Running. Screaming. Sweating.

His heart pounding in his chest. Blurred vision, gnarled trees and twisted shadows. Chest heaving; rising and falling with exertion.

The stench of Blyorhof Marsh, like all of Sylvania, was repulsive, soaking into his clothes, into his hair, his skin, till he was saturated with the damp, stagnant smell. Crows cawed overhead, tracing their uncertain passage through the marshes, stalking them through the overcast clouds.

Mist swept around him and his men like some ethereal monster. It laid its clammy touch on their flesh, chilling them to their bones. Figures moved in the mist, ghostly and nightmarish. He watched with wide eyes as his father materialised in the cloudy wreathes before him, or some mockery of his father’s figure. He watched as the man was torn apart by a swarm of hellish creatures, all flailing limbs and gnashing teeth. He had cried out and fled deeper, haunted by the recurring image, and worse still, which danced in and out of the mists.

The light was weak and watery, diluted by the constant fog and spidery trees. Even at midday, shadows scattered the uneven ground like monstrous black insects. They scuttled toward him, pincers flashing, chittering horribly, such that he could not rest for more than a minute less they catch up with him.

And the night.

The eerie darkness was alive with strange, unearthly cries, like those of the big cats which he could remember from his visit to the Altdorf Zoo. They brought the hairs on the back of his neck to attention. Flickering lights could be observed, dancing in the distance, sometimes to the left and sometimes to the right. Even when he shut his eyes, and cowered beneath the perpetual fog, he could see them, and more still. Black-skinned warriors, their flesh like midnight, would stalk his dreams, spears and arrows in their grasp, hatred burning in their eyes. Their faces would be painted like savages, with whites and reds, and the skull-faced warriors would chase him relentlessly, bestial howls on their lips, till he could run no further and they stabbed him and pierced him with arrows and he woke screaming.

His clothes were torn and bedraggled. His hair a greasy mop. Grime and swamp-water covered his face, and dripped from his sodden garments. He had long since lost his sword, dropped in the initial retreat, when he had tripped and fallen head-first into a pool of swampy water. He could still remember the dank touch of the liquid as it had threatened to suck him under and fill his lungs.

He had fallen countless times since then. Each time, his scuffed boots sinking into treacherous earth, which was not earth at all but dirty brown water, and he would slip with a startled cry into the greedy swamp. Each time he had scrambled free. Each time, he had cursed and fled.

All he could remember was the stench, the mist, the night, and the eternal swamp.

A savage, skin black as tar, leapt suddenly before him. It screamed in its native tongue, its painted skull-face contorting into a fierce snarl. Pointed spear in one hand, it thrust forward, the blade passing straight into his heart, and out the other side. Agony flared up inside of him.

He cried out and collapsed, whimpers escaping his throat. Seconds became minutes. The pain seeped away. He looked tentatively down, tears creeping down his cheeks. There was no wound. No blood. No spear. No savage. The nightmare dissipating, he staggered to his feet.

Then suddenly, a crack to the back of the head.

Blackness engulfed him. A deep, thickly-accented voice echoed in his mind as he slipped from the world.

‘Lady Crocodile gon’ bite your face off.’

*

He awoke to the sound of drums.

They reverberated in his head, again and again, again and again. A groan escaped his lips. Where was he? He shifted uncomfortably; the floor was hard, and wooden. A single torch lit the room, its flame dancing in a draft.

Struggling into a vaguely upright position, he realised with a start that his arms and legs were bound. Thick rope held him still, and chaffed his skin at the slightest movement. Desperately, he glanced around for some source of inspiration. He had to escape!

The room was more like a shack than anything he had ever been in before. Its walls were wooden and looked hastily built; small cracks and gaps in the wood accounted for the draft he had noticed already. Each corner of the room was cluttered with a myriad of differently-sized clay pots, and to his right, in a pile on the floor lay a bundle of animal furs. Some looked as though they might have belonged to wolves, once, but others he could not place. The wolf-hides were more than accountable - this accursed land was overridden with the mangy beasts. But the yellowish furs, mottled with black marks, and the jet black hides… He could not place their origins. Wherever he was, he decided with resolution, he would remain here no longer.

Crawling over to lay beneath the flickering torch, he carefully struggled to his feet. His clothes, although damp, were not the sodden mess he remembered them as, and for the first time he wondered just how long he had been lying there, unconscious, on the floor. He could well have been here for days. He doubted the state of his clothes was anything to go by. They would probably take a week or more to dry, after the state they were in.

Turing around and leaning back, he placed the ropes into the fire. The heat was almost too much to bear on his flesh, but he gritted his teeth against it and endured.

Outside, the drum beat persisted.

The unmistakable stench of burning stole over him, and with a small cry he fell forwards. Straining against the smouldering rope, he felt something give, and with a grunt he shook them off. His hands were red and sore, but he didn’t care. He was nearly free!

Taking the torch off its support in the wall, he touched it to the ropes which bound his feet. His damp leather boots and ragged clothes offered much more protection against the heat and in less than a minute he was free of those ropes too. Face set in grim determination, he set the torch back on the wall and made for the door.

