The man’s fist hurtled down towards me, and I braced for impact. But then, it happened. My Elemental Shield snapped into existence, just in time to catch his blow. The swirling barrier of mist and water shimmered under the force of his strike, holding firm.

The man peered down at the shield, his expression of supreme curiosity. "Interesti—" he began, but I didn't give him a chance to finish.

Acting on pure instinct, I smashed the shield upward, right into his face. The force of it knocked him backward, off balance. The shield dispersed, but I didn't wait to see the aftermath. Instead, I rolled to the side, my mind racing.

I was extra lucky I decided to summon the shield the moment I hit the ground. Almost on instinct. Shit, I wasn't even fully aware I'd done it. I was learning to trust these gut reactions, these split-second decisions that seemed to spring from nowhere. They were saving my hide more often than not.

Scrambling to my feet, I reached for the spear usually strapped in my belt bandolier, but came up empty. Then it hit me: I didn't have it. And my club was broken in the fight with the serpent! Aw, hell! I was unarmed. Well, other than Galdur—but that wouldn't do much good in a scrap like this, save for the shield.

Preparing to summon Elemental Shield again, I finally got my bearings enough to call out to the man. "What are you on about with this 'cousin' thing?! And why are you trying to attack me!? Who raised you? Attacking a man while his back is turned is a coward’s move!"

The man didn't immediately respond. He just stood there, sizing me up, his gaze as cold and sharp as a knife. I could tell he was probably thinking, calculating. At least, that’s the sense I got. It put me on edge, not knowing what his next move might be.

The swamp around us seemed to hold its breath, waiting for what would come next. The sitfriga watched from their perches, their chirruping silenced by the tension in the air.

I squared my shoulders, ready. If he thought he could just waltz in here and start throwing punches, he had another thing coming. I might not have had my weapons, but I wasn't about to let this stranger get the better of me. Not tonight, son. Not in my swamp.

“You got anything to say, tough guy?” I said, trying my best to sound intimidating, but just looking at the guy, I didn’t think he’d be persuaded if I suddenly started hurling fireballs in his direction.

Also, since I was thinking about it—I wondered if I’d ever be able to conjure fire. That would be neat. Though, I suppose that kind of power wouldn’t exactly be in the wheelhouse of someone who used…Bog Magic or what have you. At least, that’s the way it seemed like it was going.

He offered nothing, though, just eyeing me like I was some kind of Mad Lib he was trying to figure out.

Now that my adrenaline had simmered down a notch, I got a good look at him. He was dressed in a gray tunic made of what appeared to be undyed wool, fitting snugly over a frame that was, to put it mildly, impressive. The dude was muscular, like, incredibly so. Standing there, I could tell he had a few inches on me in height, and he was built sturdy as an oak tree.

On his feet were these wraparound sandals, climbing past his ankles. It was an odd choice of footwear, but it kinda worked for him. It reminded me of those classic wrestlers from the 80s, the ones who wore those weird costumes and were yoked out of control. You know, the kinda guys who could bench press a small car and not even break a sweat.

He had this confident stance, like he was used to being the biggest and the baddest in any room he walked into. His arms were crossed, each muscle looking like it was chiseled from stone. His beard framed his face in a way that gave him a kind of wild, untamed look.

“Well?” I prompted, trying to keep my voice steady. His expression was unreadable. I half expected him to start growling or something.

“Listen,” I said. “I ain’t got all day, cousin. I’m not interested in you standing here doing your best sentient chuck roast impression. So, unless you’re planning on swinging on me again, you’ll have to pardon me, ya bacon-wrapped fuck—I’ve got stuff to do.”

My usual, polite good-ol’-boy demeanor had been frayed thin, and I’ll admit, I probably should have apologized for the ‘bacon-wrapped fuck’ comment, but, hell—if he got offended by that, I’d just remind him that everything is better wrapped in a bit of pork.

I turned away, though only partially—didn’t wanna give him a chance to ambush me again—and started walking back toward the tower. What a confusing interaction, I thought to myself. What the hell is up with this—

“Sapient,” the man said from somewhere behind me. I turned back.

“What’s the now?” I said.

“Sapient,” he said again, his piercing gaze never leaving me. “You said ‘sentient,’ but I’d be a sapient chuck roast. Whatever that might be.”

“By god,” I said, in mock surprise. “He speaks!” I regarded him.

“So, you don’t respond to general queries like, ‘who are you’ and ‘why are you punching me?’ but you’ll pipe up to correct my grammar?”I tsked. “Shameful. What’s your deal then, friend? You called me your cousin, but last I checked, I’m the only Trask left on this handsome earth. You telling me that’s wrong?”

The man lowered his chin, and sighed.

“You are the last Trask,” he said, as if I was stupid—which, I mean, I get it. Still rude, though. “I am not a Trask,” he finished.

