The Homunculus Knight

The Bogatyr and the Bog (Part 1)

“God of the Bog, he who preserves, he who provides, we offer this sacrifice in your name. Take this child of Gobavi into your dark embrace, and keep them whole until they might rise again.” - Partial Translation of the Gorrick carvings.

:: Years before Cole came to Glockmire ::

A goblin stood on the earthwork wall surrounding the village of Walek. Clad in shabby clothes and armed with a long spear, the goblin watched the marshland surrounding his home. His name was Dor, and guard duty had fallen to him this bleak sunless morning. Leaning against the wooden stumps sticking out of the wall’s top, Dor peered out across the endless bog his village bordered. Thick fog covered the soaked landscape, reducing Dor’s vision of the marsh to a vague impression. Not that that mattered much, Dor wasn’t relying on his eyes to tell if a threat was coming.

Scratching his pointed chin, Dor glanced back at Walek. The village was a collection of peat-roofed hovels that never seemed to dry out, even when a roaring peat-fueled fire warmed them. Dor absently watched as two of his neighbors loaded a rickety old wagon with peat stacks. Even during the current crisis, the sole resource of Walek was harvested, packed, and shipped. As the last bale of the rich dark earth was loaded, Bolek, one of the workers, gripped the hitched donkey’s bridle and started leading it towards the village gate.

Sighing, Dor slid down the earthwork embankment and headed for the gate. He opened the old wooden structure and watched as Bolek and two of his brothers, both armed with spears, guided the wagon out of the village. Shutting the creaking gate, Dor returned to his post, watching as Bolek headed east, away from the bog. All three men and their donkey moved quickly, trying to put some distance between themselves and the marsh. Dor didn’t blame them, the east road was a miserable ill-kept trail, but it was safer than being this close to the bog.

As Bolek’s caravan faded into the fog, Dor stared at the mist-wrapped bogland, willing the banks of stinking fog away. The fog didn’t oblige him, not that he expected it to. If Vlatka, the village witch, couldn’t drive off the fog, his idle hopes wouldn’t. When the final donkey’s hoofbeats finally faded away, Dor shut his eyes and listened. He had good hearing, even for a goblin. His large, slightly pointed ears were sensitive, earning him this job as the main watchman.

As he listened, Dor focused on the natural sounds of the bog, things he’d known his entire life. The buzzing of insects, the slithering of windblown grasses, and the call of birds. As Dor listened, he noticed an absence, a sound that should have been there but wasn’t. No frogs chirped or croaked, a small thing only someone looking for it would notice. It made a knot of cold, clammy dread fester inside Dor.

Ignoring the sensation, Dor slid down the earthworks and ran for one of the village hovels. Banging on the door, heart beating like a drum, Dor felt a new flicker of worry. What if he was wrong? What if he was overreacting and disturbed their guest for no reason? Shoving that doubt down, Dor stood by the door and waited; he’d accept any beatings if he were wrong, better than failing to alert the mercenary.

The door to the hovel creaked open, and a giant stepped out of it. Nearly twice Dor’s height, the giant was clad in leather armor and wore a grim expression on his monstrous face. He looked like no one Dor had ever seen, he was bigger than even the few humans who’d visited Walek, and his face was marked like a slave’s back. Vlatka, the witch, said the mercenary was human and not a true giant, but Dor had doubts.

Peering down at Dor, the mercenary rumbled. “What is it?”

Pointing towards the bog, Dor said. “I think they are coming. Don’t know for certain, but the frogs aren’t singing.”

The mercenary nodded his head and ducked back inside his borrowed hovel. After a few moments, he returned with an axe, not a wood axe, but a true weapon of war. The mercenary followed Dor toward the walls. In a rumbling, accented voice, he said. “Please go alert your shaman; I will hold the walls if need be.”

Leaving the village's strange guest, Dor headed towards the witch’s hut. While he’d never admit it, Dor was glad to be given another task. He’d fought on the walls before and had no desire to repeat the experience. Reaching Vlatka’s hut, Dor reached out to knock on it but was stopped by the carved wooden door swinging open. The witch stood before him, hunched over with age and weighed down with talismans; a gnarled staff of swamp wood gripped in equally gnarled hands.

She pushed past Dor and started shuffling towards the walls. In a voice like creaking rafters, she said. “You did well, young Dor; go get every spear in the village. This is going to be a big one.”

