LORDS OF THE MARSH
Josh Reynolds


 	‘I was drunk,’ Erkhart Dubnitz said, stepping back to avoid the rapier’s tip. The deck of the rolled beneath his feet and the rail of the river-barge connected with his hips. He held up his big hands, palm out, trying to look simultaneously innocent and contrite. As a true son of the Most Holy Templar Order of Manann, Dubnitz was equally bad at both, and his expression slid more easily into one of slightly panicked guilt. He wasn’t frightened, but he was worried. It had been miscalculation on his part. It had been enjoyable, but, in retrospect, unwise.

 	‘That’s no excuse for despoiling my sister, you-you lout!’ Sternhope Sark barked. The Averlander wore what passed for finery in Averheim, but his rapier was real enough and sharp. The tip of the blade scratched across the enamelled sea-green surface of Dubnitz’s cuirass, marring Manann’s face with a thin scar. Dubnitz’s gauntleted hand snapped shut on the blade and jerked it and Sark’s arm forward. The rapier’s tip bit into the rail and Dubnitz’s other fist came down on the flat of the blade where it met the crosspiece, snapping the thin metal.

 	‘Whoops,’ Dubnitz said, flinging the broken blade into the Reik. There was a heavy mist on the river, and it seemed to reach up and clutch for the rail as Dubnitz turned back to Sark. ‘How clumsy of me, I do apologise.’ There was a murmur of laughter from the nearby crew, and they gathered to watch. There was little to do on a barge, and any entertainment was good entertainment.

 	Sark gawped at him for a moment. Then, with a hiss, he struck at Dubnitz’s face with the broken end of the blade. Dubnitz grabbed Sark’s wrists and wrestled him around, trapping the smaller man between him and the rail. Dubnitz’s forehead connected briefly with Sark’s and the latter’s limbs went noodle-limp. Dubnitz grunted as a thin trickle of blood ran down from his brow, across his cheek and into his beard. Averlanders were a prickly lot when they were sober, in his experience. They were worse than Reiklanders, in their way, but he couldn’t fault the young man’s determination.

 	‘And I’d hardly call what I did despoliation,’ Dubnitz said, grabbing the young man’s coat to keep him on his feet. ‘It was more a peaceful transfer of military aid, if anything.’

 	‘Are all Marienburgers so bad at euphemisms, Erkhart?’

 	Dubnitz turned and glanced at the woman who had pushed through the throng of sailors who had gathered to watch the confrontation. There was a resemblance about the cheeks to the young man he held, which, given that they were siblings, was no surprise. Sascha Sark was dressed in the latest Nuln had to offer for the upper-class out-of-doors woman, with an exquisitely carved iron and wood hunting crossbow held braced against the ample swell of her hip. She was flanked by two bodyguards, the best money could buy.

 	‘We’re a simple folk, Sascha. Unsophisticated, even,’ Dubnitz said. ‘Granted, we also manage to keep our private affairs private.’ The light cast over the deck by the lanterns mounted on the mast and swoop of the rail was becoming muted by the evening mist rising from the river. The mist crept across the deck sliding between the feet of those gathered. Something about it pricked at his instincts, but he dismissed it, being more concerned with the matter at hand.

 	‘We’re on a boat, Erkhart,’ Sascha said glibly.

 	‘We weren’t on a boat in Nuln, Sascha. In fact, I seem to recall a very soft bed and–’ Dubnitz began, momentarily lost in a bouquet of pleasurable memories. It hadn’t been his idea, but then, he’d never been one to say ‘no’ to a lady.

 	‘Fiend,’ Sark mumbled, grabbing at Dubnitz. The mist was creeping up his slumped form and Dubnitz waved it away. It had the smell of the Reik on it, which was unpleasant enough, but there was something else just beneath it… the stink of standing water or old stone perhaps.

 	‘Knight,’ Dubnitz corrected, still looking at Sascha. ‘Why did you tell him?’

 	‘Why did you bed me?’ she countered.

 	Dubnitz snorted. ‘Fine, but you could have waited, perhaps, until after the order’s business with your family was concluded.’ The business in question was trained warhorses, specifically the Order of Manann’s lack of them and the Sark family’s possession of some of the finest horseflesh in the Old World. Dubnitz had been sent by Grandmaster Ogg to sweet-talk the horse merchants into opening up a business relationship with the order, which he’d done. ‘More or less,’ he muttered. The mist reared up before him and he had a momentary impression of a striking serpent. He blew the tendril into swirling threads. It was thicker than normal for this time of year.

 	‘What was that?’ Sascha said.

 	‘Nothing, my lady,’ Dubnitz said, beaming. ‘I trust that this won’t sour our burgeoning relationship.’ The Sarks had insisted on sending representatives to Marienburg to meet with Ogg and the Masters of the Order. Of those representatives, he found Sascha to be the most convivial for obvious reasons. Her brother, he thought, was mostly along to glower at the proper points during the negotiations.

 	Sascha laughed. It wasn’t a polite laugh, or a girlish laugh. It was crude and bursting with innuendo. Dubnitz suddenly recalled that it had been that laugh that had led him to his current predicament. ‘I meant in regards to the horses my humble and pious order requires if we are to serve the good folk as Manann, in all of his foamy wisdom, intended.’

 	‘You’re thugs in armour, Erkhart, nothing more.’ Which was true, as far as it went; the order was a work-in-progress, as Ogg liked to state. It was a halfway professional fighting force, composed of the best of the worst, and dedicated, roughly, to spreading the word of the god of the seas. ‘Nonetheless, we are happy enough to sell you horses, should my brother agree.’ Sascha gestured to her brother, smiling prettily.

 	Dubnitz looked down at the semi-conscious young man and sighed. ‘Wonderful.’

 	Sascha was a cunning one. After several weeks in her close company, Dubnitz had become grudgingly aware that there was a very good reason that it was she who had been sent. He wasn’t afraid to admit that she had had him wrapped around her finger within an hour of their first meeting. In Nuln, he had done his level best to abuse his hosts’ hospitality in several tried and true methods, and one or two that he hadn’t even considered, before Sascha had suggested them. It was a game that Dubnitz knew how to play. However, it was disconcerting to discover that his opponent was even better at playing it than he was.

 	Ogg should really have sent someone else, someone more… pious.

 	‘I don’t suppose I could convince you to tell him that he slipped?’ he said hopefully.

 	Before Sascha could reply, there was a crunch. It was a loud sound, and the faces of the sailors turned ashen as the boat shuddered. Dubnitz knew that sound. The bottom of the river boat had struck something. An alarm bell began to ring, the sound of it muffled by the thick blanket of mist that had settled on the boat.

 	‘What was that?’ Sascha said.

