Brenton pushed his canoe away from the nearest cypress tree and floated into the darkness: a perfect hiding spot for the swamp-born. Tomas sat behind him, clutching the gunwales for support. These two conscripts of the Hamlet Watch, sent by Bon Salvore, had ventured southward to investigate the rumors of an impending raid on Pormetto.

  “Do you think the rumors are true?” Brenton’s nostrils flared from the grassy aroma that wafted from the cattails.

  Shadows covered Tomas’s face as the canoe drifted beneath the thickening canopy. “Maybe, but they won’t be able to sneak by with me here.”

  “That’s hogwash.” Brenton shook his head.

  “Think I’m a coward, do you?”

  Ignoring Tomas, Brenton plunged his paddle into the murky water, dispersing a swarm of mosquitoes buzzing above the surface. “I can’t find the bottom. It’s gotta be at least eight feet.”

  The depth reminded him of stories their aunt Terine had shared around the fireplace—stories that filled their heads with nightmares. This swamp, she told them, stretched for eternity. In its darkest depths dwelled the swamp-born: revenants of native inhabitants who’d been corrupted by its influence, or so went the stories.

  Brenton rested the paddle across his lap. His breeches absorbed the dripping water.

  Being out here now, a few minutes before dawn, disturbed him more than nighttime did because nighttime was supposed to be dark. The darkness here seemed unnatural. Perhaps, it was. This was near to where the revenants disposed of Pormetto’s founders, thirty-four years before the current villagers had resettled the area. Sometimes, in the third part of the night, he swore he could hear their wails.

  Tomas jolted up, rocking the canoe and sending ripples into the darkness. “Do you hear that?” There was apprehension in his voice.

  Brenton turned his attention to the line of cypress trees that separated the brine from the freshwater. A gentle breeze soughed through the trees and brought ripples to what were normally still waters.

  Faint at first, a whispering moan rose to a crescendo.

  Tomas shrank in on himself, his fingernails digging into the gunwales. “We must warn the others.”

  “Warn them about what—a moan?” He gripped his rifle and peered into the black void in front of him.

  The wind continued to sough, but the moans stopped abruptly as if swallowed by the void.

  “Maybe it was just the wind,” Tomas said.

  Brenton put a finger to his lips, instructing Tomas to shut his mouth.

  At the edge of their vision, they saw a torch’s flame bobbing with the ripples. Two more torches followed behind it and then a third and a fourth. One after another, the torches disappeared behind the cypress trees and reemerged.

  “It’s a raid,” Tomas whispered. “They’re headed to the hamlet.”

  “Keep low.” Brenton bent forward to hide. “We need to stay from their path. How many boats do you see?”

  “At least a dozen.”

  Illuminated by the flames, the swamp-born scanned the darkness, packed together on wooden vessels. Their skin was brownish-grey and slimy, almost moldering. The adults wore yubels: intricate garments woven from sinewy strands of vine with patches of moss and large, supple leaves that blended with the surrounding wilderness. Their children wore nothing.

  Male revenants held miniature kettledrums. The women chanted and moaned.

  “That don’t make sense,” said Tomas. “Why would they bring children?”

  “How far out are we?” asked Brenton.

  Tomas exhaled. “Thirteen miles.”

  “We need to get back to warn the others. We’ll let them pass.” Brenton held his breath as the vessels came painstakingly close.

  One vessel went by the canoe and then another, each sending ripples against it. Brenton stared at a man on the third vessel, and the man stared back toward him.

  He can’t see us.

  There was a large splash beyond the procession. Brenton tensed. He felt his own fingers digging into the gunwales. The swamp-born cried out in unison.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  “Majaa!”

  Brenton clutched his necklace and trembled for he’d heard that word before, heard it during the raids on native villages. It meant, “They’re here.” Tomas prayed alongside him, his sweat soaking into his leather hat, his knuckles white.

  One-by-one, the revenants extinguished the torches. The men slammed on their kettledrums, and the women chanted with anger and fear.

  “They’ve spotted us,” Tomas exclaimed. “We must go, now.”

  “We can’t outpace them,” Brenton said.

  “Forsake it, then.” Tomas sat upright and seized his rifle. “If I go, I’m taking them with me.” With shaking hands, he poured gunpowder from a horn into the muzzle of his rifle. He dropped in a bullet and pressed it down with his ramrod.