At those words, Dor felt like someone had poured the foulest bog water into his stomach. Running as fast as his spindly legs could carry him, Dor banged on every occupied hovel, crying that they were under attack. Soon thirty goblins armed with spears, axes, pitchforks, and other crude weapons were assembled at the base of the village walls. Vlatka, the mercenary, and the village headman Milovan stood on the walls, watching the marsh and exchanging hushed words.

Gripping his spear tight, Dor watched them talk and felt a tremor of doubt go through him. If he’d been wrong somehow? Oh, his grey-brown skin would be tanned a few shades darker. Then as if to put his worries to rest and breed a whole new batch, a scream echoed out from the wilderness. Over thirty heads swiveled east in the direction of the scream, in the direction Bolek’s caravan had gone.

Dor looked back to the walls, hoping for any reassurance from his leaders, just in time to see the mercenary vault over the wall and leave the village. Shock turned to rage as Dor’s sensitive ears heard the cowardly giant run away.

Apparently, his thoughts were shared, Liba, a hotheaded fisherwoman, jabbed her trident at the gate. “That maggot-spawned mercenary! He’s running away after we paid him?”

Milovan looked down at her; the old goblin frowned and barked. “You gone stupid, Liba? He’s gone to rescue Bolek; besides, he’s not a mercenary.”

The rebuked fisherwoman spat on the ground but said nothing else. Soon Milovan had them up on the walls, watching for any sign of the mercenary or the caravan. By some stroke of misfortune, Dor found himself partnered with Liba. She was angry at being rebuked and looking for an excuse to express that ire. Liba had always been bad, but she'd been especially nasty ever since her brother died. So Dor just kept quiet and let her pace up and down their section of the wall. Liba was a sure recruit for the Kozaks the next time they came through looking for new sword arms. She had the right mix of cruelty, anger, and something to prove the Tzar and Boyars liked in their fighters. As Dor tried to avoid her wrath, he comforted himself with the knowledge if they were really attacked, he could leave the real fighting to her.

Pacing back and forth, Liba hissed her complaints. “I bet the giant is involved with this! We were being attacked for barely a week, then he shows up and meets with Vlatka. Then he’s sleeping in one of our hovels and eating our food. This is a plot, I know it; he’s a bloatfly looking for a handout!”

Dor just stayed silent, choosing not to voice the fact the mercenary was sleeping in a nearly abandoned hovel they’d been using as storage. Or that he’d paid for what little dried fish and hard bread he’d eaten. Liba was not one for logic in the best circumstances, and Dor had already avoided several potential beatings today.

Eventually, Liba whirled on him and asked. “Milovan says he’s not a mercenary; if not, then what is he?”

Seeing the only escape from her was to leap over the wall or answer, Dor shrugged. “I dunno, maybe he’s one of the boyar’s Boe-kholopi?”

Liba started to dismiss that, but after a pause, she considered the notion. “A warrior-slave?”

Dor nodded. “Yes, one sent by the Boyar to help us; it would make sense with the headman and witch accepting him.”

Before this could be given more thought, another scream echoed through the bogland. Dor and Liba whirled, gripped their weapons, and looked over the wall for any threat. They couldn’t see anything, but they could certainly hear something. A gurgling bellow answered by a foreign warcry, both drowned out by a tortured scream. More roars, groans, and screeches echoed through the fog, slowly dying away as whatever was happening ended. Silence reigned on the mire, and the defenders of Walek waited for any sign of what happened.

The low creaking of wagon wheels came through the fog, and the villagers watched as Bolek’s cart trundled into view. The donkey was gone, replaced by the mercenary, who hauled the cart up to the village gate. In the wagon’s back were three bodies, each bloody and ragged. Calling out to them, the mercenary said. “Two of your people still live; please open the gate.”

A few goblins hurried to oblige, and soon the wagon was within the village. Dor and Liba joined the curious throng watching the mercenary’s arrival. The mercenary’s arms were smeared with some dark substance, and he stunk like the most fetid patch of bog water. His axe hung from his hip, its blade stained and dripping something Dor knew wasn’t blood.

Vlatka set into motion, ordering villagers to gather the herbs and potions she’d need from her hovel while she examined the rescued goblins. Bolek and his brother Jug were alive; their youngest sibling Cedo was dead. Both living goblins were pale and clammy. Their clothes and hair were soaked with stinking water, and both showed signs of fighting. One of Bolek’s legs was broken, twisted at a bad angle like something had gripped his ankle and yanked with incredible force. Jug was covered in scratches, the skin on his arms shredded where he’d tried to defend himself. Cedo was missing much of his throat; a final scream etched onto his marred face.