 	‘It sounds like we’ve run afoul of something,’ Dubnitz said. He peered over the rail. Something splashed, out past the rail. Then something else, there were more splashes and a number of thumps. The mist boiled up over the rail like a billowing curtain. He squinted, thinking he’d seen lights flickering in the mist. Suddenly wary, Dubnitz reached for the sword sheathed on his hip. Sark struggled in his grip and he released the merchant, shoving him towards his sister. ‘Sascha, get your brother back to your cabin and stay there.’

 	‘What is it?’ Sascha said. Her bodyguards tensed, looking around. Like him, they had sensed something wrong. Both men were veterans of Nuln’s infamous Blacklegs regiment, and as swordsmen, only Dubnitz was their equal. They had enough battlefield experience to know when something went wrong.

 	‘Maybe nothing,’ Dubnitz said, trying to see through the mist. He could barely make out a shape near the waterline. They had struck something. He saw skeletal trees looming through the mist and the shore was covered in the thick grasses that marked the Cursed Marshes. The Reik was separated from the darker waters of the marsh only by the thickly clustered hummocks and boils of earth and soggy stretches of semi-dry land that the marshes consisted of.

 	As always, whenever he passed through these narrow waterways, his mind conjured any number of ways in which the trip could go wrong. Now the worst had apparently happened. But not as the result of random happenstance, he suspected. He loosened his sword in its sheath. There were so many stories about the Cursed Marshes that it was hard to know what to be afraid of. It was the haunt of mutants, Chaos-worshippers, goblins and less physical threats. Ghosts clung to forgotten structures and swamp-goblins ambushed Marsh-Watch patrols every full moon.

 	But this was something different.

 	‘Erkhart, what is it?’ Sascha said again. The mist seemed to swallow the sound of her voice.

 	‘Stay back,’ Dubnitz began. His eyes narrowed and then widened.

 	‘Lady Sark, you should go back to your cabin,’ one of the bodyguards said, grabbing for her arm. She cast a hot glare at him and he sighed and stepped back.

 	‘Sarks do no cower in cabins, Helmut,’ she snapped.

 	‘What is it? What do you see?’ Sark demanded, throwing his own glare at Dubnitz. His previous ire had been washed aside by concern. Hot-headed the boy might be, but Averlanders were a practical lot at the bone.

 	‘Nothing, but that doesn’t mean…’ Dubnitz trailed off. His eyes were tearing up from the strain of trying to see through the mist, and he blinked. Something was moving out there. All he saw were hints and vague bubbles of movement, swelling in the mist. He heard thumps and scrapes and his gaze travelled down, where the soup of the mist clutched at the hull.

 	Something rose to the surface. Sharp and stiff, it cut into the wood with a dull noise. Dubnitz blinked. Was that–?

 	More sharp things stabbed the hull. Something metal swooped past him and chopped into the rail – a grappling hook. Dubnitz stepped back with an oath.

 	‘What is it?’ Sascha said, her voice rising.

 	‘Get back!’ Dubnitz snapped.

 	Faces pierced the mist, grinning like wolves. Sabres, cutlasses, spears and axes followed as their attackers gave vent to blood-curdling cries. Dubnitz jerked back as a spear skidded off his pauldron and danced across his earlobe, sending a rush of warmth down the inside of his gorget. He cursed and chopped down, splitting the spear. Its wielder stumbled, off balance, and Dubnitz opened his throat to the bone.

 	But even as the one fell, more replaced him. Dubnitz was forced back from the rail. ‘Pirates,’ someone yelled. ‘’Ware, pirates,’ the cry bounced from crewman to crewman. In these parts, piracy wasn’t confined to the open ocean. Much trade was moved along the Reik, and where there were valuables there were men who would look to take such for themselves. Still, for pirates to have gotten this close to a fully-crewed barge was astonishing. The river-jackals were normally more cautious, laying breakwater chains and playing wrecker on rougher waters. Perhaps the mist had made them ambitious.

 	‘Take the big one first!’ a pirate barked, swinging a club towards Dubnitz’s head. Dubnitz caught the blow on his vambrace and the club cracked. As the pirate gawped, Dubnitz split his skull, crown to chin. He kicked the dead man in the midsection and jerked his sword free. More blades and clubs and spears sought him and he grabbed the dying man and flung him into a knot of his attackers. ‘Manann,’ he bellowed, lashing out with his sword.

 	‘Stromfels,’ someone shouted in reply, invoking the god of pirates and storms. The mist cleared and a broad shape stepped forward, sword extended, gold teeth glinting in the torchlight. He was around Dubnitz’s size, though rangier, with years of hard-living stamped on his face. At his gesture, the pirates retreated.

 	Dubnitz stiffened, his eyes narrowing in recognition of both the face and the voice. ‘Fulmeyer,’ he growled. ‘I heard that the Reiklanders had stretched your neck.’

 	‘If it isn’t my old friend Dubnitz,’ the pirate said. ‘Still stringing up honest river-men?’

 	‘Who is this devil?’ Sark demanded, his hands clutching emptily for the rapier Dubnitz had broken. The two groups faced each other tensely, the pirates on one side, the crew on the other and only the mist separating them, like a thin curtain caught in a breeze.

 	‘A dead man,’ Dubnitz said tersely.

 	‘Quintus Fulmeyer, at your service,’ Fulmeyer said, spreading his arms. ‘Some call me the Marsh-Hound, but none do it twice.’ His dark eyes narrowed. ‘Dubnitz here tried to have me hung.’

 	‘Several times,’ Dubnitz said, tightening his grip on his sword. ‘I should have just done it myself.’

 	Fulmeyer laughed. ‘Maybe you should have at that. Fancy running into you here,’ he said. ‘The gods truly are kind.’ Fulmeyer was one of those thorns that you never realised was in your side until it began to hurt. He was a pirate’s pirate, and Dubnitz dearly hated pirates, especially ones with the temerity to avoid Manann’s justice on three separate occasions.

 	‘They are indeed,’ Dubnitz said, starting forward. Fulmeyer stepped back and raised his blade.

 	‘I have more than twenty men, Dubnitz. And you’ve no troop of mounted knights to aid you this time. Just some poxy sailors and a handful of toffs,’ Fulmeyer said. ‘Surrender, as we’d rather not kill any we don’t have to. We have you fair and square,’ the pirate barked. ‘No need for this to turn bloody.’

 	Dubnitz was about to comment, but before he could so much as open his mouth, a crossbow suddenly went tung and a bolt spiralled through the mist towards Fulmeyer, who squawked and fell back. The bolt narrowly missed his hunched form. Dubnitz glanced back at Sascha, who was already reloading her crossbow. ‘What was that?’ he said incredulously.

 	‘You Marienburgers talk too much,’ Sascha said, lifting her reloaded crossbow. Before Dubnitz could reply, the pirates surged forward with a full-throated roar. The fight was brutal, and swift. The had a small crew, and the pirates outnumbered them two to one. Nonetheless, the former fought like born brawlers. Sascha’s bodyguards took a terrible toll also.

