Page 33 of Crownless Heirs

“It’s nice to meet you, Pluk and Hob,” Sorcha replied, extending her hand. However, the creatures looked at each other and then back at her.

She awkwardly pulled her hand back and continued, “I’m Sorcha, this is Maelan and Kyron.”

“Husband,” Maelan added.

Pluk then looked at Kyron, “and you are...?”

“Chosen fool,” Maelan added with a smile.

Sorcha turned every shade of red imaginable, while Kyron seemed perfectly fine with it and turned to Maelan, “I was her lover first, you know.”

“Don’t be a sore now, because I proposed first,” Maelan retorted.

The bog creatures watched in amusement. Hob was about to ask more questions on the subject when Sorcha interrupted, “Which way is to the ferryman?”

Pluk pointed North, Hob pointed West, and another creature named Tank swore it was East. “You idiots couldn’t tell your hind end from your mouths. Follow my direction,” Tank declared.

“And you’re as old as the damn bog itself, obviously your mind’s not right; it’s this way,” Pluk shouted at him.

Maelan, Sorcha, and Kyron watched, trying to decide which direction was correct, as Hob waved his arms around.

“It was nice meeting you all, but I think we’ll head out on our own,” Sorcha interjected.

All heads turned toward her, a mix of grunts and nods as they vanished into the mud one by one.

Pluk approached Sorcha and smiled a big, toothy grin. “This was fun, let’s do it again sometime soon?”

“And how would I find you again?” Sorcha’s eyebrow raised in question.

“Get yourself in the mud and call us out by name. I’ll find ye,” Pluk nodded and leapt away.

Sorcha exhaled loudly, turning to Kyron and Maelan, “That was odd.”

“It’s their least menacing thing we could encounter in a bog, thank the gods that’s all that was here,” Kyron replied.

As they traversed the bog, the guardians’ heads would casually emerge, observing them and attempting to guide their path. They wandered in circles for at least an hour before Pluk surfaced.

“Want my advice?” he called out. “Go that way.”

Maelan glanced at Sorcha, exclaiming, “I’m going to start stepping on them!”

Pluk chuckled heartily and pointed at Maelan. “I like you.”

He vanished once more, and Sorcha followed his suggestion. As they ventured through the mist, Pluk repeatedly appeared, advising them to disregard the others and press onward. Upon breaking through the mist, the river reappeared once more, still and silent, and a figure began to materialize. Pluk disappeared as the River Man stepped forth from the mist.

He was tall and unnaturally thin, his body draped in robes that looked centuries old, their edges unraveling into air. Pale skin stretched tight over bones, his fingers long and webbed, the nails dark and ridged. His eyes were deep and sunken things that fixed on them with a stillness that caused Sorcha to step back.

“You seek passage,” he said, deep and distant.

Maelan stepped forward, his shoulders squared, eyes unwavering. “We do.”

The River Man’s gaze swept across them like someone cataloging items in a ledger. When his attention landed on Sorcha, his expression didn’t change, only pausing as if noting her presence before returning to what mattered. His eyes fixed on Maelan again.

“One must pay a price.”

“What is the cost?” Maelan asked hesitantly.

The River Man didn’t answer right away. Instead, he lifted one long, skeletal finger and made a slow, graceful motion through the air and then pointed.