Stepping back towards the gate, the mercenary rolled his shoulder and unsheathed his axe. Liba and Dor looked at each other, realizing that this wasn’t over. Liba reacted first, running after the mercenary, a gleam of war-lust in her eyes. Dor hesitated but followed after, planning to stay by the gate and shut it if need be.

Sighing, Dor knew what Liba was thinking. If the guest weren’t a mercenary but a trusted boe-kholopi, then fighting at his side would allow Liba to earn the boyar’s attention. Reaching the gates, Dor stood by them, watching the two warriors leave the village's safety. Ahead of them, at the edge of vision, something moved in the fog, a whole lot of something.

Eyes wide, heart beating loud enough, Dor was certain others would hear it; he watched as things materialized out of the thick fog. Withered, hunched-over creatures with peat-black skin and wrinkled uncanny faces. There were a dozen of them; each misshapen in a unique and horrible way. Dor knew what they were; every member of the village knew. They were Vadnuti, Bog Ghouls, the cursed remains of everyone lost in the marshes depths.

The mercenary unsheathed his axe and did something to it; Dor watched with wide eyes as the weapon’s hilt extended, turning the war axe into something like a bardiche. Holding his magic polearm ready, the mercenary roared something in an alien tongue.

“MAGNI MORTAE MUNDUS”

The Vadnuti answered with a gurgling wail, a sound like a child being drowned in marsh water. Then as one, the twelve ghouls charged the mercenary, loping along the ground with jerky, erratic movement. The mercenary didn’t meet the charge; in fact, he did the exact opposite. Grabbing Liba, and ran for the gate. The fisherwoman was too stunned to protest and was carried by the giant with one hand. Reaching the gate, the mercenary shoved Dor aside and dropped Liba with a modicum of gentleness. Gripping onto the wood of the gate, the mercenary whispered words, and a puff of frost escaped his lips.

Dor watched, too stunned to react, as the Vadnuti reached the open gate, scrambling for the entrance and the mercenary's flesh. The first of the pack, a long-limbed corpse that scuttled along the ground on malformed legs, slammed into an invisible barrier, a handspan away from the mercenary. Stopped by some enchantment laid on the threshold of the town. The Vadnuti crumpled against the barrier, unable to escape as it's attacking kindred crushed it against the arcane wall. All twelve Vadnuti were stopped by the magic, and the eleven surviving ones limped away from the barrier.

Slithering back, the Vadnuti regrouped, watching the mercenary with empty eye sockets. They shrieked that same horrible gurgling cry and loped off into the bog, fading into the murk. The mercenary let out a relieved sigh and stepped away from the gate. Letting a recovered Dor and Lida shut and bolt it.

Breathing heavily, the mercenary looked at the two goblins and said. “Thank you for your help; I’m sorry for not telling you my plan.”

Liba was irate at being handled like a bale of peat and was barely containing herself. “What the gog was that! What did you do, boe-kholopi?”

The mercenary looked at her with bafflement, clearly not understanding the word. “I… don’t know what that means. But I reinforced the protective spells your shaman put on the wall.”

Dor looked between Liba and the mercenary. “You can use magic?”

Looking down at his filth-stained forearms, the mercenary nodded. “Just a little; your shaman’s workings did most of the work; I just made them… harder.”

Eyes narrowed, Liba asked. “Who are you? Some Sidhe Knight summoned here by Vlatka?”

The mercenary’s face twitched at the word knight but settled into something like mild annoyance. “I’m Cole, a servant of Master Time, not a Faerie.”

Liba asked. “Master Time? What sort of title is that? Is he some Western boyar?”

The scarred human, if he was human, almost smiled at that. “It’s the name of a god, the one I serve.”

Liba actually spat on the ground. “Then you are a pagan.”

Cole shrugged and started climbing the earthworks to see over the wall. “To you, I guess I am.”

Liba shook her head and stalked off, clearly disappointed that this ‘Cole’ wasn’t her riding horse to glory and fame. Dor glanced towards the village, where the two surviving brothers had been taken to Vlatka’s hut for treatment. Most of the assembled militia had returned to whatever they’d been doing before the call to alarm, clearly believing the threat was settled.

Gulping down bile, Dor followed Cole up the earthworks; he was still technically on guard duty. He found Cole peering over the wall towards the gate. Dor mimicked the act, hoping to see what Cole was looking at. He succeeded and instantly regretted it as cold fear filled him. The body of the crushed Vadnuti was gone.