 	But the pirates had other, unnatural advantages on their side. Dubnitz’s skin crawled as the mist seemed to thicken and grip at him, as if to aid the pirates. Coils of wet air snagged his sword-arm, slowing his blows and causing him to stumble. Too, the dank smell of it invaded his head, causing his vision to blur and his lungs to seize. Was it sorcery, he wondered. It wouldn’t be the first time he had faced a daemon-spawned mist, after all.

 	Thoughts of that brought a longing for absent companions. He wished Goodweather were here with him. The priestess of Manann’s prayers could easily have dispersed the mist, which seemed possessed of an almost malign will. And that will was bent towards hampering the increasingly desperate efforts of the defenders of the river boat. Fulmeyer had never displayed any mystical acumen in their previous encounters, however. This was something new… something dangerous. Perhaps the pirate had hired a hedge-mage or some grave-robbing necromancer to help him. Such criminal activities were well within the Marsh-Hound’s purview.

 	Dubnitz cursed as he saw one of Sascha’s bodyguards stumble, as if something had pulled on his ankle. A moment later, Fulmeyer brained him with his sword, dropping the ex-soldier to the deck, blood running from his eyes and ears. The other bodyguard gave a coughing roar and swooped to the attack, but Fulmeyer merely stepped back into the mist, avoiding the wild blow.

 	In his place, a quintet of spears shot from all sides, impaling the hapless warrior. The mist cleared slightly as the pirates jerked their weapons free. Dubnitz was on them a moment later, charging across the blood-slick deck with an agility born of experience. Two of the five fell before the others retreated, leaving Dubnitz surrounded by a muffling wall of mist.

 	‘Sascha,’ he called out. ‘Sark,’ he tried. No answer from either. The alarm bell had fallen silent. The sounds of combat had faded. Dubnitz’s skin crawled. There was a hint of distant noise, like heavy bodies moving through the water.

 	‘It’s over, Dubnitz,’ Fulmeyer’s voice said, from close by. ‘Drop your sword.’

 	‘Or what, you’ll kill me?’ Dubnitz said, his eyes scanning the mist. Were the Sarks still alive? If not, Ogg would kill him.

 	‘We’ll do that anyway, it’s more a question of the way of it,’ Fulmeyer said.

 	Dubnitz licked his lips, and tried to pierce the swirling mist. He didn’t like the sound of that. He cleared his throat. ‘If you want my sword, Marsh-Hound… come and take it.’

 	Feet scraped on the deck. A cutlass chopped into the back of his cuirass, shredding a strap and sending a flare of pain shooting through his back and chest. Dubnitz stumbled forward, his chest striking the rail. He pushed himself around and his sword slashed through the curling mist, releasing a spray of red. A scream faded to a gurgle.

 	‘You’ll have to do better than that,’ Dubnitz said, breathing heavily.

 	Two men emerged from the mist with twin yells. Dubnitz’s sword cut the head from one’s hand-axe and finished its arc buried in the second man’s side. Dubnitz jerked the dying man around and threw him into his fellow. The moment’s distraction enabled him to deal with the survivor.

 	Boathooks burst past the falling body of the second man, thumping into his chest. His armour was thick enough that the hooks did little damage. But the rail wasn’t as sturdy. Wood cracked and then Dubnitz was falling backwards. His vision lurched as vertigo conquered his thoughts for several terrified moments and then the mist swallowed him. A moment later, the Reik did the same.

 	The water was cold as he sank into its embrace. He could taste mud and foulness as he clawed vainly for the surface. His body felt as if it were being crushed in a giant’s fist. His vision blurred as the dark water burned his eyes and seared his sinuses as it sought out his nostrils, ear canals and mouth.

 	Knights of the order learned early on how to swim in armour. It was a survival skill, when most of your business was done on the decks of ships. But the river had its own ideas. He felt the bottom of the Reik beneath his feet, and mud billowed up around him. His lungs began to burn. He couldn’t see.

 	Men who were unarmoured and excellent swimmers had drowned in the shallowest areas of the Reik. It was murderous, as bodies of water went. Part of him thought that maybe, just maybe, he should simply acquiesce to fate. Nonetheless, he began to walk. His body throbbed with weakness, but he pushed on, until he saw a ripple of orange light above and he shoved himself upwards, reaching. His face split the surface of the water and he swallowed a gulp of air even as the weight of his armour pulled him back down.

 	He shoved his panic aside. The river bank wasn’t far, not if the boat had run aground, and surely Manann, bless his scaly nethers, wouldn’t let one of his chosen warriors drown. As the claws of oxygen deprivation squeezed his mind into an ever-shrinking black ball, Dubnitz forced himself forward, fighting against weight and the current’s pull, using his sword as an anchor against the latter.

 	Something dark spread above him agonising moments later, and things like bony fingers scratched his face and armour and he grabbed at them. The soft solidity of waterlogged wood met his palm and he reached out with sudden hope. His thoughts were sputtering like a candle flame in a wind as he heaved himself up out of the water with the help of the tangled roots of the fallen tree. The tree rested in a bend in the river and it had been newly felled. The boat had struck it, and torn out its hull.

 	As his vision cleared, Dubnitz saw that the source of light he’d seen from below was the . It had been set ablaze, likely after being picked clean. His heart sank. But just as quickly as it had come, the black mood was swept away by adrenaline. Several shapes moved on the shore, searching through what could only be the ’s cargo. The pirates had dumped it on shore, by the looks of it.

 	A born pragmatist, Dubnitz reviewed his choices as he clung to the tree. He could attempt to make his way back to Marienburg and return with a force of knights or even Ambrosius’s Marsh-Watch. Granted, if he returned to Marienburg without the Sarks, Ogg would gut him like a fish and Ogg was more frightening than any mist-borne daemon or savage pirate.

 	There was little for it. Once more, Erkhart Dubnitz was forced by circumstance to play hero. It was not a role he relished, but it beat the alternative.

 	Carefully, and as quietly as he could, Dubnitz eased himself along the roots, pulling himself towards the dubious safety of shore. The Cursed Marshes weren’t dry land by any stretch of the imagination, being more akin to a scum of slime mould atop the water, but it was safer to be above the mould than below it. Water dripped in runnels down his sea-green armour as he pulled himself up into the light of the burning boat. No one had spotted him yet.

 	The main body of the pirates were nowhere in sight, leaving only the three scavengers he saw. Stragglers, then, Dubnitz decided. He squinted. The mist was gone as well. There was no sign of the surviving crew or the Sarks, though they could still be aboard the boat. The stink of burning flesh was heavy on the air, weighing it down. He looked at the fire, a swell of mingled emotions rolling through him.

