The rest of the creatures, sensing their forest demon overlord's imminent arrival, hit their knees faster than a priest seeking forgiveness. Their roars clashed with the shaman’s chanting, creating a chaotic chorus that screamed their fear louder than a tavern full of very loud and fearful people. They shoved their bloody offerings forward with the kind of desperate fervor you'd see in folks who figured feeding the demon might just keep them off the menu.

The swamp went silent as the creature loomed over the island, its many eyes zeroing in on the shaman, who stood there with his hands up like he was trying to surrender to a whole army. The demon took its time, surveying the scene before its massive paw swooped down, scooping up the mangled remnants of the sacrifice and tossing it into its gaping maw. The beast's face twisted into a grin of hunger and glee, leaves and branches shifting until, if you squinted just right, it almost looked like the shaman’s face.

This descriptive passage gave Denor a sudden flash of insight. Ignoring the danger, he launched himself from behind the trees like a loose blaster bolt, leaving Rodrik behind while waving his makeshift pole that was still just a branch he had renamed. A few Gurruks screeched in alarm, but it was too late. Denor’s haphazard pole shot through the swamp, ricocheted off a rock, and—with a bit of Tamet’s help and Denor’s poor carving skills—impaled the shaman’s chest. The evil-doer staggered, blood spurting from his mouth, and toppled into the fire, sending up a spray of green sparks.

“How did you do that?” Rodrik called from the treeline, aghast at the throw.

Everything somehow went even more silent. The minions froze, staring at the dead sorcerer with a mix of bewilderment and horror. Even the monstrous creature paused, its scarlet eyes darting around as if trying to make sense of the sudden turn of events. Then, with a roar that could’ve shaken the heavens, the beast sprang into action. Its massive paws crushed the cowering creatures beneath it, turning them into furry pancakes. The critters fled in terror, but the demon, surprisingly nimble for its size, chased them down like a toad after flies. Branches lashed out like whips, its gaping maw crunched bodies with gruesome precision, and with each Gurruk devoured, the creature grew larger and more terrifying. The shaman’s death had shattered the spell, unleashing pure chaos on the panicked evil doers.

When the dust settled and the swamp lay strewn with the dead or empty of the living, a lone Andronian stood, gripping an ancient sword. The creature noticed him, pausing its grisly feast to fix its many eyes on Denor, a croaking roar rumbling from its throat as it lumbered toward him. Denor stood his ground, raising his sword, ready to face the monster head-on and distinctly without the aid of his leader, who was still scouting out the relative safety of the treeline with some vigour. Either he'd die here, or he’d get his revenge—retreat wasn’t in his vocabulary, due to an unfortunately diminished lexicon. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the ruby on his sword flicker, glowing with the same hellish light as the creature’s eyes. The demon saw it too; its movements slowed, and for a moment, something that looked suspiciously like fear flashed in its inhuman gaze.

“Denor! The sword!” Rodrik helpfully pointed out from the sidelines, his voice more distant since seeing the demon lumber forward.

With a wild cry that was equal parts bravado and sheer panic, Denor charged at the demon, trying very hard not to think about the fact that he was attacking a forest nightmare. The creature's tentacle-like branches and massive paws lunged at him, but Denor had both fortune and unpredictable stumbling on his side. He hacked off several branches, tripped over one, pinwheeled into the air, and landed straight on the monster’s head. Realising where he’d fallen, he tried to gain balance with his arms out wide and in doing so, forgot he was holding the sword and drove it into one of the glaring red eyes. A horrific howl echoed across the swamp as the creature reared up, flailing its paws like a windmill with paws attached. Denor, hanging on for dear life, struck blow after blow, targeting its eyes.

“That’s it Denor! Give it what for! I’ll be… er… I’m helping from here!” Rodrik informed him.

Foul-smelling liquid spurted from the wounds, drenching them both from head to toe. Just as Denor was beginning to think he might actually win this, a violent thrash threw him off the beast. He rolled aside just in time to avoid being squashed flat by the creature’s massive body, which was now bleeding dark green ichor like some sort of overgrown, angry salad that had an unfortunate encounter with a spilled guacamole dip.

“You’ve got this!” his companion yelled, though even Denor could detect the uncertainty in that backing.

Except the fight was over before he even realised. Bathed in an unwholesome green glow, the demon slunk back into the forest, its myriad eyes dimming one by one like embers in a dying fire. Denor glanced at the sword in his hand—each extinguished eye made the ruby set in the hilt burn brighter. The monster melted into the forest canopy, merging with the shadows among pine needles and mud. Gradually, the sickly light that had enshrouded the swamp ebbed away, leaving Denor standing alone in an eerie, oppressive silence.

“That’s right, you stay away!” he shouted after the retreating beast, not entirely sure how he had pulled this off.

