They stood at the edge of a wooden platform that jutted out over a stagnant swamp, the surface of which was broken only by dark, twisted stumps. Pale starlight flooded down, unimpeded by any canopy, reflecting off the murky water.
“Stay quiet,” said Rooke. “I’ll do the talking.”
His footsteps echoed on the wooden ledge, the muck sucking softly on its edges. The water shifted suddenly, and Emeline got the eerie impression they were no longer alone.
“Trespasser!” hissed a wet and rushing voice.
“Settle down, Bog.” The damp, sour air muted Rooke’s voice. “It’s me.”
Silence bled around them.
“Rooke?”The thing called Bog slurped his name, almost affectionately.
Up from the mire, Bog came. As if it were pulling itself together from the swamp bed. Its crude shape mimicked the body of a person—only it was thrice as big as a person—with lumps for shoulders, stones for eyes, and a gaping mouth.
Emeline stared at the muddy form rising out of the sludge, suddenly realizing what this was.An earth spirit?The only thing she remembered about the damp, crotchety things was that if you wandered into their territory without an offering, you weren’t wandering out again.
“What tasty morsel have you brought me?”
Bog smacked its muddy lips, swishing closer to the ledge.
Tasty morsel?
You’ve got to be kidding me.
This was why Rooke wanted her: he needed an offering to get past Bog. Rooke was going to feed her to this earth spirit.
Emeline stepped back quickly, gripping the ax in both hands, raising it in front of her.
“I will crunch her bones …”Bog’s voice rushed across the swamp. Mud rose up over the ledge of the platform, coming for Emeline, rising over her boots and up her ankles.
“… and suck her marrow …”
Before Emeline could turn and run, muddy hands grabbed hold of her calves, pulling her towards the swamp. She threw out her arms for balance, nearly dropping the ax, then felt a swift yank. She fell, bottom first, into the sludge covering the platform.
“… and slurp her blood.”
Bog dragged her towards the edge. It was going to suck her down into its depths.
At the last moment, Rooke stepped in front of Emeline, planting his feet in the mud between her and the swamp. “Not tonight, I’m afraid. I’m bringing her to the king.”
The pulling stopped.
With nothing to struggle against, Emeline fell back into the slop. It was cold and thick and smelled like rancid leaves. Struggling to sit up, she shoved muddy strands of hair off her face.Gross.
Bog turned his attention on the shiftling.
“You think to get free passage from me?”
“I’m paying the entry price,” said Rooke with a sigh. “For both of us.”
Before Bog could protest, Rooke drew a small knife from his belt and swiftly slashed the edge of the blade across his palm. He crouched down, held his thin hand out over the swamp, and squeezed it into a fist. Blood dribbled down, like a spool of red thread, unwinding into the water.
Immediately, Bog’s shape crumpled, seeping back into the swamp. A second later, its head came up—just below Rooke’s fist.
Bog surged upwards, locking its muddy claws around Rooke’s pale wrist, drawing his hand to its mouth. Emeline scrambled to her feet, watching in disgust as it sucked and sucked and sucked. Gorging on Rooke.
A sick feeling twisted in her stomach as Rooke’s thin shoulders hunched and his eyelids drooped, the life draining out of him. From nearby, a raven cawed anxiously.