Cole sighed and rubbed his stained hands on the wooden palisade. “This is going to be difficult.”

No one had left or entered Walek in two weeks; every attempt to leave the village ended in tragedy. At best, forced back behind the walls by waves of Vadnuti. At worst, they disappeared into the bog before Cole could intervene. The witch-warrior, as some of the villagers took to calling him, could tip the balance in any skirmish he fought in, but he couldn’t be everywhere. More than once, a night watchman was picked off the wall. Dragged screaming into the dark for the crime of leaning over the palisade.

While the walls kept the surviving villagers safe for now, food was becoming an issue. They still had enough to feed everyone, but that wouldn’t last. Even with eleven fewer mouths to feed, Walek would soon go through their winter reserve. Something that would normally terrify Dor, but he doubted they’d live long enough to starve in winter’s embrace.

Every night, Cole, Vlatka, and Milovan engaged in a hushed conference that other villagers were occasionally invited to. The exact purpose of their discussion was unclear, but they were clearly looking for something in the bog, at least judging by the questions Cole asked. The secrecy and worried expression Milovan wore near-constantly did little to improve morale. Liba and a few others were convinced the witch-knight and village witch were preparing some sort of ritual. One that would require a true offering, a sacrifice of blood and life to earn the Three Queen’s aid.

Eventually, the day the first cellar ran dry, a decision was reached. Vlatka and Milovan assembled the village, ready to make their announcement. In her creaky voice, Vlatka said. “An ancient evil has besieged us for too long. With the help of our guest, Milovan and I have come up with a plan. We know the source of this foulness and think we can destroy it. It is deep in the bog, and we need good fighters to help us reach the heart.”

Milovan stepped forward then and pointed to different members of the village. “Liba, Borka, Sana, Elyar, Zorg, and Dor. You will help Vlatka and Cole reach the source of this corruption and deal with it.”

Dor blanched and, in a weak voice, asked. “W-why me?”

Vlatka explained. “You have the best hearing; you might give us the few seconds we need before an attack.”

Nodding, Milovan said, “We will prepare tonight and leave tomorrow morning. If you move fast, you should be able to reach the source and return before nightfall.”

Another spurt of fear filled Dor’s already panicked mind. The idea of being stuck out in the bog at night was… horrible. Even weighed down with terror, Dor joined the preparations. A lifetime of ignoring his fear had taught him well, and Dor did his best not to let anyone know how scared he was. But as he met with his fellow chosen, Dor realized his efforts might be slightly wasted. All of the goblins except Liba stunk of barely contained fear.

Walek had little in the way of weapons and armor, but their ‘champions’ were given the best the village could provide. Dor found himself clad in weaved armor older than he was, with an iron-reinforced leather cap drooping over his receding forehead. He kept his trusted spear and buckled on a dagger, his sole inheritance from his dead drunkard of a father. Looking over himself and his fellows, Dor felt nauseous; they didn’t look like warriors, just bodies meant to absorb arrows meant for their betters. Looking up at the hulking mercenary, Dor guessed they were properly dressed then.

In the village center, Dor and the other goblin ‘warriors’ watched as Vlatka drew a map of the marsh in the damp dirt. It was a familiar sight, with different landmarks easily recognizable to Dor. He would have drawn a similar map if asked, except for one addition Vlatka was currently pointing to. A crudely drawn skull in the center of the bog.

The witch explained, “That is our goal; it is the heart of the curse and the source of our woes. If we can reach it, then Cole and I can destroy it; you all have to just help us get there.”

Elyar, the youngest of the selected, a skilled bog runner who’d escaped Vadnuti before, asked. “And get back, right?”

Vlatka smiled, her missing teeth showing in a crooked grin. “That would be good, but even if we didn’t, once the curse is stopped, our village will survive.”

Cole frowned at that and said. “I will do all I can to ensure we all return from this mission.”

Tapping the marked curse center, Cole continued. “There is an old evil in this bog; now that it’s awake, it will keep sending the Vadnuti after this village until it's stopped.”

Frowning, Dor asked. “What woke it up? You said it's old, and now it's awake, so what woke it up?”

Liba snorted. “Who cares? How do we destroy it?”

Vlatka’s smile faded momentarily, but she said, “With magic, either mine or Cole’s, preferably both.”

Crossing her arms, Liba asked. “Why should we trust some pagan’s magecraft? He worships weak gods, so his magic must be weak.”

