’t think I’m that tasty.

“Will you be alright? You’re swooning all over the place,” Sunday asked in turn.

The man shrugged, “I’m feeling better. Still a bit dizzy. Can you swim?”

Can I? I’ve never had a chance to learn.

It was Sunday’s turn to shrug, “Haven’t tried. I’m dead so I think I might be good at floating?”

Arten seemed thoughtful, “Some undead are quite dense.”

Is that a dig at me or just a fact?

Arten rolled up his pants, although they could have used a good wash, and stepped into the almost still water. His legs sank to the middle of his shin and he wobbled for a few moments before walking forward. Each step his foot tested the surface below the water.

Sunday thought for a few moments. He picked a tree just on the bank and lodged his stuffed bag between its branches, until he was sure it was secured and out of sight. The only thing on him was the sword and his clothes.

This seems stupid, but spells are spells. I swear I’ll try toad legs for the first time if that thing so much as glances at my bag. There was no sign of the toad lady though. Sunday looked around and crouched just on the bank.

“You coming?” Arten called out without turning. He was barely a fourth of the way.

“Let me get in the mood, damn it!”

Sunday turned and summoned the golden page on the ground before him. The map hadn’t changed much. They had walked straight from the Jishu’s place to the river, and it had taken them only a day. If Sunday had to guess there was about an hour of daylight left.

The golden page dissipated as it had come and Sunday rolled up his pants, tying them just above his knees.

If I die from a slip again I truly don’t deserve to live. Walking on the bottom and collecting treasures might be fun though. I don’t need air, so I don’t think I can drown unless I get eaten or I hit my head again. What are the chances for it to happen twice?

With that thought he stepped into the water. It was warm. Like piss. He followed Arten’s example and walked carefully, making sure his foot was stable and could handle his weight before taking each step. It was not that hard, and there was plenty of space to step on.

Sunday looked to the right side. The river’s waters were picking up speed again a bit further away, and there were quite a few nasty-looking stones. He tried to remember where he had seen the large spot of clean water. Maybe he could try to fish out that one. He still hadn’t tried the Repel Dirt spells he had as a proper mage.

With his thoughts roaming free, he was surprised to feel the world shift. Not again! With a yell, he splashed into the warm waters. Thankfully he fell between the barrier of stone and the current, and not the other way where the charging waters would have taken hold of him.

Sunday tried to grasp at the solid ground he had walked on but he couldn’t find it. His arms flailed helplessly and water got into his mouth and eyes. It tasted of death and dirt. The panic only made the experience worse.

Then his feet found something. It was hard and uneven, but it soon pushed at him and Sunday’s head broke the waters. Instinctively he gasped, before remembering air was not a requirement. The massive thing beneath him moved slowly. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, before yelling in surprise.

Sunday tried to laugh but swamp water poured out of his mouth. He turned to the side and spewed all he could out, but not before grabbing the fatty’s scales harder. His savior.

The giant alligator with the formerly bent horn was beneath him, carrying him to the shore. Arten was already there, watching wide-eyed, jaw hanging open.

‘Chances are, if you do good to an animal it will show you good in return. Remember, humans are not animals. In most cases helping someone is painting a target on your back! Now where’s my goddamn beer? Which of you little shits hid it?!’

As the memory came to him, Sunday laughed again.