T Lain - Return of the Damned

Late morning of the third day brought the party to the wooded area marked on Jozan’s map. The looming, jagged top of Mt. Fear towered above the plain. As the sun rose higher in the sky, the circle of clouds lingering around its peak slowly dissipated, showing off the deep chasm between the two wicked points that distinguished this mountain from all others in the land.

At its base, a dense growth of trees formed a ring around the mountain. Unlike other forests, this one grew up out of a fetid, rotting swamp. Tangled brambles intermingled with algae and pools of rotting vegetation. The tree roots didn’t plunge into rich, fertile soil to pucker the ground in long, oval mounds. Instead, they reached out like hungry fingers, groping into the graying filth of the swamp, looking like thick, chaotic spiderwebs as they crisscrossed each other in search of food.

Regdar stopped the men at the edge of this sloppy ring.

“Jozan said we’d find the slavers inside this, the Marsh of Haelor.” He put his hands on his hips and looked at the dense growth. “If I were evil, I’d definitely find this place homey.”

Tasca stepped up beside the fighter. “Listen, Regdar, I know what you say your cleric pal told you, but something doesn’t make sense here.”

Regdar turned to the elf. “Yeah, Naull’s in there—” He pointed to the swamp—“and we’re out here.”

Tasca nodded while biting his lower lip. “That too.” The edges of his lips curled up into an amused smile. “But I meant that if the guys we’re looking for are slavers, why would they set up camp in a swamp?” The elf wrinkled his brow. “Not exactly a prime location to do business.”

“He’s right.” Whitman ran his fingers through his long beard. “I’ve seen slaver caravans. They travel the same routes as the carnivals, and they’re not the type to set up camp anywhere for more than a night, maybe two at the most. They’re constantly on the go—not real popular in areas where they capture their slaves. But they need people to kidnap and people to sell to. Why would they hole up in forsaken spot like this?”

Regdar nodded. “Remote as it is, this region is still under the protection of Duke Ramas. He’s not a man who tolerates slavers. Maybe they’re just taking a rest in a place they consider secure.”

“Could the cleric have made a mistake?” asked Tasca.

Regdar remained grim. “It wouldn’t be the first time. Still, he said he’d been given signs from Pelor.” He shrugged. “The god of the sun works in strange ways. It’s possible Jozan misunderstood the details but not the intent. Where Pelor’s concerned, Jozan knows what he’s talking about.” The big fighter turned away from his friends and continued walking. “Whatever the case, I’m not going back until I find Naull or I’m convinced she’s not here.”

The others fell in behind him, skirting the edge of the wooded area, looking for a passable entrance into the tangled swamp.

Whitman sniffed the air. “It reeks.”

“That’s your upper lip,” quipped Tasca.

“Swamp gas,” corrected Regdar. He stopped again, peering into the interior. “How do you suppose they got in? The four of us could step tree root to tree root I suppose, but a larger group, especially one with an unwilling hostage, would want a more stable path.”

“Maybe Naull went willingly,” said Clemf.

Regdar turned and grabbed Clemf by his chestplate, shaking the man.

“Hey now,” complained Clemf. “I’m just saying… Let’s consider all the possibilities.”

Regdar glared for a moment longer, then let him go. “It’s not a possibility.” His frustration was near the boiling point. The woman he loved might still be alive and captive. He wanted to smash something, kill those who held her hostage, punish whoever kept her from him.

But he couldn’t.

He couldn’t do anything except look for a needle in a haystack.

But Clemf was right. Regdar wasn’t certain of anything, least of all whether Naull was even alive, and his frustration was starting to wear at the edges.

Tasca broke the silence, interrupting the tense moment. “There, just under those hanging vines.” The elf pointed to a solid-looking dirt path in the dark interior of the forest, just beyond a large, murky field of water.

Clemf turned away, and Regdar looked to where Tasca pointed.

“I see it,” replied the big fighter. “But they’d have to cross the water. Do you think it’s shallow enough?”

“There’s only one way to find out,” replied the elf.

“Yes,” interjected Whitman, “but what do you think lives in water like that?”

“Eels,” replied Clemf. “Big ones.”

Regdar turned to the tattooed human. “Why would you say that?”

Clemf pointed to the water near the far edge.

Regdar turned back. Sure enough, he saw a giant ripple move through the water, pushing away the scum in an S shape.

Whitman was already pulling a coil of rope from his pack. “I’ll go first,” he said matter-of-factly. “You boys tie off. If one of us falls in, the others can pull him out.”

“What if a giant eel gets one of us?” asked Tasca.

“Don’t worry,” said Whitman with a smile. “If elf flesh tastes as bad as it smells, the eel will spit you back out again.” He chuckled as he finished tying the end of the rope around his waist. “Or it’ll gag you back up.”

Tasca shrugged his shoulders. “He might seem offensive if he weren’t short enough to fit inside my boot.”

“I’m not short,” hollered the dwarf, wading into the grimy water.

Tasca tied off behind Clemf, third in line. “Gets him every time.” He laughed and followed the tattooed man into the swamp.

Regdar put his hand on Clemf’s shoulder.

“I’m—” started Regdar.

Clemf cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’d be the same way if my lady were in trouble.” He gripped his friend’s arm, then waded into the swamp.

Regdar took up the rear, his left hand firmly on the rope around his waist, his right gripping the hilt of his greatsword.

The water was cold, and the muck floating on top smelled like rotten goblin flesh. The bottom of the swamp was squishy, and it made forward movement quite hard. Still, despite the difficulties, the water came up only to the top of Regdar’s thigh (right below Whitman’s chest), and it seemed the swamp was passable after all.

Whitman made it out the other side and onto dry land without a problem. Clemf followed, then Tasca.

Regdar could feel the bottom sloping upward under his feet when something brushed the back of his leg.

Tasca opened his mouth. Regdar listened to hear what his friend had to say. It sounded like water rushing past his ears. Then Tasca’s face disappeared. What was going on? he thought. Fetid swamp water rushed inside his armor, bringing with it the cold and the realization that his feet had been pulled forward from under him.

Landing on his back on the squishy bottom, Regdar looked up into blurry blackness. He reflexively tried to breathe, but the thick water quickly cut off that urge. He had swallowed some through his nose on the way down, and a burning sensation now ran down his nostrils and along the back of his throat. He managed to keep hold of his sword, but it wasn’t doing him any good down here.

The creature, presumably an eel, was wrapped around his legs. It continually tightened and loosened its grip. The sensation of being squeezed then released then squeezed again was unsettling, and Regdar struggled against it.

Something squeezed him around his waist. This one was skinnier than whatever trapped his legs, but it pulled with such insistent strength that it lifted him off the bottom. The eel around his legs pulled to his right, and Regdar spun sideways.