“Alright then, now we’re gettin’ somewhere,” I said, moving toward him and casting a quick glance to the sitfriga. None of them were doing much of anything, just watching, looking tense. “So, you ain’t a Trask—fair enough. What are ya, then?”

“Sav,” the man said, uncrossing his arms and shaking out his hands—kinda like somebody does when they’re rarin’ to fight a man. I raised an eyebrow.

“Sav?” I said. “That your first name, or your, uh, clan name?”

“Clan,” he said, still shaking out his hands.

“Don’t be getting any ideas, now,” I said. “We’re talking all proper and gentlemanly-like. Don’t need to go back to the ol’ heave-ho, ya hear?”

He looked confused at me, then looked down at his hands before looking up and shrugging.

“Hands hurt,” he said. “Your Galdur shield.”

“Oh…” I said, nodding. “Gotcha. Well, then, Sav. Why don’t you start by telling me what you’re out here doing? You called me cousin, and you still ain’t explained that.”

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“You don’t know?” he asked, giving me a skeptical look.

“I’m, uh, whaddya call it…up wondering?”

“Utvandring?” the man asked.

"That's the one," I said.

“What about the—”

“Apocrypha?” I ventured, interrupting him. “Yeah, you’re only like the tenth person to ask about that. Never got it. All you see here…” I gestured around myself at Riddara. “...was earned through street smarts and on-the-job training.”

“Don’t know the Sav and Trask connection, then?”

“That would be correct,” I said. “Why don’t you fill me in while we try to find some grub in this joint. I got a powerful hunger—have you eaten?”

“I left Yrsgar yesterday. Nothing since.”

“Well, there you go, time for some food. Myri’ll be able to whip us up something, I reckon.”

It was true. When I’d inquired finally about the state of the lunch buffet the day before, the helpful Bog Steward had produced a bowl of…well, not exactly delicious—but definitely edible stew of some kind. I think it had moss in it, but hell, I wasn’t complaining. I—until recently—had been a single man in the big city. Meaning, I knew my way around an improvised meal.

“Shouldn’t we finish?” No-first-name-Sav wondered.

“Finish what, big guy?” I asked. “The fight?”

He nodded.

“Naw, we can just call it a loss for you, how about? Or heck, you can claim you won, doesn’t matter to me much. Now, let’s get some food in our bellies, eh?”

—

Myri seemed confused when I wandered back into the hall o’ whispers or whatever dragging behind my long-lost cousin. Sav, for his part, just looked around a little confused as I presented him to Myri, or Myri to him—I’m not sure which. Either way, the little metallic diamond flashed low and its voice was hesitant—how I knew it was confused.

“Leo!” it said. “What brings you back so suddenly?”

“Picked up a stray,” I said, jabbing my thumb over my shoulder at the muscle-bound brute behind me. “Says he’s hungry—can we get something to-go?”

“I’m sorry?” Myri wondered, and I had the distinct impression it was scanning my apparent cousin in some manner. “You’ve brought…ah, I see. A member of Clan Sav.”

“Sure did,” I said casually, stopping in front of the pit and bending over to look down into its depths. “God damn,” I said, whistling. “Still spooky.”

Then I looked back up at Myri, who hadn’t moved from its spot.

“How about that food, then?”

“Oh! Right,” Myri exclaimed and then flashed brightly. It was only a moment before two stone bowls were sitting on the ground, filled halfway with a greenish-brown clump of wet.

“Much obliged,” I said, scooping up the bowls and walking over to place one in Sav’s hands.

“What’s this?” the man asked, staring with disgust into the contents before him.

“Swamp stew, I think,” I said. “Not sure, exactly, but it’ll hit the spot well enough. Now…” I plopped down on the stone in a cross-legged position before patting the ground next to me. “How about you tell your ol’ cousin Leo why you’re here, and what possessed you to take a shot at the title?”

Sav examined my cavalier demeanor and likely unsophisticated roosting spot before looking back to the bowl. I think hunger won out over disgust, because after a moment, he had the lip of the bowl upturned to his mouth and I could hear slurping sounds. It didn’t take long, and eventually, he tilted it back down and wiped the remains outta his mustache and beard with the back of a meaty arm. Then he looked back to me.

“Here for the Trial,” he said.

“Huh?”

“Here for the Trial,” he repeated in the exact same way.

“Sorry, no, I heard you,” I said, shaking my head. “That was just me being confused, not deaf. When you say ‘here for’ do you mean as a spectator, or to take part in it yourself?”

“I would join,” he said with a shrug of his boulder-shoulders.

“Now, how exactly is that possible?” I asked, looking over at Myri. “Myri! Is this a thing?”

“It is…irregular,” Myri explained, floating over to us. “But, considering the Trial is underway, there is nothing to say that he cannot participate.”

“Uh…okay,” I said. “How is that—wait, I need some more context here.”

I stood up then, taking a moment because one of my legs had gone to sleep.