He opened it slowly and stepped cautiously out, conscious that he must not be seen. He was greeted by a vast expanse of empty blackness, and the glare of the twin moons. They peered ominously down, casting vile shadow on the land below.

As his eyes slowly adjusted to the never-ending darkness, figures and buildings became apparent. The hut he had emerged from stepped out onto a walkway, which trailed off into the distance. Other huts were similarly joined by walkways, and the realisation of where he was struck him like a thrown rock: he was still in the Bylorhof Marshes. Why else would the buildings need to be raised off the ground, but to protect them from the watery, treacherous earth? Risking several steps forward, he peered over the edge of the walkway, and sure enough, a stagnant pool of water rotted away beneath his feet.

Backing up into the shadows and cover offered by the hut, he frowned. What kind of a community would make such a place their home? What kind of outcasts lived here? And what did they plan to do with him? A thousand thoughts buzzed through his mind, like the swarms of flies which had bitten at him so much during his retreat through these dangerous lands.

Out in the distance, creeping steadily toward the village and drifting between its ramshackle building, the wispy mist approached. He shifted his eyes from it; the cursed mist brought a chill to his heart. Fresh memories of the nightmares he had seen in it threatened to well up, and it was with conscious effort that he quelled them. He had more important matters to worry about right now.

The village was eerily still. Nothing moved, save the silent form of the captive as he hurried along the ungainly walkways, seeking for a safe way off them. The drum beat persisted, over and over again, until he stopped hearing it, and it became background noise. Other sounds percolated his head, echoing through the mists and from deeper inside the village. Shrieks pierced the night sky, and shouts, human in origin, assailed his senses, but he blocked them out. He had to concentrate on escape.

Coming to yet another dead end, which finished in a now familiar shack, he paused. The icy breeze on which the fog carried washed over him, biting him to his very bones.

His teeth started to chatter, and a shiver crept up his spine.

Wishing for the hundredth time that he had something warm to wrap around himself, or at least the luxury of a dry set of clothes, he turned and tentatively eased open the door to the hut. Anticipation at the thought of a burning torch with which to warm himself flourished within him. Taking a deep breath, he peered in.

Before he got his head in, he was accosted by the pungent smell of narcotics. It made a welcome change from the repugnant stink of the marsh, and yet brought about a wave light-headedness which threatened to overwhelm him. He paused, allowing his head a second to clear, before entering the large hut in earnest.

The first thing he saw was the stone sarcophagus. It was set against the back of the room, which was larger than any of the others he had seen from outside, and surrounded by a collection of small pots. Slowly, his gaze travelled across the walls, which were littered with hanging artefacts - tiny waxen dolls, shrunken heads, clay tablets and peculiar masks. The other wall was lined with rickety-looking shelves, which were in turn cramped with small bottles, bones, teeth and unusual feathers. Several skulls gleamed in the torchlight, their eye-less sockets delving into his soul.

He wandered over the unique collection on the first wall, his curiosity piqued. A shrunken head stared lifelessly back, its withered skin drawn tight over its tiny skull. Shrugging off the uncomfortable feeling which bore into him when he examined the morbid item, his attention was next drawn to a mask. It was made of wood, and daubed in paint and blood. He frowned, disturbed by what he saw. What kind of a person would wear a mask covered in congealed blood?

Sharp fangs were carved into the open mouth, so that the mask doubtless gave its wearer the appearance of a ferocious beast. His lips curling in distaste at this clearly primitive and bloodthirsty artefact, he turned back into the room and steadily advanced toward the sarcophagus.

Made of a grey stone, it came up to his waist in height. Rubbing his fingers across it, he found it to be rough, and unkempt. There were notches and cracks running along its length.

But it was the image on the lid which drew his full attention.

Covering the lid from head to toe, a monstrous figure was depicted. Its body appeared human enough, indeed he noticed with more than a glance that it resembled a lithe and half-naked woman. Even from the time-worn carving, he could make out amulets and trinkets adorning its neck and wrists.

But the head… It had the face of a crocodile, jaws wide open, an army of teeth filling its mouth. He knew it to be such a beast from his dealings with the Imperial trading ships in distant Marienburg. They frequently visited lands as far-afoot as Araby and the Southlands, and had recounted to him on more than one occasion their terrifying encounters with the monsters. He had a clear picture in his mind of what one would look like, and it was engraved before him in stone.

The stench of freshly-turned earth or damp soil hung heavy around the stone resting place, and a shiver rippled through his being. With a last hurried look around the room, he turned to leave.

He had made a mistake in coming here.

He was in Sylvania. He was trapped in some god-forsaken bog, at the mercy of a hellish cult. His friends and comrades were all missing, probably dead, and no-one knew he was here.

Fighting back tears, he stepped back outside into the eerie darkness. It was as silent as the grave.

He had no dry clothes, he had no food, and he had no weapon to defend himself with. He had no hope, but that he might escape and find his way back to civilisation, before he starved to death.

Suddenly it struck him: it was silent. There was no noise, save the creaking of the wooden village as it shifted on its stilts.

The drums had stopped.