Evening at Ashbourne Swamp

Prologue

Casimir

Ashes drifted from above. Black and grey and powdery. Almost like an early snowfall, yet the summer season had just started.

With a heavy gust, the ashes went whirling about. They brought with them the burnt scent of smoke. And when they eventually touched down, they either sank into the murky waters of Ashbourne Marsh or dissolved.

They were remnants from a time long past. Back before the local coal mines had combusted, and subsequently, collapsed. In the time that followed the collapse, ashes rained from the sky, polluting the waterways and turning everything into sludge.

But then, Lord Sutton of Uris had sent some bastard offshoot of his family lineage to come and stabilize everything. They succeeded, renamed the village to Ashbourne, and took rule. It was only fair considering they’d saved the town.

In recent years, though, there was the occasional night when ashes would rain once more. An irregularity that occurred for random lengths of time with random intervals in between.

No one knew why, and no one really cared to know. As long as it wasn’t enough to infect the streams or crops, it was an acceptable hazard. Sort of like thunderstorms or tempests or even quakes.

As the ashes fell, Casimir Moreau trudged through a muddy field leading to the swamp. He was a young man of twenty and three. Standing about six feet and two inches tall. Long legs, sturdy about the chest with slanted shoulders. Dressed in boiled leather with an old cotton gambeson beneath.

He was handsome enough in the face. Born with the gutterlook, as some called it. Hard jaw. Hollow cheeks. Sunken eyes with one ringed by a purple-blue bruise. And beneath was tan skin often slathered in sweat or oil or grease or mud or the likes.

Casimir shouldered his way through tall weeds and the low-hanging branches of deadwood trees. They were ugly things with their twisted roots interweaving in and out of the dirt. Lanky trunks with curved shapes not so different from a panicked snake desperate to escape.

And unlike most of the trees closer to town, these ones had barren heads other than the blanket of moss and algae that gave them a slight greenish hue.

He always gives me the worst patrols, Casimir thought bitterly, staring at these ugly trees, hating the way they stared down at him.

There was some truth to it. Logic too, if you cared about that sort of thing. He was a freelancer. Only worked when Sir Everard needed him.

Otherwise, he was down at the docks with his father. Usually setting traps, working the nets, or casting out hook and line.

If he wasn’t in the boat, he was in the slaughterhouse preparing meat. Every Lazeday, while most others were pardoned from their regular duties to lounge about, he and his father went into Ashbourne to sell their wares.

It was perfect timing too, because come tomorrow, Prayerday, most preferred fish over other types of meat. An old tradition to honor the Elder Beings.

Casimir didn’t care much for Elder Beings, and he cared far less about appeasing them.

Why should They give a toss about what he was putting in his belly?

He stopped at the top of a hill. To his right, the slope moved into a field of tall grass and mud swarmed by blood-suckers. To his left, the hill descended to a rocky drop-off. About ten feet below was the swamp.

Its water was tinged green by the same algae that coated the trees. A cesspool for gnats, worms, and all the little critters with a hundred thousand tiny legs. Home to larger beasts as well. Such as whiskerfish or oil serpents.

Casimir gave it a brief glance and continued along the usual path. The way ahead was illuminated by the rotted torch in his hand. On his left hip was a shortsword. On the other was a bell.

His duties were simple. Walk the perimeter of the marsh. If you encounter trouble, kill it with your blade. If you encounter too much trouble, give your bell a few good rings, maybe scream a little, and run the opposite way.

With training like that, it was no wonder so many were leaving the village.

Once a prosperous land had become a hollow husk of itself. And while there might’ve been some pity in his heart, Casimir also felt a distinct tug in his gut trying to send him elsewhere. Anywhere really.

This place was too damn dreary and wet and humid for his liking.

And what was to keep him? His mother was in the ground, and his father had no intent to marry again. Of course, it wasn’t just himself he had to think of. There was also—

There came a snapping of twigs from behind. Casimir spun about on his heel, lifting the torch high. His other hand dropped to the hilt of his shortsword.

A baby heron appeared from the weeds, staring at him with black marbled eyes.

“Little bastard,” he muttered, giving a small chuckle. “Scared the piss outta me.” With a few flicks of his freehand, the heron caught his intent and retreated into the brush. Casimir turned, continuing along the hill crest.

Father, he thought, shaking his head.

If the Elder Beings were nosy buggers for caring about his dinner and breakfast, then Casimir’s father was absolutely intrusive. Where were you last night? Why are you just gettin’ in? Don’t think I don’t know what you’ve been up to. Are you tryna get us in trouble? Thank the gods your mother isn’t here to see this?