 	‘Roll it towards the fire,’ one of the pirates said, kicking a crate and interrupting Dubnitz’s ruminations. He was big and bearded, with eyes like ugly coals. ‘Fulmeyer wants what’s left burned while they take the prisoners to the stones.’ There was a certain shuddering emphasis placed on that last word that piqued Dubnitz’s curiosity. Even more importantly, the Sarks were likely still alive. Fulmeyer had an eye for prisoners. Ransoms had been his game early and often.

 	‘Seems a shame,’ another said, fondling a bolt of Cathayan silk. ‘Was a time when we’d have taken the boat and everything with it,’ he added.

 	‘Better times,’ added the third.

 	‘Shut your mouths,’ said the first. ‘We’ve made our bargain now, and it was a good one.’

 	‘Fulmeyer made the bargain, not us,’ the third pirate said, frowning. ‘We can leave.’

 	‘And see that mist creeping in my wake? You don’t play foul with the lords of the marsh and get away with it,’ the first retorted, shaking his head.

 	‘So you say.’

 	‘Are you calling me a liar?’ the pirate snapped, reaching for the dagger sheathed on his hip.

 	Dubnitz didn’t allow the other to reply. He rose to his feet, shedding water, and swept his sword out, chopping through the third pirate’s neck. The man gurgled and slumped. Before the second could do more than gape, Dubnitz ripped the sword free and plunged it into his chest, where it became lodged in bone. The first man howled and leapt, his dagger seeking Dubnitz’s guts.

 	The knight grabbed the man about the middle and flung him over his hip, into the water. Dropping to his knees in the shallows, Dubnitz held the struggling pirate under the water for a moment. Then he dragged him up.

 	‘Where are the others?’ he asked the sputtering, gasping man casually.

 	‘G-go t-to-’ the pirate croaked.

 	‘Wrong answer,’ Dubnitz said cheerfully. He forced the struggling pirate back under water. Fingers clawed at his pauldrons and cuirass. As the bubbles began to lessen, Dubnitz pulled him back up. ‘Where did they go?’

 	‘I-into the m-marshes,’ the pirate wheezed.

 	‘Can you show me where?’

 	‘No!’

 	‘Pity,’ Dubnitz said, making to press the man back under the water.

 	‘No! Wait!’ the pirate gasped.

 	‘Friend, I’ll be honest, I’m in a foul mood, and I’m all for consigning your soul to Manann’s realm. Play silly beggars with me, and I’ll do just that.’ Dubnitz stood, pulling the pirate up with him. ‘But you help me find Fulmeyer, and maybe you live to do the yardarm jig.’

 	‘Not much of a choice,’ the pirate rasped.

 	‘Better than you deserve.’ Dubnitz shook him slightly. The Order of Manann had a special hatred of pirates, worshipping, as they did, a god of the seas and rivers. Dubnitz had hung more than his fair share, and it was one of the few of the order’s activities that he had anything approaching a professional interest in.

 	‘I’ll lead you to them,’ the pirate said, his eyes closing.

 	His name was Schafer, and he was a Stirlander by birth but a water-man by choice. He’d been a crewman on a trade skiff for a number of years before he’d grown bored, slit the mate’s throat and taken off with the pay chest. Once he’d drunk the contents of the chest away, he’d signed on with Fulmeyer.

 	All of this he related unasked and slightly defensively. Dubnitz could have told him that he’d heard worse, but didn’t feel like wasting the breath to reassure a man he fully intended to hang. Instead, he tried to steer the conversation into more productive waters as they made their way through the marsh. ‘What stones were you referring to earlier?’ Dubnitz said.

 	Schafer looked back at him. The pirate was bound tight by a set of thin chains that Dubnitz had scavenged from what was left of the ’s cargo. ‘What?’

 	‘The stones, the ones you said Fulmeyer was taking the prisoners to.’

 	Schafer frowned. ‘They’re just stones. There are lots of stones in the marshes.’

 	Dubnitz fell silent. That was true, as far as it went. There were stones aplenty in the marshes, piled higher than nature intended. The Cursed Marshes had an ancient history, pre-dating men by a margin that was wider than Dubnitz was comfortable with. He looked around. The trees had thinned as they left the river behind. The ground was spongy beneath their feet, and water filled their tracks as they walked. The air was thick with damp and the sun was hidden behind a grey miasmic curtain.

 	The water was high here, spilling over the roots of crooked trees and boles of sagging earth. Schafer had said that the pirates used skiffs to manoeuvre through the swamp. Dubnitz wished he had one, but he’d have to settle for foot pursuit.

 	He blinked stinging beads of sweat out of his eyes. The heat was always surprising. Even in winter, the dark waters of the marsh held in the heat of rot and decay. But edging towards summer as it was now, it was nigh unbearable. Sweat rolled down, causing his skin to itch beneath his armour, which was caked in filth and rusting already. Schafer seemed hardly bothered, but then the pirate was probably used to the heat.

 	They travelled in silence for a time, Dubnitz moving as quickly as he could in his armour.

 	‘What do you do with prisoners?’ Dubnitz asked. ‘Is it ransom?’

 	Schafer was silent. His heavy shoulders hunched forward as if he were thinking of something unpleasant. His jerkin was stained with sweat. Dubnitz narrowed his eyes and jerked the chain, nearly pulling Schafer off of his feet. ‘I asked you a question.’

 	Schafer glared up at him, but behind the anger, there was fear. Not of him, Dubnitz knew. His eyes widened slightly, and Dubnitz spun, hand on his sword hilt. A low fog clung to the path behind, caressing the trees and sliding across the ground. He caught a hint of movement, but heard nothing and saw no shape. He tensed, filled with a sudden, unreasoning fear.

 	‘What was that?’ he said, turning back to Schafer.

 	The pirate licked his lips, but didn’t answer. Dubnitz considered striking him. Instead, he shoved him forward. ‘Keep going, friend; and you’d better not be leading me into a trap.’

 	Schafer stubbornly refused to answer any more of Dubnitz’s questions as they made their way deeper into the marshes. But his manner became more furtive as they went. Finally Dubnitz jerked him to a halt and said, ‘If you find this place so frightening, why in Manann’s name would Fulmeyer seek sanctuary here?’

 	Schafer stared at him. ‘No one said anything about sanctuary,’ he said softly.

 	‘Then where are they going?’ Dubnitz demanded, drawing his sword. He pressed the tip to the pirate’s throat.

 	Schafer spat. He looked away. ‘They’re paying the toll.’

 	‘What toll?’ Dubnitz said. He pressed on the sword. A bead of blood spilled down Schafer’s unshaven throat. ‘What are you talking about?’ A sudden thought bobbed to the surface of Dubnitz’s mind. ‘Who are the lords of the marsh?’ he said, recalling Schafer’s earlier words.

