He hated swamps.

The smell, the lack of solid footing, the treacherous waters that hid all sorts of unseen dangers, not to mention the vile creatures that slithered and swam and crawled … all of it combined to create an environment seemingly crafted by a cruel and malicious God to humiliate him. Gabriel was a man borne and bred for cities, accustomed to the comforts afforded by civilization, not an insane explorer intent on viewing the very armpits of the world. There wasn’t even a single flat, solid surface here! How was a civilized man meant to fight in this slimy mudhole?

He pushed the errant thoughts away as he paused, exchanging a quick look and nod with Merasiël before stepping closer to help Dane to his feet, which was not an easy task in this damnable bog. The archer was grimacing with pain – the skeleton only just dropped by Mera had caught Dane by surprise and had somehow torn a vicious chunk of flesh from his face. Blood was gushing forth freely and as Gabriel pulled him upright, Dane wobbled. This was not good. If he slowed even more, they would not make it.

“Push through the pain,” Gabriel murmured, glancing up as he tried to locate Mendel. “You’ve had worse.”

“Gyns’Vail Swamp,” Dane said by way of agreement as he staggered forward. Gabriel nodded.

“We survived that nightmare,” he said as he pulled the archer toward more steady ground. “We’ll survive this.”

Eight Years Ago, The Otherworld

The situation had just gone from bad to worse.

Muttering darkly under his breath, Gabriel scrambled over the soggy terrain and crouched alongside Dane. The archer was kneeling in the muck, peering over an overturned, half-rotted log and staring into the mist-shrouded swamp. For a change, he’d pulled down his face-concealing cloth mask, though Gabriel had no idea why, not with the horrid stench all around them. On the bright side, he did not have to guess at Sardock’s mood, not with the dark scowl stamped on his features.

An eerie-sounding horn rolled out of the mist and was quickly joined by another and another and a third, all sounding from different locations around them. It unsettled the men and elves on this bank – even that pretty one with the cold eyes and lethal grace they’d found in that … Mortuturesihad, wasn’t it? – but Dane simply held up a hand and they quieted.

“And to think,” Gabriel murmured, “I almost stayed with Wallace.” Dane grunted in reply before glancing briefly at the small group of warriors arrayed around them. Numbering a little over fifty, they were visibly exhausted from the forced march, especially the three Huallapans who generally served as translators or local guides. One of them was also a fairly capable spell-weaver, though he was nowhere near as competent as Patch. Getting these three to the Bear Clan had been the primary objective but somehow, the damned Vasar had tumbled onto their plan. For the last three days, they tried to shake the pursuing bugs and Dane had finally opted to try this swamp, hoping that the Vasar’s inability to float would prevent them from pursuing. Unfortunately, it seemed that too had been anticipated.

“We have too few to hold long,” Dane growled. His eyes flickered to Gabe and then away. “We need reinforcements.”

“Rainald is closest,” Gabriel replied with a frown, “but he’s on the other side of this swamp with the Bear Clan.” Again, Dane grunted. Almost at once, Gabriel caught the line of his thoughts and flashed a grin. “You do not have to ask,” he said before gesturing for the spell-weaver to approach. The cold-eyed elf beauty – damn. What was her name again? It was so close to Miratáriel’s name – drew closer as well and was studying him and Dane. Of course she’d likely overheard … all of the elves probably had. No matter. “Friend,” Gabriel began in his halting Huallapan, “Need weave. Point me to … Bear Clan.”

“You mean to leave us?” the man asked rapidly. Another horn sounded and he visibly jumped.

“Get help,” Gabriel replied in the same tongue before giving Dane another look. “I hope you’ve been brushing up on your Huallapan,” he added in Anglish, earning yet another grunt.

“Alone?” the Huallapan asked, his eyes widening. Gabriel shrugged – based on personal observation, he was the only one who could outrun a Vasar on solid ground and, as much as he loathed swamps, they provided plenty of places to hide if he got himself into a tight spot. The spell-weaver added something else that Gabriel could not begin to translate before shaking his head. “I will add another protective weave to help.”

“As long as they don’t have an Alpha,” Dane murmured, “I think we can hold this spot for a few days.”

“Right.” Gabriel shucked his travel pack – it would only slow him down – and checked the straps on his armor. He gave their surroundings a foul look. “Have I mentioned how much I hate swamps?”

He set out an hour later, his skin tingling from the bizarre magics woven around him. The six elves tracked his departure, their bows strung and nocked, and he felt more than heard the whistle of twin arrows flash by him, thunking heavily into a Vasar warrior creeping through the swamp toward their tiny island. It recoiled, stumbling back into its equally hidden comrade, and the two made such noise that Gabriel was able to slip by them without notice. He paused briefly, looking back at the island – the mist shrouding everything made it nearly impossible to see anything, but he thought he could almost make out the shapes of the elven bowmen. With a grin, he tossed off a jaunty salute in their direction and turned away.

