The combined parties left Three Fat Friars before noon. They enjoyed several days of relatively easy progress through the high pasturelands of northern Poitiers before the ground dropped lower and lower into the Psiss Marshes.
This extensive wetland proved to be as nasty and dangerous at they had heard. Their path was little more than a slippery game trail threading through a deadly maze of peat bogs, stagnant sloughs, and pools of deadly quicksand.
The trailsides were shrouded with thickets of hazel and massive tangles of creepers and bracken. Stands of birch, alder, and swamp pine obscured the cold northern sun. Many of these ancient trees were twisted into fantastic shapes with long branches resembling the grasping hands of dead men. Strands of gray moss hung nearly to the ground.
Worse still, the air was suffused with a foul stench far worse than the musty reek of decaying vegetation—more like that of a battlefield strewn with rotting bodies. Thurmond tied a rag over his mouth and nose. Several of the others immediately followed his example.
The Psiss insects were unrelenting in their assaults. Tiny blood-sucking midges swarmed over every inch of exposed skin. Huge, black, biting flies plagued horse and man. Dragonflies the size of small birds darted menacingly at their eyes.
By the end of the first day, the Adventurers were exhausted and miserable. The damnable swamp seemed to suck the energy right out of them. Their bodies itched from innumerable bug bites, and the foul odor seemed to have permeated their skins.
They began to search for a spot to make camp, but most of the ground was soggy with fetid swamp water. Finally, just as the long summer day was drawing to a close, they lucked upon a sedge covered hummock, dry and open enough for the party to spread their cloaks and blankets.
They divided into two groups. Roscoe’s people spread their blankets on one side of the hummock, Bart move his mercenaries to the other side. Roscoe observed this with a wary eye, for it signaled the distrust and potential hostility that lay between the two groups. That did not bode well for their mission.
Bart was sullen. Clearly uncomfortable around Sarah and Thurmond, he eschewed any unnecessary conversation with the Adventurers. He even kept apart from his own men, who he regarded as mere underlings undeserving of regard.
The Adventurers enjoyed a more accommodating spirit. The Gascars gathered wood, built a fire, and prepared a meal, while Thurmond and Sarah tended to the horses. Torgul scouted the surrounding area for signs of danger.
As they ate, the old Adventurer addressed Wat and Tuck.
“When we finish here, I want you boyos to make friends with that lot over there. We’re gonna need each other before this quest is over, so it won’t do to have us sittin’ and scowlin’ at each other. Think you can do that?”
Wat nodded.
“Sure, Roscoe—them are just soldiers like us. They won’t much care about the bad blood between the rest of you.”
“Well and good. I’ll send over a skin of wine I was savin’ for my own drinkin’. That should help ease things along.”
As bidden, the three archers joined Bart’s men around their campfire. As first, all went well. The wineskin was passed hand to hand, and they were soon laughing and exchanging coarse soldier jests. Roscoe’s strategy seemed to be working.
Then all went wrong.
The jovial banter was drowned by angry shouts and the smack of a fist striking flesh. A body was flung out of the dark to land squarely in the campfire, scattering sparks and hot coals in every direction. The figure rose, only to receive a savage kick in the sternum that sent him back in the blaze. This time, he rolled away from his assailant and regained his feet. It was Cob!
The archer’s adversary now stepped out of the shadows—one of Bart’s men, a burly sergeant-at-arms called Gorb. He stepped around the fire, looking to renew his attack, but Wat and Tuck rose and barred his way.
This brought the rest of the mercenaries to their feet. The three Gascars found themselves surrounded by the scowling faces of men with whom they had, only moments before, been drinking and laughing. A bloody battle seemed inevitable.
But before anyone could draw steel, Roscoe burst in among them, Torgul, Thurmond, and Sarah close behind.
“Here now! What’s this all about? Stand back, all of you! I’ll kill the first man who draws a weapon, no matter who it be! Is that understood?”
The men shuffled a few inches backward, none eager to test the mettle of the huge Adventurer.
Roscoe grabbed Cob’s arm and pulled him forward. The archer’s nose was bloodied, and a large bruise was forming on his cheek. Protected by his armor, he was not badly burned.
Roscoe glowered at his hireling.
“All right, Cob, how did this begin?”
“I was just tryin’ to show this man…”
He pointed to Gorb.
“…that what he was sayin’ was plain heresy. He wouldn’t listen, so I was…”
The Gascar was interrupted by Gorb’s angry ejaculation.