 	‘You’ll see soon enough,’ Schafer spat. ‘They’re watching us now. We ain’t safe here. Nobody’s safe, except Fulmeyer, and those with Fulmeyer. And even they ain’t as safe as they like to pretend, damn him.’ Schafer made a sound that was half whine and half growl. ‘Damn him!’ he said again.

 	‘Who’s watching us? More pirates, perhaps? Is Fulmeyer working for someone?’

 	Schafer laughed harshly, but didn’t answer. It was getting dark, and the evening mist was rising from the water. Beneath the surface of the water, faint lights shimmered, and Dubnitz shivered slightly. The brightest minds of the best universities stated that the ghost-lights of the Cursed Marsh were nothing more than trapped gases. This close, however, Dubnitz lacked such certainties.

 	He had scavenged a lantern and wicks from the cargo, as well as the chain that bound Schafer, and he lit it as the darkness closed in. Schafer seemed content to stay close, and the pirate’s eyes darted back and forth like those of a frightened rabbit. ‘We should stop,’ he said. ‘We should stay here until morning.’

 	‘No,’ Dubnitz said. ‘We go on.’

 	‘I can’t find my way in the dark,’ Schafer protested.

 	‘You had better figure it out,’ Dubnitz said, tapping his sword.

 	‘You’re mad. If you knew–’ he stopped himself abruptly.

 	‘If I knew what, more about these lords you seem so afraid of?’ Dubnitz said. The mist was rolling across the ground. Something splashed in the water. Schafer started. Dubnitz held the lantern higher, but the mist swallowed the light. ‘What are they? Not men, by the way you’re acting…’

 	Schafer laughed shrilly. ‘No, not men, but you can ask them what they are yourself!’

 	Large shapes moved in the mist. The soggy soil squashed under heavy treads. Dubnitz swung the lantern about, but he could see nothing. There were sounds just past the edge of the lantern’s light and he caught a glance at what might have been scaly skin.

 	‘Here he is!’ Schafer was yelling. ‘Take him! Take him, not me!’

 	‘Quiet,’ Dubnitz growled. He could feel something watching them. Lights that might have been eyes or marsh gas blinked in and out of sight in the mist. He had his sword half-drawn. The shapes he saw did not evoke familiarity on any level. They were not men or beasts or trees. He could not say what they were.

 	Abruptly, Schafer lurched forward with a despairing wail. He crashed into Dubnitz, knocking him off balance. Dubnitz stumbled forward, and crashed into something solid. Pain burst through him and he dropped the lantern. Luckily, it didn’t burst. Hastily, he staggered to his feet and snatched it up, catching sight of what he’d run into.

 	The stone had been shaped at some point and time in the past. Not by human hands, or even those of a member of the elder races, but by something else. Dubnitz examined it as the mist congealed around him. Strange shapes had been carved into the stone, prompting faint memories of the crude trinkets he’d seen in the possession of one of his brother-knights who’d visited a wet little fog-shrouded island to the west. The shapes were man-like in their proportions, but they hinted at something far larger, and more horrible. He saw what might have been representations of standing stones, and what could only have been bodies dangling from them, like some prehistoric gallows.

 	Whatever the symbols represented, they provoked a feeling of disgust in Dubnitz, and he rose slowly to his feet, his sword out. Schafer had vanished. Dubnitz cursed and raised the lantern. The pirate couldn’t have gotten far, not with the chains on him. As the mist swirled, he saw more stones. Moving towards them, he again heard the sound of distant splashing, as if something were moving with him.

 	Schafer screamed.

 	Dubnitz charged into the mist. The pirate’s body laid a-sprawl at the foot of a large example of one of the stones. A dark blotch marked where the pirate had seemingly run headlong into the stone. It was only when he drew closer that Dubnitz realised that the blotch was far too high up on the stone for that to have occurred. Schafer was dead regardless, his skull crushed like an eggshell.

 	Dubnitz froze, listening. Through the blanket of the mist, he heard the slap of wood on water. The skiffs! Forgetting Schafer, he started forward, splashing into the water. It sucked at his legs and for a moment, he regretted his decision to not wait until morning. There was no telling what he would stumble on in the darkness, even with the lantern.

 	Forcing himself to be cautious, he slowed. The trees clustered thickly, their mossy branches scraping gently on his armour and across his scalp as he moved. As he walked, he had the impression of large things keeping pace. The lantern’s light flickered and sputtered, as if the wick had grown wet. Dubnitz shook it, but it gave a despairing poof and went out, plunging him into darkness. But only for a moment, as the night was pierced by dancing motes of ghost-green light, that swept almost playfully across his path.

 	Discarding the useless lantern, he followed the motes and soon learned that they were sparks, rising from the strange flames, the colour of emeralds, which crawled up a number of stones, casting weird shadows across the mist-covered water. Dubnitz hesitated. He knew magic when he saw it, and the tales of popular bards to the contrary, there was little a man, no matter how pure of heart or strong of arm, could do against magic.

 	The trees had thinned, leaving the water to the stones and the strange grasses which grew around them. There was no moon, but the scene was illuminated well enough by the bale-fires burning on the stones and the mist seemed to absorb and amplify those weird lights. It was almost as bright as day, though not nearly as comforting.

 	There were a trio of low-hulled skiffs ahead, bobbing gently in the water. There were more than a dozen armed men spread among them and a huddled group Dubnitz took to be the prisoners. On the lead skiff, the steersman stood and let his pole rise. Fulmeyer rose to his feet and stood on the prow. He pulled a strange object from his belt and raised it to his lips. The other two skiffs stopped as Fulmeyer stood.

 	The horn was small, as horns went. It was curled tight on itself, like a ram’s horn, and bore no decoration save for certain familiar markings. Fulmeyer blew a single, bleating note and the flames on the stones seemed to blaze more brightly. He blew another, and the mist began to thicken and rise. Dubnitz, in his hiding spot, froze. Fear slithered through him; it was an ancient fear, bred into his bones and mixed into his blood. Childhood nightmares bristled in the caves of his mind. ‘The lords of the marsh,’ he murmured. Who, or what, held that title?

 	‘Where have you brought us?’ Sascha snapped, her voice carrying across the oppressive silence of the marsh. ‘My father will hear of this! He is a personal friend of the Elector of Averland!’

 	‘Is he now?’ Fulmeyer didn’t sound impressed. Dubnitz restrained a chuckle.

 	‘He will have you fed to bears!’

 	‘That’s a new one by me. Remind me to stay away from Averland,’ Fulmeyer said, and several of his men chortled appreciatively. ‘You’re in no position to demand anything,’ he added, grinning, his gold teeth glinting in the light of the bale-fire as he grabbed Sascha’s chin and tilted her head up. She spat in his face and Fulmeyer slapped her, an oath escaping his lips.

 	Sark shot to his feet and lunged for the pirate. The others fell on him, beating him down as Fulmeyer chuckled. Dubnitz grimaced and looked away.