When the sun began its descent some hours later, darkness set in fast. Gabriel’s progress, already slowed due to the absolutely terrible footing – he ended up doing more swimming than walking or running – came to an almost standstill. He knew which way he needed to go thanks to that Huallapan’s weave, but being unable to see a damned thing made for slow going. Thankfully, the other weave worked marvelously: the lizards and snakes and other swamp denizens gave him a wide berth.

He crept along for hours, pausing to rest or to wait until the moons provided enough ambient light to illuminate his path, but after nearly breaking his neck for the tenth time, he sought out a suitably solid land-mass and settled in to wait for dawn. The many long hours of effort demanded their price and he quickly slipped into a light doze. It was far from restful – the noises of the swamp kept startling him awake and as tired as he was, his instincts could not ignore the danger he was in – so he was up and preparing to move the moment the sun began peeking over the horizon.

And to his absolute horror, he realized that he’d somehow managed to camp out in the middle of a fairly large Vasar contingent.

Most were simply collapsed on the ground, though if they slept, he knew not, but a handful walked the perimeter of the landmass. There were dozens present, most of a hundred perhaps, far too many for even a would-be blademaster to handle alone, but they had not appeared to notice him just yet. Strange-looking boats were shoved upon the shore and he wondered how in the name of God he’d failed to see the damned things the night previous. Gabriel slowly climbed to his feet, wincing at the sharp protests his muscles made, and quickly calculated the best escape route. It would take him … there, right past the Vasar … the awake Vasar who was looking right at him.

Reflex took over. Adrenaline coursed through his veins and he sprinted forward, drawing his father’s sword even as his long stride ate the distance. Already, the Vasar was beating its wings in that too familiar sound of alert and it was scrambling for its glaive. Gabriel reached it a heartbeat later, slipping around the creature’s wild swing. The forms came smoothly, instinctively – Kissing the Adder, followed by Snow in High Wind – and the Vasar fell with a hideous gurgle. Its brothers were moving.

So Gabriel ran.

Later, he would never quite be able to remember the running fight in the swamp and would instead recall only momentary flashes. Five Vasar in hot pursuit and a nightmare sprint over partially submerged crocodiles. The sound of insectoid screams as the reptiles, startled awake by Gabriel’s steps upon their broad backs, bore the Vasar under water. Another trio of bugs trying to corner him and the sword forms flowing into one another. Apple Blossoms in the Wind. Mongoose Takes a Viper. Leopard in High Grass. Bundling Straw. Blood and ichor splashed – one Vasar would fall and two more would take its place. The fierce swamp creatures became his unwitting allies – the Huallapan weave rendered him invisible to them somehow but they perceived the bugs well enough. Even the water was useful as the Vasar seemed incapable of traversing it easily. And always, Gabriel kept moving. To stop, to slow, even for a moment, that was death. He used every trick in his repertoire, took advantage of any misstep or hesitation by the Enemy, and somehow, someway, he won free.

He stole one of the smaller boats and used it to put as much distance between himself and the Vasar as possible, but this quickly became a losing proposition. They crowded onto their skiffs and pursued frantically, nine or ten or more strong rowers to just him, so Gabriel grounded his boat on the nearest landmass and sprang out. Once again, luck was with him as the ground was solid. They were not yet out of the swamp, but this was most definitely the periphery. The magical weave that acted as an internal compass tugged him in that direction and he threw himself forward. Now, more than ever, he needed speed.

How long he ran, he knew not. The bugs were still there, hot in pursuit and making so much noise that surely the dead could hear them. He stumbled, tripping over a concealed root, but managed to roll back to his feet just as the Vasar reached him. There were too many. Gabriel grinned then, fiercely, madly, and drew his rapier. If he was meant to die here, then so be it. But he wouldn’t be alone.

And then, he wasn’t.

Rainald charged past him, bellowing that ground-shaking warcry of his, and a wave of Huallapan barbarians followed, howling their own challenges. There was no precision to their attack, no grace or beauty, only raw strength hurled at the Enemy. Gabriel shook his head slightly, took a long moment to reclaim his breath, and then joined them.

“Running like rabbit, lítillbróðir,” Rainald said with a laugh as soon as Gabriel reached his side. Snow in High Wind felled another of the bugs and he gave the Northman a foul look.

“Dane sent me,” he hissed. The Falling Leaf redirected a glaive into the dirt rather sloppily and Rainald took advantage, smashing Gramjarn through chitin and carapace. “Surrounded and need aid.”

“Hah hah!” Rainald smote another of the Vasar, though this one mostly parried … which left him wide open to Kissing the Adder. “Many much fighting to do then!” He powered forward, laying about with that hammer and shield. “To swamp!” he roared and the Huallapan barbarians cheered, though it was likely they didn’t have a clue what the burly Northman had said.

And despite his bone-deep weariness, despite the heaviness of his still sodden clothes, despite how utterly filthy he felt, Gabriel followed. After all, he had promised Dane that he would be back.

God, he hated swamps.