He stood in the middle of the swamp, knee-deep in mud and triumph, holding a stick in one hand and his pilfered tomb sword in the other. Around him, the swamp bubbled with the sort of vague malevolence one might expect from a place where nature had given up on respectability and settled for being consistently unpleasant. The air hummed with the lingering echo of a scream—one of those deep, guttural sounds that usually accompany the sudden realization that something with too many teeth is charging at you. Except for some reason, this one was getting further away.

Rodrik stumbled out of the treeline, his face a mixture of disbelief and the sort of confusion usually reserved for philosophers encountering their first paradox or sorcerers discovering that someone had better spells than them. He looked at Denor, who was still standing there, very much not dead, and said the first thing that came to mind.

"How?" It was a simple word, but it carried the weight of about seventeen more words that Rodrik hadn’t quite managed to string together due to the terror ebbing from his body.

Denor blinked at him, then at the stick in his hand. He was pretty sure he’d been holding a well-crafted pole. It looked nothing like that after he had extricated it from the shaman’s body.

"How what?" Denor asked, in the tone of a man who genuinely believed nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. This was because, to Denor, nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. It was a comforting worldview, if somewhat at odds with reality.

"The swamp monster," Rodrik said, gesturing wildly at the now-vacant patch of water where the aforementioned creature had most definitely been moments ago. "It was right there, with the fangs and the slime and the—did you see the size of that thing? It had crimson eyes the size of dinner plates!"

Denor frowned, as if trying to recall. "Well, yes. They weren’t that big, really. Not after I gave them a good poke with this sword." He raised the weapon helpfully, as if to indicate that it did all the hard work and not him.

Rodrik’s mouth opened and closed a few times as his brain tried and failed to process the idea of the village idiot forcing the demon into a tactical retreat. "But—what did you do? One moment it’s there, and the next it’s just... running away!"

Denor shrugged, the picture of modesty. "Oh, that. I just attacked it, and things worked out." He held up the sword again, which was no longer glowing now that Rodrik had time to study it. It was definitely a museum piece, and had none of the imbued energy of before.

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"That’s it?" Rodrik asked, half-expecting Denor to reveal some secret technique or ancient spell he’d somehow forgotten to mention during the past several hours.

Denor nodded. "Yeah, I attacked it with the sword and Tamet was there to aid me."

Rodrik’s eyes narrowed. He was beginning to suspect the universe was having a bit of fun at his expense in no small part thanks to the trickster lord. "And where, exactly, did you find this... thing?"

Denor looked around, then pointed to a small, unassuming bush near the edge of the swamp. "A tomb. I think it was back that way. Didn’t really have a plan, to be honest, just charged."

Rodrik stared at the bush. The bush stared back, unimpressed at being the center of attention and definitely not hiding any ancient tombs. "So let me get this straight. You picked up some random sword from a tomb you stumbled into, attacked the most fearsome creature in these parts, and it just ran away?"

"Pretty much, yeah," Denor said, as though this sort of thing happened to him every other day. In Denor’s defense, this was the second time he had acquired an artefact in an underground complex, so it wasn’t unprecedented even at this early point in his life.

Rodrik sighed. He had a feeling that if he tried to explain this to anyone back in the village, they’d think he’d been drinking the special brew again. "Denor, you do realize that could have gone very differently?"

Denor tilted his head, considering. "Yeah, I suppose it could’ve. But it didn’t, so I guess that’s that."

And that, Rodrik reflected, was the crux of the matter. Denor had the sort of luck that defied logic, explanation, and possibly several laws of nature. This idiot savant was completely useless at almost everything thrown at him, but Tamet had his back for some reason. It wasn’t that he was particularly skilled or brave or even aware of the danger half the time. Things just sort of worked out for him in a way that made the inhabitants of Andron VII sigh and throw up their metaphorical hands in defeat.

"Next time," Rodrik said, as they began trudging towards the hostages, who were just as confused as he was,"try to have a plan."

Denor grinned. "Oh, I always have a plan. I just don’t know what it is until I’ve already done it."

The following part of the journey involved a tedious traipse through the swamp, escorting scared women and children to safety, but like any good work of fiction, there was a time skip to exclude it.

***

By dawn, Denor found himself once more at the base of the ravine, watching the sun spill over the jagged rocks like molten gold poured by a particularly artsy deity with a flair for photography. In his grasp, he held the shaman’s severed head—for Denor, ever pragmatic, knew that nothing proclaimed "victory" quite like a decapitated head. The village would understand that sentiment. It was the Andronian equivalent of a particularly emphatic exclamation mark.

Rodrik had departed with the former captives of the Gurruks, presumably to claim all the adulation and fame for the deed.

Sure, Denor hadn’t actually managed to defeat the monster, as the rampaging beast had lumbered back into the depths of the swamp, but saving the hostages and getting the shaman’s head was a decent second place prize. Even if everyone would claim it was Rodrik who gifted it to him.