 	Across the water, the mist rose and spread like an ocean wave, cresting over the trees and then just as quickly falling to reveal – what? They were stones, but not solitary ones. Instead, they were towers of heaped stone, rising from solid islets in the mere like the grave markers of giants.

 	They looked flimsy and ill-stacked, but somehow more solid than even the best-built manor house of Marienburg’s aristocracy. Moss and mould grew on them, coating the dull black and brown and grey in sheaths of green and yellow, and on them, and in them and between them, dim shapes moved, as if summoned by Fulmeyer’s horn.

 	On the skiff, Sark was struggling as Fulmeyer jerked Sascha to her feet and shoved her into the prow. Fulmeyer jerked her head back by her hair and shouted something that the mist swallowed. As he called out, several pirates climbed down from the skiffs, dragging the prisoners with them.

 	‘They’re paying the toll.’ That was what Schafer had said. But paying it to what? Dubnitz hesitated. The mist was coalescing like a thing alive, and vague, titan shapes seemed to move within it as the echoes of the horn faded. It looked as if he were going to get the answer to his question. The mist was dispersing. He could see the heaps of stone more clearly, noting the profusion of strange dark stains which marred the rocks at the upper levels.

 	Something about those stains set his stomach to roiling. They looked far too similar to the splash of Schafer’s blood he’d seen on the marker stone earlier. The fear grew in Dubnitz’s gut. He could slip away now. No one would know. He was no hero, to die of shame. A fight you couldn’t win wasn’t glorious, it was foolish.

 	‘Then again, I’m already here. Besides, fortune favours the bold,’ he muttered. With a shout, Dubnitz shot to his feet and ran towards the closest of the pirates, drawing his sword as he drew close. The man spun around, his jaw dropping. Dubnitz’s sword sprang from its sheath and cut a furrow through the pirate’s chest and face.

 	Even as the first pirate fell, Dubnitz waded into the others. Surprise and speed were enormous advantages, if you were audacious enough to take advantage of them. Unfortunately, even the smallest thing could take that advantage away. His sword swept up, chopping into a tattooed chest. He cursed as the blade became lodged in a breastbone. Dubnitz jerked at the sword and planted his foot on the twitching body, trying to jerk it loose.

 	Despite his predicament, however, the remaining pirates weren’t attacking. Dubnitz gave a grunt and finally freed his sword. Water splashed behind him. ‘Erkhart,’ Sascha screamed, struggling with her captors.

 	Dubnitz turned. A smell, like old deep, wet places, washed over him. A single cyclopean eye burned into his wide ones, and a leathery beak split in what could only be called a smile, revealing dagger-fangs. It shed the mist like water, and its scaly flesh was stretched over inhuman muscle beneath ancient bronze armour that did little to conceal its contorted shape. The armour was engraved with looping patterns that hurt Dubnitz’s eyes to look at. A stone maul, dripping with filthy water, rose, clutched in the thing’s two large hands.

 	‘Manann preserve me,’ Dubnitz whispered, as certain stories of his childhood suddenly rose to the fore of his fragmented thoughts, stories of terrible marsh-demons, driven into the mists by Sigmar and Marius the Fenwolf, in a time of legends before Marienburg was anything more than a dream.

 	The maul rose and fell with a monstrous finality and Dubnitz only just dove aside as the weapon set up a splash of water. He turned and a club-headed tail crashed against his side, driving him to one knee. The thing circled him on bowed legs, its heavy shape sending rough ripples through the water. The leathery snout wrinkled and a sound like water gurgling over rocks escaped from between its teeth.

 	‘What the devil are you then?’ he hissed.

 	Things that might have been words dripped from between its tusks, bludgeoning his ears. If it had answered his question, he couldn’t say. Nor did it seem particularly important. Dubnitz shoved himself to his feet using his sword. More creatures had joined the first, the mist clinging to them like some vast, communal cloak. They watched him and the first moved forward, raising its maul. Dubnitz extended his sword and stepped back.

 	There were dozens of them, perhaps even hundreds. Where had they all come from?

 	‘The mist,’ Fulmeyer called out, as if reading his mind. ‘They live in the mist. That’s where they went when Sigmar and Marius put them to the sword. A good hiding place, if I do say so myself.’

 	‘You’d know all about hiding,’ Dubnitz muttered.

 	‘If you put the blade down, they’ll make it quick. They’re not as bad as some,’ Fulmeyer said. The pirate captain had one foot cocked up on the prow of the skiff, and leaned across his knee, the horn dangling from his hand. Dubnitz glanced over his shoulder.

 	‘When did you begin worshipping daemons, Fulmeyer? I always thought you were an honest rogue…’ he grated.

 	Fulmeyer gave a bitter laugh. ‘I’ve always had an eye for opportunity, me, you know that Dubnitz.’ His face fell. ‘Of course, sometimes opportunity finds you, rather than the other way around.’

 	‘What foul hole did you find this particular opportunity in?’ Dubnitz said. The creatures splashed around him, never drawing too close. He wondered if one of them had done for Schafer.

 	‘Here, actually,’ Fulmeyer said conversationally. He’d always liked to talk, had the Marsh-Hound and Dubnitz intended to keep him barking away until he could figure out how he was going to salvage the situation. ‘I was looking for sanctuary from the damned Altdorf River Patrol. I found it, and allies with it.’

 	‘Allies, is it?’ Dubnitz said. ‘I didn’t see them helping you take the .’

 	‘Didn’t you?’ Fulmeyer said. He waved the horn. ‘Then you’re blind as well as stupid. I said they live in the mist, didn’t I, and it does as they ask. And they do as I ask…’

 	‘And in return, you give them what – human sacrifices?’

 	Fulmeyer’s glee dissipated. ‘Better them than us,’ he snarled. ‘Everything has a price!’

 	‘Ah, the rallying cry of every half-baked cultist,’ Dubnitz said. ‘A match made in darkness, to be sure, Marsh-Hound. You get to loot to your black heart’s content, and all you have to do is turn the innocent over to inhuman monstrosities.’

 	‘I pay the toll required, Dubnitz. And it’s your bad luck that tonight’s toll is you,’ Fulmeyer said, gesturing. The pirates formed up around the skiff, their weapons prodding at Dubnitz, keeping him from coming too close. They did not look so much triumphant as terrified. They had pulled Sascha and her brother off of the skiff and thrust them into the water. With curses and oaths, they shoved them and the other survivors of the towards Dubnitz.

 	‘I said it before – drop your sword, Dubnitz. Go quiet like, and they’ll be gentle. As gentle as they get…’ Fulmeyer said. Dubnitz ignored him, checking on the others. There was only a quartet of the ’s crew remaining, and two of them were the worse for wear. Sascha and her brother seemed healthy enough, despite their terror.