“Someone can just show up, demand to be in it, and then, boom, they’re in? I am so confused right now I could lay an egg. How is this possible? You’ve been telling me since I got here that I was the only one. The last hope, now, suddenly, there’s someone else who can join in the jamboree? What am I even doing this for?”

I needed to calm down, I know, but the last day had been a bunch of malarkey. Really messed up the flow of my usual nature.

“Ah, I see where your confusion lies, Leo,” Myri said. “This…Clan Sav would not be participating in the Trial as a competitor for the role of Marsh Knight.”

“...then what?” I wondered.

“Squire,” Sav said.

“You’re a man of few words, ain’t ya, Sav?” I asked. “Squire? You’re going to…help me get my armor on and stuff?”

“No,” Sav said, shaking his head.

“Jesus…” I groaned. “If someone doesn’t start explaining things to me, you’re going to have to find yourself a new Trask—because this one’ll be moving to the…Volcano…Fields—no, that’s not right. Moving, regardless!”

“A Squire assists the Knight,” Myri said. “But not in wearing the armor. The Squire’s role is to aid and assist the Knight in combat, especially where healing is concerned.”

“You’re a healer?” I asked Sav. He had inexplicably procured another bowl of stew and was wolfing it down with his bare hands.

“Not yet,” he said with a shrug.

“Fantastic,” I said, sighing. “Well…alright. So, the Squire has their own Trial?”

“Yes—though it is much shorter and less involved,” Myri said. “And will not begin until the final stages of your own Trial are upon you.”

“You think you’ll have enough time to pick up healing and all that with such a narrow window?” I asked the big man.

He shrugged again. “Still young. Got time on my side.”

“Ain’t that young,” I said. “What are you, forty?”

“Ten and nine,” he said, not bothering to look up from his bowl.

“You’re nineteen?!” I exclaimed, looking at Myri as if for confirmation. “Christ, what have they been feeding you? Gunpowder?”

“Usual things,” he said.

“How did you get here, and why now, then?”

“Told you. Yrsgar,” Sav said. “You don’t listen.”

“I do listen,” I said. “It’s just that…that isn’t an answer, not really. I was asking how you got here, not where you’re from.”

“Not from Yrsgar,” Sav said. “Yrsgar’s how I got here.”

I sighed. “So, do you mind telling me where you are from?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Yes? Yes, what?”

“Yes, I do mind.”

You know, I’m not much for these roundabout sorts of interactions—especially when they went all of nowhere, so, obviously, this rankled me a little. Seeing as this was a bullet train to confusion, I turned back to Myri.

“So, when does big’un here take the plunge, then?” I asked. “A.K.A., how much longer on my Trial?”

“You have long to go, Leo,” Myri said. “Many challenges. One begins in a few hours, in fact.”

“Great… Then, can you at least tell me a little bit more about the Squire thing? Also…uh, I’m sorry I lost my temper on you earlier. I was…well, it was a lot.”

“That is alright, Leo,” Myri said. “The Verndari covenant can be…difficult for some. You would not be the first to draw issue with it.”

“That’s comforting,” I said, shaking my head.

“To continue your query,” Myri said, shining brightly. “The Squire role will be to aid you, as I have specified, but the means by which are individual to each who accepts the mantle. Assuming the Clan Sav here completes his own Trial—”

“I will,” Sav interjected.

“Yes… well, if that happens, then what he brings to the role is what the Squire will be.”

“So, it’s variable, then?” I asked, noticing that Sav had skipped bowl three and was on a fourth one, the other vessels piling up next to him. He was apparently quite the hungry teenager.

“Yes,” Myri confirmed. “For instance, I can recall that Hera of Clan Vass supported Agot Trask as her Squire with a vast arsenal of ranged abilities, which complemented the Marsh Knight’s close-range style of combat. In contrast, Calliope Padda was a Squire of powerful Galdur to the much more physically-suited Marsh Knight Gerasimos. The two are expected to work together and find their harmony over the proceedings of the Trial.”

“So… it’s possible that whatever I’m good at, which is still up for debate, and whatever…this guy is good at, will mesh together? Assuming we both complete our Trials?”

“I will,” Sav said again.

“Not necessarily,” said Myri. “There have also been instances where there was a supreme lack of harmony between a Squire and his Marsh Knight—which, erm, isn’t great, as you can probably imagine.”

“So… if this guy’s a dud,” I said, gesturing to the man on the floor with six bowls around him and a seventh in his hands, “then I might be shit-outta-luck?”

“Unfortunately, if there is friction of methodology, then, yes, you may find difficulties working together.”

I examined the big, bearded boy carefully, watching as he finished off his seventh bowl and set the empty container down.

“So…Sav,” I said after a long moment. “What are you good at?”

Sav looked up at me, those cold, calculating-seeming eyes burrowing into mine and making me feel uncomfortable. He seemed to be considering this question, based on the amount of time it took him to answer, but eventually he did.

“Suppose…” he started. “...talking to folks.”

I sighed.