“Heresy, my arse! My family’s always been true believers. I tithe to the Blue Friars same as my father and grandfather. But this stinkin’ foreigner says only White Friars are proper Charonites—that I’m goin’ to Hell for thinkin’ different.”
This was an old story. The rivalry between the various Charonite sects often manifested as intolerance between their followers. Oceans of blood had been spilled in identical disputes.
Roscoe turned angry eyes on Cob.
“I told you before to stop this kind of shite, but I guess you didn’t hear me. Well, you better hear me now. You make one more problem, and I’ll leave you in this swamp without a horse or food or your bow or nothin’. Did you hear me this time?”
Cob nodded but said nothing.
“That’s right fine, Cob, so it is. Now, I want you to beg pardon from this soldier and swear that you won’t ever bother him with your nonsense again. You got that?”
Cob said nothing, just stood with eyes downcast.
The angrier Roscoe got, the calmer he became. His voice was now a cold, quiet whisper.
“Listen to me, laddie—this is your last chance. You’ll be out in the dark if you don’t speak up now. Better do as I say.”
The archer remained defiant.
Finally, Tuck interjected.
“Do it, Cob—do as the man says.”
Then Wat.
“He’s right, Cob—you better do it. You’re my sworn companion, but you brought this on yourself. If you get banished, Tuck and me, we ain’t goin’ with you. So, do it.”
Cob’s eyes were suddenly filled with terror. He had obviously never considered the possibility of being left alone. His voice, when he spoke, was contentious.
“All right—I shouldn’t have said nothin’. It’s just that…”
Roscoe stopped him cold.
“You ain’t beggin’ the sergeant’s pardon. Now do as you was told.”
With no other choice, Cob finally gave in
“I beg your pardon, mister. I won’t be botherin’ you again.”
Roscoe sighed in relief and turned to Gorb.
“Okay, he apologized and promised not to make no more problems. This quarrel is over—got that? Don’t be startin’ it up again, or you’ll get what I promised Cob.”
The old Adventurer raised his voice and addressed the group.
“What I just said goes for everybody. The only way we’re gonna survive this adventure is by workin’ together and lookin’ out for one another. This kind of bickerin’ just won’t do.”
There was some shuffling of feet, but no one raised his voice to object. They all knew Roscoe was right. Then Bart sneered at Roscoe.
“I would have let them fight it out, man to man. My Gorb could tear the balls off your preacher boy.”
The old Adventurer turned away in disgust. There was no point in arguing with this arrogant ass. Sooner or later, he knew, there would be a confrontation, but it would have to wait until they completed the task at hand.
Thurmond drew the third watch, the dark, forlorn stretch of night between the hours of the Twa Witches and the Deadman. Standing alone in the gloom, he thought he must go mad. There was too much noise—unseen creatures rattling the underbrush, twigs snapping, water gurgling and splashing. Sometimes he heard what sounded like distant voices
Weird blue lights winked on and off, first on one side, then on the other. Shadows shifted shape. Just before the end of his watch, Thurmond watched a pale, spectral figure drift across the sky.
The next day was much like the first—all bogs and bugs and stink. Fortunately, they encountered no ghouls, vampyres, or wraiths. Thurmond hated the region and inwardly renamed it the Piss Marshes.
Roscoe’s archers and Bart’s mercenaries put their feud behind them and resumed their soldierly bantering. Fighting was their trade, so they were seldom eager to draw steel unless they were getting paid for it. But all believed that a showdown between Thurmond and Drax was inevitable, and coin was secretly wagered on which would survive.
An unlikely friendship grew between Drax and Cob, the former being the only member of the company willing to tolerate to the proselytizing. On the second evening, the scout huddled with the archer to pray and receive instruction. The next morning, Drax was seen wearing the religious badge that had previously adorned Cob’s shoulder.
Whatever failings Drax possessed, he proved to be an excellent guide, bringing them through the marsh without mishap. And he was careful to keep his distance from all the Adventurers, Thurmond in particular. He clearly wanted to avoid a conflict.
Their track finally brought them back to solid ground, a barren expanse of low, weed-covered hillocks. This was the bleak Vanarian homeland. Countless small streams trickled into brackish pools from which man and horse were reluctant to drink. Kites screamed overhead and long-legged waders picked at the edges of the streams and pools, but no other wildlife did they see.
Roscoe searched the terrain for a landmark shown on Asmodeus’s map. He found it on a nearby hill—the foundations of a ruined fortress. The tumbled stones marked the northernmost boundary of the Etrusian Empire in its failed attempt to dominate the world. The party was exactly where they were supposed to be. Drax’s guidance had been spot on.