Vlatka struck out with her staff, smacking Liba with its gnarled head. The headstrong goblin stumbled back, and for a moment, Dor saw murder in her eyes. It vanished as she regained control and rubbed the struck spot.

Glaring at Lida, Vlatka brandished her staff. “Our guest is a pagan but also the Paladin of a foreign God. His God commanded him to aid us; we should not shirk a divine gift, even if it is pagan.”

Cole looked distinctly uncomfortable; his mutilated face twisted in a grimace. Dor had never heard the word Paladin before and wondered if there was something shameful about the title. Before his wits could win out against curiosity, Dor asked. “What’s a Paladin?”

Vlatka let out a sigh laden with her disgust for Dor’s ignorance. “It’s like a Bogatyr, except different.”

That got everyone's attention. A Bogatyr was a holy knight blessed by the Gods to destroy their enemies. Dor exhaled slowly, finding the faintest ember of hope kindled inside him. If they had a Bogatyr, even one sworn to weak gods, then this quest might not be doomed.

True to the plan, they left at first light. Armed and equipped, the expedition stepped through the gate and left the village's safety. In the murky dawnlight, the bog somehow looked even more dangerous than the day the Vadnuti charged the gate. Foggy wetlands stretched out ahead of them in a soaked landscape promising all manner of horror.

Liba led the group, with Cole behind her, the rest clustered around Vlatka, while Dor followed, his sensitive ears covering the rear. They found the old bog trail easy enough. Even after a month of no use, the path generations of villagers used was still there. Something about that comforted Dor; he’d half expected the bogland to be twisted somehow. But as they traveled along the trail, it was clear they were in the same bog his ancestors had fished and harvested for as long as anyone remembered.

Dor was clearly not the only one set at ease by this. Whispered conversation started between some of the other goblins as they skulked through the bog. Their path was the top of a small ridge between two stretches of shallow bog water. A layer of springy moss covered the path, letting the group travel quickly and quietly.

Unfortunately, the trail extended only so far, and the expedition was forced into the ankle-deep mire. Liba led them through the shallowest sections, moving between dry outcroppings and avoiding the occasional murky patch of water. Dor’s head constantly moved, trying to pick out any abnormal sounds in the marsh cacophony. The buzz of insects, hiss of grass, and croak of frogs was surprisingly loud. It comforted Dor; they were safe as long as the frogs kept singing.

The group clambered over a patch of slick grass and headed for a gap in the reed-choked marshland. Fog-dampened vegetation and uneven footing made for slow going, with Cole hampering their progress. He wasn’t a bog goblin, and his sheer size prevented him from using many of their tricks. Not that he was a complete oaf like Liba seemed to think. Dor noticed the ‘Paladin’ was quick on his feet and was adapting well for someone twice a goblin’s size.

Passing through the space in the reeds, they found a large stretch of open bog, with scant few patches of land sticking out of the water. Dor knew the place; it was a good spot to fish and catch frogs. Stepping out in the water, it came up to every goblin’s waist and Cole’s thighs. It was deeper than any section they’d traversed before, and swirling muck obscured the marsh floor.

As they reached roughly halfway between the reeds and the next bit of land, Dor stopped and listened. It was hard to hear with everyone wading through the water, and he wanted to check the frogs. They weren’t singing; nothing was making noise except for their group. Holding his spear out, Dor looked to the group, about to shout a warning, when he saw something that rattled his innards.

A pair of withered peat-black arms were sticking out of the water a few strides ahead of him, right about to grab Sana. Dor froze, a scream trying to force itself out of his throat. As the hands struck, Sana screamed for him. The Vadnuti gripped her arms and pulled her down. The group spun to see Sana disappear into the waist-deep murk, bubbles, and roiling mud marking her location.

Elyar shrieked and swung at the patch of bubbles with his axe; as he did, something grabbed one of his legs and pulled it out from under him. The bog runner didn’t have time to renew his scream as he was yanked into the mire. As true panic started to grip Dor, Cole arrived in a splash. The Bogatyr, if he truly could be called that, shoved a hand into the roiling mud and yanked.

Cole pulled Sana from the muck, tossing her like a bale of peat toward Vlatka. Three stringy crumpled arms lunged out of the water for Cole, his axe tore apart one, but the other two gripped his leather armor and pulled him off balance. Cole tried to recover himself just as another Vadnuti exploded out of the muck, leaping onto the Bogatyr like some overgrown bloatfly. Trapped between the grasping arms and clawing grappler, Cole kicked and cut, slashing out with his axe and limbs.