While they bickered from time to time, earlier that morning was unlike anything ever before. He’d seen his father angry, seen him downtrodden, but he’d never seen him on the cusp of madness.

For a moment, maybe a few seconds at most, his father had gone absolutely stark-raving mad.

You can’t do this, Caz! You need to put an end to it immediately! Do you understand me, boy? You’ll have us up to the neck in trouble if you don’t listen! Hey, where are you going? I didn’t give ya permission to leave!

It would fade. It always did when things went sour between them. He just needed to give it some time.

That was one of the few things Casimir remembered about his mother. She could pacify his father with a single touch. A hand on the arm or shoulder would make him quiet as a crypt.

He wondered if that was a natural gift women possessed or if maybe it was an effect of love. Even in the hardest of times, it could keep you from losing your sanity. Keeping you from losing your spirit too.

The Kniphofias had their spells of fire, and the Willows had their speedy healing. But people, no matter who, could find themselves blessed with love. That seemed stronger to him than anything the Elder Beings had to offer.

He paused again, sliding his hand under his chestpiece to the necklace beneath. His fingers closed around metal. And with a deep breath, he expelled his grievances. His sorrow and anger and fear. It all just slipped away like a shadowy specter at the break of daylight.

Just a lil’ while longer, he told himself. Then we’ll pack our things and go.

There came another crack from the weeds. With a groan, Casimir turned toward the field. “I thought I told you—” His voice turned to a yelp as a swamp dragon emerged from the weeds.

It was a long-tailed reptilian with a scaled body colored a dark shade of green. Its snout came together in a V-shape with pointed teeth protruding from its mouth. Beady black eyes glossy in the torchlight.

Breaking from the weeds, it ascended the hillside in seconds flat, moving faster than one might’ve expected from its constricted limbs. Its tail dragged behind it, leaving behind a trail of trampled grass.

As the swamp dragon neared, it parted its maw, spitting a hiss at him. Casimir fumbled his shortsword out from the sheath. The blade wavered in front of him. He fell into a crouched stance, his knees too weak to keep their composure.

The swamp dragon raised up, again hissing. He backed away a few feet, and it moved toward him a few feet. It was looking him over, trying to decide whether it could best him or not. The only thing keeping it at bay…

Casimir brought the torch down quick. Flames crawled across the dark, shedding embers onto the ground.

The swamp dragon reeled back, hissing the entire time. Jaws opened wide to reveal a row of fangs along the top and bottom.

It wasn’t the teeth that killed, according to Casimir’s father. It was the brute force behind its jaws. Once they seized their prey, they didn’t let go. Instead, they dragged them into the water and spun like a corkscrew, hoping their prey would drown or break their neck in the process.

Rushing forward, Casimir chased after the swamp dragon with the torch. It snapped at him, but he rebuked it with his blade, slashing its snout. After that, the swamp dragon turned and fled down the hillside.

It leapt from the drop-off, diving into the marsh. Bubbles skimmed the surface. In seconds, they disappeared, and the swamp went still. Seemingly peaceful.

His heart pounded in his chest. A nervous sweat broke out on his neck and along his palms until the shortsword’s hilt was impossible to grasp. He sheathed the blade and wiped his palm on his trousers. In his opposite hand, the torch continued to tremble.

Despite his fear, Casimir began to laugh. He shook his head, scoffing. The argument with his father seemed such a meager matter now.

Going back home and sitting down to have a conversation was leagues easier than surviving an encounter with a swamp dragon.

Once the nerves were out of his system, Casimir exhaled the tension from his body and started along the path once more. He made it maybe ten feet before dark figures sprang from the mixture of tall weeds and fallen trunks. They were on him faster than he could draw his weapon.

The torch went down first, flames buried in the mud until they vanished. Casimir struggled against the dark figures, throwing knees and elbows in every direction.

He reached for the bell at his hip, but one of the silhouettes stole it away. His other hand finally wrapped around the hilt. Steel screamed from leather, but before it took through the air, one of the figures brought a stone down on his head.

Casimir dropped into the mud beside his smoking torch. The figures crowded around him, crouched low. There came the sound of tearing flesh as they ripped into him. His screams lasted less than a minute, falling away to gargle. Blood pooled from his throat and filled his mouth.

When they were finished, they rolled Casimir down the hillside. He hit the water with a splash, and slowly, his body sank, disappearing against the filmy layer of scum.