 	‘You’re late, Erkhart,’ Sascha said, her voice tight.

 	‘A horse would have come in handy,’ Dubnitz said.

 	‘Get us out of this, and you’ll have more horses than you can stable,’ Sark said, his face pale.

 	Dubnitz didn’t reply. He glanced at the pirates. There were more than a dozen of them, but they looked ready to bolt. Fulmeyer’s protestations to the contrary, his men weren’t entirely comfortable with their ‘allies’.

 	‘Everyone stays together,’ Dubnitz said. The creatures appeared to be growing impatient and several were splashing forward, their club-tails lashing.

 	‘Maybe we should run,’ Sascha said, clutching at his arm.

 	‘I don’t think we’d make it very far,’ Dubnitz muttered.

 	As if it had overheard them, one of the creatures gave out a great cry and the others followed suit, slapping the water with their tails and stamping their feet. At the sight, one of the sailors sidled away from the bulk of the group, his face tense and pale with fear.

 	‘Don’t,’ Dubnitz said. The sailor didn’t listen. He turned and began to splash away, uttering prayers to Taal, Manann, and Sigmar as he ran. The mist seemed to solidify in front of the fleeing man and then the shape of one of the creatures lunged from it, incredibly swift. Talons fastened almost gently about the man’s head, cutting off his scream. The creature lifted the struggling man and the other things set up another howl.

 	‘Damn it let him go!’ Dubnitz roared, lunging forward. He had little hope of helping the sailor, but he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to try. His sword chopped into the rubbery limb and the thing shrieked, more in surprise than pain. It flung its arm out, knocking Dubnitz off his feet.

 	The stone maul wielded by the first of the beasts he’d encountered smashed down, spraying him with water and nearly mashing his head to paste. It drove him back, away from the one he’d attacked, swinging its maul out in short and brutal arcs. It didn’t seem to want to kill him so much as prevent him from interfering with whatever its companion was doing.

 	‘Erkhart, be careful!’ Sascha shouted, her brother holding her back.

 	‘What does it look like I’m doing?’ he yelled back. The maul dropped, nearly crushing his foot. Reacting swiftly, he stepped on the haft and half-threw himself forward, his sword slashing wildly at the glaring, single eye. The creature reared back and the sword barely missed its snout. It jerked the maul out from under him, tumbling him into the water with ease.

 	A massive three-toed foot slammed down on his chest, pinning him in the water. The creature looked down at him, and there was something that might have been respect in its eye. It gestured with its weapon.

 	The other creature loped towards the tumble of stone with its captive. It climbed up the stones, displaying none of the awkwardness its ungainly form would imply. As it reached the top, something bent and hidden within thick, sodden animal hides crawled out of the rocks to meet it. Despite the concealing skins, Dubnitz could tell that it was of the same race as the others, though wizened and perhaps crippled. It leaned on a staff and croaked something at the other. The sailor’s screams were muffled by the beast holding him.

 	The bent beast scooped up what looked like a length of crudely woven rope and set a noose around the writhing, whining sailor’s neck. Then, with a gurgling roar, the first creature sent the sailor tumbling from the stone. The rope pulled taut and the sailor smashed headfirst into the stone, leaving a new stain to join the old ones that Dubnitz had noted earlier.

 	The creatures howled, clawing at the air or gesticulating with their weapons. The one holding Dubnitz down stepped back, letting him climb slowly to his feet. Rubbing his aching chest, he backed away. The body of the sailor twisted in the muggy breeze, and its heels drummed on the stone.

 	Behind Dubnitz, Sascha gasped and turned away, leaning against her brother. ‘Stay close, all of you,’ Dubnitz barked as he rejoined the others. He swallowed thickly and put himself between them and the beasts that squatted, waiting.

 	Why weren’t they attacking? What were they waiting for?

 	‘Going to fight them all, Dubnitz?’ Fulmeyer called out, half-tauntingly, half-admiringly. ‘That doesn’t work. I know.’

 	‘Talk your way out of that noose as well, did you?’ Dubnitz shouted back. ‘A trade was it?’

 	‘And if it was? Is my life – our lives – worth any less than these fine, fancy folk?’ Fulmeyer said.

 	‘Yes, it is,’ Dubnitz said bluntly. ‘You’re noose-bound, human hangman or otherwise, if I have anything to say about it.’

 	‘Good thing you don’t, then,’ Fulmeyer said, laughing harshly. ‘The lords of the marsh will do for you!’

 	As the pirate cackled, the creature that had first confronted Dubnitz gestured with its maul and gave a querulous croak. Fulmeyer stopped laughing. More of the creatures emerged from the mist, appearing on the other side of the pirates’ skiff. Fulmeyer half-lifted the horn, and the creature bellowed. On the high stones, the wizened monster raised its staff and shrieked. The pirate flinched, like a beaten dog. Dubnitz grinned. ‘Will they now? Somehow, I think you spoke too soon, Fulmeyer.’

 	Dubnitz had seen enough to know that form and ritual were everything where sacrifices were concerned. If the creatures had bothered to bargain with Fulmeyer, they would abide by the rules they had laid down. It seemed that they wanted their sacrifices delivered to them, not just dumped on the doorstep.

 	Fulmeyer swallowed and hopped off the skiff. He drew his sword as he splashed forward, and gestured with the hand that held the horn. ‘Take them,’ he snarled, and his men moved forward, grimly intent, more than one of them darting a nervous glance at their monstrous allies. Dubnitz realised that he had been wrong earlier. It wasn’t an alliance; the river-pirates were simply hunting dogs and now they were being whipped to the kill.

 	Fulmeyer and a large, tattooed Nordlander closed on Dubnitz. ‘Don’t kill him,’ Fulmeyer growled. ‘They wouldn’t like that. Just get that sword out of his hand.’ He grinned in a feral fashion. ‘In fact, take the hand as well.’

 	The Nordlander roared and lunged, his boat-axe swooping down. He was bigger than Dubnitz, and wore a rust-riddled sleeveless suit of mail. Dubnitz lunged forward, and the axe blade skirted down the side of his cuirass at an angle, shaving the metal and creating an ache in Dubnitz’s chest. He smashed the pommel of his sword into the Nordlander’s face, busting teeth. The big man reeled with a moan and Dubnitz cut his leg out from under him. The Nordlander fell with a scream and Dubnitz stepped over him, moving towards Fulmeyer.

 	More pirates closed in, leaving their captives unattended. Armed and in a foul mood, Dubnitz looked more dangerous than a pack of terrified sailors. Fulmeyer barked orders, trying to regain control of the situation, but to no avail. Dubnitz swept his sword out in a wide arc, spilling red into the water. A pirate screamed and sank, clutching at his ruined hand. The heavy blade in the knight’s hand was little more than a cleaver with a pointed end; Dubnitz had grown to manhood in Marienburg’s tannery district, chopping through the muscle and bone of abattoir animals.