Dor finally broke out of his terror then and stepped forward, ramming his spear tip down into the water where the arms originated. Something in the muck spasmed, and the grip on Cole’s legs slackened. The Bogatyr gripped onto the Vadnuti, clinging to his back, and yanked. Dead flesh gave way, and the Vadnuti’s head sailed away. Freeing himself, Cole gave Dor the briefest nod and sloshed towards where Elyar had disappeared.

Freeing his spear, Dor waded towards the group as fast as he could. Finding Liba, Borka, and Zorg hacking apart a Vadnuti pinned by Liba’s fishing spear. As the bog monster ‘died,’ its body dissolved, melting into damp peat the three goblins kept swinging at for a few seconds. Upon realizing they were victorious, Liba pulled her spear free and brandished it at Dor.

“YOU! Why didn’t you warn us!”

Before Dor could come up with an excuse, a scream came from nearby, followed by the sound of something heavy crashing into the water. A few seconds later, Cole appeared from behind a thicket of reeds; a bloody Elyar slung over one shoulder. Seeing them, he gestured towards the nearest patch of land and barked. “Keep moving!”

The goblins obliged, Zorg picking up the stunned Sana and carrying her as they rushed through the water. Gurgling screams cut through the air, loud enough to be heard over their panicked flight. The group scrabbled onto the rise in the bog and watched as Cole ran towards them, shapes in the water coming after him.

Dor’s eyes widened as he tried to understand what he was seeing. Patches of darkness swam through the shallow water, chasing Cole like hungry dire pike. It was impossible for anything that big to swim like that in a bog, but the shadows didn’t seem to care what was possible. One surfaced from the water, exploding out in a tangle of rot-blackened limbs and howling hate. Not even stopping, Cole swung his axe and knocked the Vadnuti away, sending part of its skull in a different direction. The thwarted Vadnuti fell back into the water and vanished beneath it.

Cole reached the patch of ground then and dropped Elyar next to Dor before turning back to the water. The air grew bitterly cold, and Dor’s wet clothes went from uncomfortable to dangerous. A puff of hoarfrost escaped the Bogatyr as he dropped onto his knees and thrust his hand into the water. Ice shot out from where he touched, spreading over the water like fire on dry tinder.

The shadows shied away from the ice, but some were too slow; they surfaced as the ice swallowed them. The Vadnuti were screaming masses of flailing limbs, unable to escape the cold. When Cole pulled himself out of the ice, he stumbled back onto the ‘dry’ ground. Leaving a huge semicircle of frozen bog and frozen Vadnuti in his wake. Sucking in heaving breaths, the Bogatyr slumped back on the damp grass. Dor was suddenly pushed aside as Vlatka reached Elyar. Dor had almost forgotten about his injured comrade and looked down at the rescued Goblin. He regretted it instantly; much of Elyar’s shoulder was gone, the meat torn away, and flashes of white bone were visible beneath the incredible amount of blood.

Vlatka took one look at the wound and cursed. Kneeling down the best her old bones allowed her, she put a hand on Elyar’s head and muttered a spell. Elyar slipped into unconsciousness, his eyes rolling back into his head, his panicked breaths slowing.

With steady hands, Vlatka unsheathed a knife from somewhere in her robe and slit Elyar’s throat. Hushed words drowned out Elyars gurgles as Vlatka gave final rites. “Queen Crone, take this child of yours. Know his truth and judge him right.”

As Elyars died and his soul was freed, Cole had recovered enough from whatever magic he’d used to approach. Fury boiled off him like storm clouds, and he growled. “Why did you do that? He could have been-”

Holding up a hand, Vlatka glared at him. “He was already dead; blood loss or infection would have killed him. My magic couldn’t save him, and we’d lose valuable time waiting for him to die; it was better this way.”

Anger melted to sadness on Cole’s face, and he said. “I’m sorry I didn’t rescue him faster.”

Vlatka shrugged, seemingly off-put by his words. Looking at Dor, she asked. “You! Why didn’t you warn us.”

Shrinking away, Dor stuttered. “The wa-wa-water, we-we were ma-making too much noise; it wasn’t easy to hear anything.”

Frowning, Vlatka accepted that excuse and got up from her place by Elyar’s body. “We will leave the body here; we must keep moving.”

Sana had recovered slightly, and the rest of the goblins were stressed but uninjured. Dor didn’t know how far they had until they reached the heart of the curse, but he hoped they were close. He didn’t know how many more attacks like that they could survive.