At last, they followed Raine's sensed direction. The path wound through a scorched, twisted grove. The air's sickly-sweet stench grew so thick it felt tangible.
"That smell…" Karriion grumbled through his gauntlet, "it's like stuffing a hundred rotten goblins into one sock and letting it ferment for a century." His voice sounded muted in the syrupy air.
Raine did not answer. His complexion had worsened; cold sweat streamed down his brow, and his temples throbbed without pause. Yet he pressed forward, as if dragged by invisible strings. Lillia… Lillia must be just ahead…
Thalia trailed silently behind, her hood drawn low over her face, only her furrowed brow ever betraying her concern. She felt the drawing power ahead growing stronger—like a yawning trap exuding a putrid, rotten sweetness.
Beyond the blackened wood, the ground suddenly fell away. A sickening fetor struck them—far fouler and more direct than before. An immense swamp emerged before them: bruised-black bog oozing bubbling gases, fetid blends of sulfur and decayed flesh. The water's surface shimmered with oily, rainbow films and the wreckage of unknown creatures. Gnarled, half‑rotted roots writhed from the mire like dying hands.
"Blast it…" Karriion froze, expression twisted in revulsion. "Did we take a wrong turn? Even carrion grubs wouldn't dare come here."
"No… this is it." Raine's voice was hoarse but bright with fanatic certainty. He pointed into the swamp's depths. "I can feel… her… she's there…" The pull had never seemed clearer, never more irresistible.
Thalia stiffened. She sensed the drawing force's source in the black mire ahead—calling to them, exploiting Raine's deepest obsession. "Raine, be careful—this isn't right," she warned in a low tone.
But Raine heard nothing. He stepped into the swamp first. Instantly his boot sank ankle‑deep into the icy, viscous mud. Each stride demanded Herculean effort.
Karriion spat curses and followed. His heavy frame and armor pressed him deeper; he advanced by half‑dragging his legs. "I knew it! I knew following your 'feelings' would be trouble!" he grumbled, each word echoing across the mire.
Thalia moved more lightly, her shadow magic barely keeping her from sinking too deep. Yet her face grew starker with dread. The swamp's corrupt energies pulsed more intensely than in the wood—as if something monstrous lay hidden beneath.
After struggling forward for dozens of yards, the swamp's surface exploded! Scores of dark‑green, leech‑like worms shot up from the muck. Their heads were ringed with rasp‑toothed maws, bodies slick with slime, stench overwhelming. Corrupted leeches!
"Guard yourself!" Karriion roared, swinging his hammer. The heavy head smashed several leeches into a grisly pulp; globs of black ichor spattered everywhere.
Raine reacted too late—several leeches latched onto his greaves, their toothy maws scraping metal with high‑pitched "ssss" of corrosion. Though unable to pierce his armor, their wretched grip made his skin crawl. He drew his dagger and hacked clumsily at the slick creatures.
Thalia moved fastest: shadow‑forged arrows flew from her fingertips and struck the leeches. On contact, each collapsed into a puddle of oily blackness.
They'd repelled the first assault, but no relief came before an even graver threat surfaced. The swamp churned violently as though something leviathan stirred below!
With a roar, several tentacle‑thick, pitted gray-black limbs shot skyward from the bubbling depths. Coated in slime and pustules, they lashed toward the three like colossal serpents.
"Scatter!" Thalia cried. She danced aside just before a sweeping tentacle gouged the ground where she'd stood.
Raine tried to dodge, but the swamp hindered him. A limb brushed his side and hurled him off balance into the mire.
Karriion fared worst: huge tentacles coiled around his waist and legs like iron shackles. He grunted in pain as they dug in, the other flailing to crush his chest and head.
"Damn you, wretched mudbeasts!" Karriion bellowed, hacking wildly with his hammer. Each blow drove a tentacle back, but their uncanny resilience only tightened their hold. He felt their suction cups probing for weaknesses in his armor, pulling him ever closer to the swamp's hungry maw.
"Karriion!" Raine strove to rise but was stuck in the sucking sludge. He watched in horror as his ally was dragged toward death. He couldn't let that happen!
In desperation, Raine acted without thought. He shut his eyes and forced the last of his starlight to flare! He needed a vision—needed to see the tentacles' weakness—needed any scrap of clarity!
Wham! His head rocked under the fierce backlash—starlight counterstroke ripping through his mind! Excruciating pain scorched his nerves, but in that chaotic crucible, he caught a fleeting image: the base of one tentacle, just where it met the mud, bearing a raised, lighter‑colored node—a weakness!
"Thalia! Left side! Third tentacle! At the base!" Roaring through clenched teeth and agony, Raine managed the strained cry.
Thalia sprang into action. Even without Raine's call, she would have sensed that fracture—but his shout steeled her precision. She did not hesitate: her hand sliced through the fetid air and an arm-blade of shadow sprang forth! It struck the indicated spot in one clean stroke.
Shick! The tendril cleaved as though rotten wood, gushing black swamp‑blood. The wounded appendage writhed violently, its grip on Karriion slackening.
"Now, Karriion!" Raine's final gasp spurred him on—but the effort shattered his strength. The swamp's pull was relentless, and his consciousness slipped away as the backlash crowned.
Karriion roared defiantly, summoning every ounce of strength. With one massive wrench, he freed himself from the shattered tendril's grip and slammed his hammer into another. He yanked himself from the mire to safety by a twisted root.
But Raine—overcome by pain and power's recoil—collapsed. His vision went black. The agony and shards of vision overwhelmed him; he slumped like a puppet with its strings severed.
"Raine!" Thalia screamed. She darted to his side, her form a dark blur in the dying light of the tentacle‑tossed swamp. Kneeling, she checked his pulse, panic and dread etched on her face.
Around them, the swamp stilled again—only the echo of bubbling and the distant thrashing tentacles remained. Their terror had not vanished, only receded—for now.
Karriion staggered over, hammer still ready. His sturdy frame was drenched in muck and ichor. Breathing ragged, he gazed at Raine's unconscious form, then at Thalia's white-knuckled grip on his friend's wrist. His chest heaved.
He took in the fetid swamp, the toxic foliage, the lurking death beneath. Then he looked at his companions: Raine, half‑submerged in oblivion; Thalia, drained nearly to ghostly pallor; and himself, just escaped a watery grave. The true cost of this journey struck him like a hammer blow.
In the oppressive silence, Karriion found no words to breach the horror. Around them, the swamp's vile whispers resumed—a susurrus of corruption, of unending hunger, of lost souls. And beneath every breath of wind, he heard the softest, most mournful whimper of those shadows.
They survived—this time—but at a price none could ignore.