“Kraa!!!” A sharp cry pierced the silence from his left, causing Denor to turn, thinking that the damn bird was still following him. Instead his mouth gaped open. Before him stood a girl—tall, slender, with blue-black hair that almost vanished into a wreath of raven feathers. A wide dagger of bluish steel, a perfect match to Denor’s sword, hung from her belt. She wore nothing but feathers, which, instead of concealing, accentuated her powerful, magnificent form. For the first time in his life, Denor felt a peculiar trembling that wasn’t his usual confusion. He was in the presence of something that was very different from your average Andronian. Her deep scarlet lips, the intricate tangle of blue tattoos winding across her skin, and her icy blue eyes rendered him almost speechless, which was saying something for a man who'd just had a rather busy night with Gurruks and demons.

With a commanding gesture, the girl extended her hand.

“That’s a very nice arm you’ve got there,” Denor pointed out, hoping to get on the transforming creature’s good side.

The woman’s eyes slid to the ancient blade that he had recently procured.

“I’m Denor, Denor Kara. Can I help you?”

The creature in the form of a woman took a deep breath, and looked slightly less friendly than before.

“I don’t get it. Why are you just standing there?”

The woman finally spoke. “Are you stalling for time, or are you just an idiot?”

Denor stroked his chin, giving the question serious consideration. “A little from column A, a little from column B. How can I help?”

The woman closed her eyes and grasped the bridge of her nose with her finger and thumb, as if seeing Denor in the flesh was an experience beyond her worldly understanding.

“I knew that the latest Andronians were a lesser race, and yet you’re not as stupid as you look, or act, or our best testing indicates.”

Denor shuffled awkwardly. “Can I go now?”

“The demon chose to flee and then destroy itself rather than live on the same planet as you.”

The boy shrugged. “You can't help but feel a little rejected, but I don’t think he’d have made a good neighbour, what with the murderous rampages and all.”

The woman raised an eyebrow at the glib remark. “Whatever it is you are, I need the sword, at least then you won’t be a danger to anyone for the time being.

“That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me,” Denor replied, his green eyes lighting up like emeralds. “Can I have that in writing?”

Despite it being nice, it was also patently untrue, like many nice things that are said by people who want something.

“Just give me the sword.”

Denor, finally understanding her demand, reluctantly handed over the sword, accompanied by an involuntary sigh that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his boots. She took the weapon, raised it high above her head, and for a moment, the rising sun blinded him. He heard the flapping of wings and, as his vision cleared, saw a massive raven where the girl had stood. The bird circled once above Denor's head before soaring to the rocks, merging into the very flesh of the mountain. A chill ran down the young man’s spine, and ancient legends whispered in his mind, tales Hevath had told him in his youth in a rambling and boring fashion, because even the best stories couldn’t escape his catatonic delivery.

“Noiran,” Denor muttered, the name of the ancient Andronian goddess slipping from his lips like a forgotten spell, Tamet’s lover and the only being unable to be tricked by the lord. “Trust me to find the only bird that can carry off a sword.”

Before scaling the rocks, Denor had tried to locate the gorge that would lead him to the grave of the ancient warrior, but after half a day of fruitless searching, he admitted defeat. It was the kind of defeat that involves a lot of grumbling, a bit of swearing, and a promise to oneself that ancient warriors really should have considered the cartographical needs of future generations before dying.

Eventually, he stumbled upon another path that promised a more straightforward ascent. As darkness began to creep in, Denor finally hauled himself to the top of the ravine, ready to report back to what remained of the Andronian scouting party. Naturally, they had predictably all gone home after their leader had returned, covered in head to foot in demon ichor. One might say they had made a strategic retreat upon seeing that, but Denor preferred the term 'legged it.'

He cast one last, lingering glance at the forest below, a sea of gnarled trees and ominous rustlings, then turned his back on it, resolutely starting his journey home to his village. After all, there was a shaman's head to display and a story to tell, mostly about the brave warrior Rodrik, and Denor had a sneaking suspicion this one would be recounted for generations—assuming, of course, the man and his captives managed to survive the walk home. Which, given the day he’d had, was not a given.

The path back home for Denor was not so much a path as it was a series of educated guesses. The forest, with its malicious brambles and sinister whispers, seemed determined to make the journey as arduous as possible. Denor trudged on, guided more by stubbornness than any sense of direction, each step accompanied by the familiar squelch of mud and the occasional snap of an unseen twig.

Somewhere in the dark, something grumbled. Denor paused, listening intently. It was the kind of low rumble that implied heavy machinery. He considered his options: stand and fight, which, given his luck today, would likely end in an interestingly mangled corpse, or walk faster. He chose the latter.

With the forest growing denser and the night even darker, Denor's thoughts wandered to the shaman’s head he carried. Wrapped in a piece of cloth that had once been part of the shaman’s garb, it was a grim trophy. He wondered if the head had any post-mortem opinions about its current state and concluded that, if it did, it was best not to know.

Just as he was beginning to wonder if he’d spend the rest of his life wandering this accursed forest, he saw it: a faint light in the distance. A settlement! Or at least, somewhere with fewer things that wanted to eat him.

Now he could sit back, relax, and definitely not suffer from any horrible consequences of the rumbling he had ignored earlier.