 	The pirates fell back after a few fraught moments, leaving the dead and dying in their wake. The creatures set up a cry and the mist seemed to vibrate with the frustration inherent in that sound. Fulmeyer’s eyes bulged and he half-lifted the horn.

 	‘Go on,’ Dubnitz wheezed. Sweat coated his face and his shoulders twitched with strain. His sword blade dipped towards the water. ‘Blow it, Fulmeyer. Send them back. Break your damnable bargain.’

 	Fulmeyer’s face hardened. ‘It ain’t that simple.’

 	‘No, it never is,’ Dubnitz said. His armour felt as if it had grown heavier. He looked up. The darkness at the edge of the mist had faded, turning from purple to pink. One of the creatures snarled something unintelligible and pointed a talon at Fulmeyer, who flinched and waved his sword.

 	‘I’ll do it, damn your eye! Our bargain stands!’ the pirate screamed. He charged awkwardly through the water towards Dubnitz. ‘Take him, you marsh-dogs! Take him or we’re all for having our brains dashed on those cursed stones! Take him before cock-crow!’ His sword rattled off of Dubnitz’s own hastily interposed blade. Several other pirates surged towards them, their obvious panic sharpening their faces to vulpine ferocity.

 	The creatures seemed to gather close, their heavy shapes moving towards the others. Dubnitz booted Fulmeyer in the belly and spun around. ‘Run!’ he roared. ‘All of you run!’

 	The sailors needed no prompting. They broke and fled, thrashing towards the skiff, the hale helping the wounded. Sascha, however, snatched up an axe from one of the dead pirates and promptly brained the closest of his still-breathing compatriots. Her brother punched another and jerked the stumbling man’s blade from its sheath. Dubnitz cursed. ‘Get to the boat you fools,’ he snarled, grabbing a pirate’s shirt and jerking the man forward so that their skulls connected.

 	‘Not without you!’ Sascha said waving her axe as her brother gutted a pirate.

 	‘I’ll be right behind you,’ Dubnitz said.

 	‘Then there’s no reason to hurry, is there?’ Sark said, driving a pirate back with a swift slash of his purloined blade.

 	‘You Averlanders are a stubborn bunch,’ Dubnitz said. The creatures were moving towards the skiff now. Before, they had been content to watch, but now they had been prodded into motion – why? Why the sudden urgency, Dubnitz wondered as he blocked a blow that would have sent him to his knees. Why were the pirates suddenly so desperate? ‘Cock-crow,’ Dubnitz said suddenly.

 	‘What?’ Sascha said.

 	‘Morning is coming! That’s why they’re so impatient!’ Dubnitz said. ‘If we can just hold on until morning…’

 	‘I don’t think they’re going to let us!’ Sark yelped. He staggered back as one of the creatures grabbed for him. Sascha screamed. Dubnitz turned and saw her backpedalling from a scaly shape that loomed over her. Before he could go to her, Fulmeyer stepped between them, his eyes wild. The pirate hacked at him with berserk abandon. Dubnitz was forced back, his arm and shoulder throbbing with fatigue-ache as he blocked the wild blows.

 	‘I’m not going into the mist!’ Fulmeyer howled. ‘Not me, you hear?’

 	‘I hear,’ Dubnitz grunted, as he caught another blow. His eyes found the horn, clutched in Fulmeyer’s manic grip. With a twist of his wrist, he sent the pirate’s sword sliding from his grip and rammed his shoulder into the other man’s chest. Fulmeyer staggered, and Dubnitz grabbed the horn, yanking it out of Fulmeyer’s hand.

 	‘No!’ the pirate screamed.

 	Dubnitz didn’t waste breath replying. Instead, he put the horn to his lips and blew. The note shivered out and the effect was nigh-immediate. The mist seemed to harden, as if frozen, and then it collapsed like a curtain that has had its straps cut. It sank and retreated, like the tide going out. The strange rock formations wavered like heat mirages and faded as the mist writhed past them. The rising sun glared down, its gaze suddenly no longer obscured by the daemon-sent mist.

 	As one, the creatures gave out a great cry. There was despair in that sound, and a resigned rage. They began to stagger away, covering their bulbous eyes and heads as well as they could. A foul-smelling smoke rose from those not quick enough to reach the mist and their screams caused every man’s heart to shudder. Only one didn’t retreat – the first, the beast clutching its stone-headed maul like a talisman. It rose over Sascha, reaching for her. It didn’t intend to return to the mists without one sacrifice, at least. She screamed and raised her axe.

 	‘Ho beast! That’s not the one you want,’ Dubnitz bellowed. Its triangular head whipped around. Dubnitz grabbed Fulmeyer and propelled him into the water near the beast. The pirate screamed and tried to run, but the maul flicked out, and bones turned to splinters and he fell, his legs rendered into ruined sacks. He coughed and whined and splashed as the creature stood over him, considering. Its eye found Dubnitz again.

 	‘Go on, take him you one-eyed son of a frog,’ Dubnitz said. His limbs trembled from his exertions and he wanted nothing more than to fall down. But he forced himself to stay upright. He extended his sword. ‘Take what you’re given, and go.’

 	The creature’s eye flashed with something that might have been a look of promise, and then it reached down and grabbed Fulmeyer by his scalp. The pirates who hadn’t fled found themselves in much the same predicament. Scaly, abnormally long arms shot from the retreating mist and grabbed ankles, elbows, heads and arms, jerking the terrified pirates into the mist they had earlier so eagerly sheltered in.

 	The creature hefted Fulmeyer, whose shrieks had dwindled to moans, and pointed at Dubnitz with its maul. Smoke billowed from its heavy shape as it held his gaze for a moment, and then it turned and stalked after its fellows, its club tail sending waves slopping against the side of the skiff.

 	Dubnitz watched it go, and when it had vanished and the mist had gone, he raised the horn and brought his sword down on it, shattering it.

 	‘Erkhart–’ Sascha began.

 	‘Get on the skiff,’ Dubnitz said hollowly. ‘We need to be far away from here by nightfall.’ Sascha and her brother got aboard the skiff, and Dubnitz followed slowly, looking back warily. The creatures might not come after them, but he couldn’t take that chance. He felt ill and tired. He hadn’t had a choice, and he wouldn’t weep for Fulmeyer and his crew, but it sat badly with him nonetheless. They had earned their ending, but he wished that he hadn’t been the one to deliver it in such a fashion.

 	Even pirates deserved better than that.

 	In the fading drifts of mist, Dubnitz thought he could see dim forms struggling, and hear distant screams and the thump of skulls on stone. Then he could hear nothing but the sounds of the Cursed Marshes, and the splash of the pole into the water as the skiff began its journey back towards the clean waters of the Reik.