In older versions of the myth, the Bogman’s end is not so placid. He does not go to a peaceful rest when his second life’s work is done; on the contrary, when he lies down to rest in the Everswamp, he’s roused by that dark spirit that dwells there, the one called Ah-Ren by some obscure contemporary texts. The spirit of the bog never lets him truly rest, for He will call upon His servant again when the time is right, his soul forfeit and his body sold in exchange for his great power. Variants of the legend tell that this Voice, this Ah-Ren, plans to collect the Bogman’s debt one day, and that his return will usher in the Time After Time.

-The Bogman’s Curse: A Modern Addendum by Malthier of Cormund

Grackenwell

General Rigart and General Cadwynh fought the entire way home to Grackenwell.

The former insisted on giving their fallen king a proper funeral, to have the body lie in state in Holcort followed by a ceremonial sendoff in the Everswamp, a kingdom-wide moon of mourning. The latter scoffed at the idea.

“Burn the little bastard,” Cadwynh spat. “We can finally be done with the Garrotins once and for all.”

“Someone’s had a change of heart since Le’Me,” said Rigart. “I seem to remember you getting along quite well with King Brynh and even Kimbel at the time.”

“It was a celebration. I was celebrating. At any rate, I actually had some level of respect for the father.” Cadwynh’s orange beard bristled disdainfully. “Until his threads started coming loose. They were touched in the head, all the Garrotins. It was bound to happen this way.”

“I don’t disagree that there was a certain... instability to them.” Rigart wrung his hands to say such a thing. “But like him or not, a king is a king. Fail to respect your betters and you’re no different from a rebellious slave.”

Cadwynh sidestepped, puffing his chest, holding his fists at his sides. “You watch your tongue the next time you think to compare me to a slave!”

Rigart rolled his eyes, unintimidated by Cadwynh’s display. “It’s an analogy, you oaf.”

“Sniveling sycophant.”

“Envious brute.”

At this, the orange-haired man threw his head back and laughed, then coughed up a mouthful of phlegm to spit in the path of the slaves bearing Kimbel’s litter. “Envious?” He gestured to the boy king’s corpse, which strangely hadn’t swollen or started to smell. “Of that? I think the Hells not!”

Their Dridic escort finally parted ways with them at the northern border on the edge of the Zan desert. This eastern pass was the narrowest strip of the desert on the whole continent, only a day’s walk through the dunes to the rocky wastes. Another day’s travel would take them through Settbourne and north past the southern edge of the Everswamp.

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With the convenience of passing the bog on their journey north, Rigart made his final argument. “It would cost us nothing. Not even a day’s detour to the edge of the—”

“A moment’s detour is too good for him,” Cadwynh grumbled. “He was a freak, Rigart. A madman! He had no business ruling over us, and it’s a damn stroke of luck that he’s dead. He brought no honor to Grackenwell. We had a window of opportunity to seize the continent and he bungled it. We had to grovel before that southern hag just to go home. This...” He gesticulated toward the corpse again. “...was meant to be. I’ll set fire to him myself and sleep like a drunk baby.”

“As the only surviving generals, we are both now interim leaders of Grackenwell.” Rigart scowled at him. “I won’t let you trample all over our traditions with impunity. The people will not take so kindly to your speaking ill of the slain boy king when they hear it.”

“Boy king. What a crock of shit.” Cadwynh sucked back another glob of phlegm and spat it on the grass. The sun was rising; it was almost time to set up camp again to shade themselves from the desert sun. “He’s dead, you know. His father’s dead. There’s no Garrotin left to take his place. Think you’ll get punished if you don’t kiss his feet even in death?”

“I’ve had enough of your foul disrespect,” Rigart said bitterly. “I’ll send him off on the swamp myself, damn you.”

Cadwynh snorted with laughter. “Have it your way, then. Glad you see there’s no use trying to change my mind on the matter.” The general whistled and the rest of the slaves set about erecting camp for the day. “I trust there’ll be no hard feelings as we work together to decide who’ll sit the throne next, will there?”

Rigart met his gaze carefully. “Of course not. You said it yourself. That instability is behind us now.”

Cadwynh nodded slowly, locking eyes with Rigart for a moment without looking away. “Good. Instability brings bloodshed.”

“That it does.”

They eyed each other a short while longer. When camp was erected, they went to their separate tents. The morning sun was already warm and threatening to scorch the white sand around them.

Those were the last words spoken between them until they reached the Everswamp.

***

In the end, Cadwynh accompanied Rigart to the edge of the bog after all. “Wouldn’t look right of me to the people if I didn’t have a hand in it,” he explained.

Rigart didn’t say anything directly to him. He personally helped the slaves load Kimbel’s body from the litter into a cheaply made boat sans its oars. “Good,” he said, satisfied. “At least this way, he’ll have a chance to come back. If he’s strong enough to wrench himself free from the clutches of death, that is.”

Cadwynh scoffed. “Are you a wee boy with a penchant for tall tales? No one ever comes back, you daft git.”

Again, Rigart ignored him. He grasped the edge of the boat. Gave it a push. The half-coffin drifted slowly into the dark edges of the bog with the grace of a ghost. “And so the Garrotin lineage dies in blood,” he said solemnly. Said it low enough that Cadwynh would not hear to mock him for it. “Rest now, troubled boy. You were right to believe that the world belongs to the strong.” He shook his head, watching the boat drift between elegantly drooping branches of the willows, silent sentinels at the gates of death. “Sadly, you were not among them. Goodbye.”

What was left of the Grackenwelsh army pressed further northward to Holcort, where they would take stock of their losses, rebuild the damage done to their kingdom, and chart a course for their future. General, noble, soldier, and slave—their status quo was bent but unbroken. The north would endure. It would live to rise again.

Meanwhile, the remains of Kimbel Garrotin floated far from the shallow edge of the swamp. Ferried on by unseen forces, the boat skimmed across the murky surface of the water, into that place scarcely touched by the sun, a depth of darkness that had forgotten the meaning of light.

There came a rumbling whisper from the secret heart of the bog. It was many fathoms deeper than the bottom of the swamp, and many shades darker.

Kimbel was not alone.