If I can say anything about Skendrickians, it’s this: they throw terrible parties. Despite my bravura performance and the enthusiasm with which it was received, the turnout for the evening’s festivities represented less than half of the village, no one remembered to bring food, and the only liquor available was a barrel of small beer—thankfully, it was an enormous barrel, but given the relative lack of alcohol in small beer (I saw a five-year-old drink four glasses without showing any ill effects), people spent more time peeing than they did shucking clothing or slurring speech (sadly or fortunately, depending on your perspective).
In all fairness, when your village is suffering from post-dragonic stress syndrome, the inability to throw a good party is understandable, and it’s tough to prepare hors d’oeuvres when the only surplus food you’ve got is an endless supply of korgoli. (If you’ve never had korgoli, don’t—at its best, it tastes like rotten broccoli doused in fish guts, and that’s when it’s prepared by someone who knows that they’re doing; in the hands of the unskilled, it tastes more like something Borg would leave in a tavern bathroom (though I’m given to understand that korgoli is highly nutritious, so there’s that).)
The next morning’s sendoff wasn’t much better, though at least there was bacon. Or, at least, what I think was bacon. I didn’t see any pigs in or around the village, so it’s entirely possible that what we were served simply looked (and tasted) like bacon, but I’d rather not think about where it came from if not pigs.
Alderman Wooddunny said a few unmemorable words in the midst of a drizzly mist, punctuated with numerous pauses and throat clearing, that inspired confidence in no one (least of all our hearty group of adventurers), and we went on our merry way. As we passed through the “gate” and headed out of town, my keen hearing picked up a few final parting comments.
Words of support or encouragement? Hope for our success?
Hardly.
Some enterprising Skendrickian had started a betting pool, not to wager on our success, but to see how long we’d last; he even seemed to have a number of very charming prop bets in mind, ranging from which of us would lose a limb first to whether the dragon would crush anyone’s head in its jaws.
With the wind at our backs (in the form of the hot air being generated by the good people of Skendrick), we set off toward Mount Fenneltop, where the dragon purportedly lived.
First, however, we’d need to pass through the Dukbuter Swamp.
I really hate swamps.
Chapter 17
CONQUERING THE SHAMBLING BOG MEN OF THE DUKBUTER SWAMP
Through fetid swamp and mucky marsh our brave adventurers strode, their purposeful steps slowed and befouled by the mud and quicksand that sucked greedily at their feet, malignant forces intent on dragging their bodies down beneath the ground to join the corpses of so many heroes left unsung.
But Nadinta and her band would not be deterred. By day, Mount Fenneltop loomed large before them, its imposing bulk magnified by the prospect of encountering the dragon that awaited them there. By night, dancing will o’ the wisps sought to lure them off the one tenuous path that threaded through the swamp, so narrow at points that even putting one foot in front of the other was no guarantee of not falling off to the side to be swallowed up by the gaping maw of the sucking mud.
They paused for rest when they could on little islands in the swamp—rocks on which lichen had accumulated in such a way as to provide some cushion, albeit not a comfortable one. Those brief respites were interrupted by the snorking, stentorian breaths of shambling bog men, fearsome nocturnal predators whose ability to move through the swamp in total silence belied the power and ferocity with which they attacked.
Fierce though the bog men were, and though their attacks seemed endless, Nadinta and her mighty warriors repelled them time and time again, with Whiska’s bolts of lightning splitting the murky night air, Borgunder’s crushing club shattering bog men’s skulls, Rumscrabble’s mighty mace dealing death disproportionately to his diminutive stature, and Nadinta’s sword slicing soundlessly through the stinking flesh of the putrid bog men.
They battled for days on end, and where a lesser troop of warriors would have fallen, Nadinta and her troops emerged triumphant, escaping the last sticky steps of soft, swampy ground just as the sun began to set over the top of Mount Fenneltop.
The battered band of brothers and sisters stood side by side, their breath heavy, but their will strong and their purpose undiminished. Their collective gaze turned toward the mountain, and though they knew the dragon waited for them atop it, they felt prepared to defeat the great wyrm—if they could find their way into its lair.
Chapter 18
TURNS OUT WALKING THROUGH A SWAMP IS EXACTLY AS MUCH FUN AS IT SOUNDS
We stood at the edge of the Dukbuter Swamp, the last solid stretch of ground for several miles—miles that stood between us and the mountain the dragon allegedly called home. Despite asking a number of the locals, I’d never been able to determine the origin of the word “Dukbuter,” though one old wag I’d met at a pub had jokingly (or so I assumed) suggested that it was an ancient word in a lost tongue that, loosely translated, referred to the stench of sweat that builds up on the, um, undercarriage of a large man on a swelteringly hot day. That’s a recurring theme on this quest, apparently.
Standing next to the swamp and smelling the noxious gas that washed over us, I realized the old timer hadn’t been trying to be funny. It smelled like a goblin corpse had just popped out the backdoor of a giant with indigestion issues.
“I don’t know about the rest of you,” said Rummy amiably, “but it’s the glamor that attracted me most to the adventuring life.”
Whiska scrunched up her face as she looked at each of us. “What’s the problem? Why do you all look like you’re about to vomit?”
“You don’t smell that?” asked Nadi, wrinkling her nose in disgust.
Whiska inhaled deeply. “What? Smells like a swamp. Or a nice bowl of homemade ghomboh.”
“What on earth is ghomboh, and how do I avoid ever having to taste, smell, or be in the same room with it?” asked Rummy.
“Smells like…poo,” added Borg.
“It’s funny,” I interjected, “and I don’t mean like ha-ha funny, but, like, interesting funny how you never hear about adventurers standing at the edge of a swamp trying to figure out exactly what disgusting smell it most resembles when bards are singing legendary tales.”
“What’s your point?” asked Whiska huffily.
“My point,” I replied (pointedly), “is that we can stand around talking about ghomboh and poo, or we can get on with it.”
Silence reigned as everyone realized how unheroic they were being. Or, at least, that’s what I assumed everyone was thinking. Turns out not so much.
“It’s really an awful smell,” said Rummy. “I mean, I’ve honestly never smelled the like.”
“I think I might actually vomit,” said Nadi.
“I still think it smells like ghomboh,” replied Whiska approvingly.
“And that’s a good thing?” responded Rummy.