  Brenton loaded his own rifle, being careful to measure out the gunpowder.

  “I’ll take their heads right off,” Tomas said, aiming his rifle.

  “Wait.” Brenton pushed down Tomas’s rifle. “I’m not so sure they’ve spotted us. If you fire, we give away our numbers.”

  Tomas swatted away Brenton’s arm and fired a shot. The bullet struck a revenant in the chest, and it lurched forward with a guttural cry. Screams erupted from the far end of the procession.

  “You fool,” Brenton muttered.

  Tomas repeated the arduous process of loading his rifle.

  The companions of the wounded revenant seemed bewildered, more scared than aggressive. They twisted their necks, scanning the darkness.

  They weren’t planning to attack us.

  That’s when Brenton realized the other side of the procession was under assault.

  “Majaa!” yelled the swamp-born. “Majaa!”

  A boat soared through the air and crashed into a tree, scattering bodies in all directions, accompanied by a chorus of shrieks that caused Brenton to quaver. The revenants cried out in torment as they tried to row away. Mothers tended to screaming children.

  Above their screams were the sounds of flesh being sliced and bones gashing. Waves rocked the vessels. Fleshy pikes stabbed through a woman’s chest. She squirmed as they pulled her over the edge of the vessel and into the black depths. Another pike thrust forward. A head rolled. Brenton smelled the blood.

  Most of the mayhem was obscured by darkness, but the watchmen knew it was coming for them.

  Brenton dipped his head beneath the side of the canoe, his entire body fraught with the fear of death. After an eternity, the intensity of the screams diminished. He lifted his head. The vessels were empty.

  He grasped his rifle and stared into Tomas’s eyes. Their mouths said nothing, but their eyes relayed all that could’ve been said. They were both cowards, now. The vessels rocked up against one another, creaking and thudding in what would’ve otherwise been silence. Brenton awaited an answer. He prayed to the heavens. For what? Salvation? A quick death?

  “Is it done?” whispered Tomas.

  That’s when they crept from the darkness, humanoid torsos with twisted necks and stilt-like limbs that suspended them above the water. They stumbled forward, raising their pikes out from the water and jerking them back into the depths. Their eyes were white and glossy, but they saw; Brenton felt their gaze.

  He couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. The air had been expelled from his lungs. He plunged his paddle into the water to propel the canoe backward, gesturing for Tomas to do the same. Something hooked his paddle. He yanked the paddle up, and something yanked it back down. Panicked and overpowered, he dropped it into the water to join the hamlet’s founders.

  “We’re gonna die,” Tomas said.

  Brenton swallowed from a dry mouth. “Move.” The canoe leaned to one side, almost flipping over, as he jumped up and shuffled to the rear. “Get up front.”

  Tomas shoved his paddle against Brenton’s chest. Brenton took it.

  Two more stilt-walkers emerged from the darkness, reeking of decaying flesh and burnt hair.

  Brenton rotated the canoe and paddled for the northern shores of Pormetto. Ahead on his right, he saw splashes like those of a swimmer. Thin bands of sunshine revealed a boy’s face. He was one of the swamp-born.

  “Evohta!” the boy yelled out between gasps. His face was scarred and his eyes empty.

  “Chieftain’s curse,” Tomas muttered. “It’s coming right at him!”

  Brenton witnessed a stilt-walker prey on the boy, moving with no emotion and producing no noise except the splashing of water.

  “Evohta.” The boy’s voice was now distant and strained.

  The creature imposed itself over the boy. It cranked its neck and stared with a nearly featureless face. There was a momentary quietness and stillness throughout the swamp. The boy went limp, not from death or unconsciousness. A limb of narrow bone emerged from the swamp, revealing a sharp and ragged point longer than a full-grown man. It prodded the boy’s chest, slowly applying pressure until it eradicated the boy’s resolve into blood-curdling screams. The screams transformed into an uproar of bubbles as the boy’s face became submerged in the water.

  “Get us out of here!” commanded Tomas.

  Brenton jerked his head around and paddled with all his might. He knew better than to glance backward and see the inevitable horror that awaited them. They’d never make it to the hamlet. He struggled to maneuver around the staggered formations of cypress trees. The stench of burnt hair and flesh clung to his nostrils.

  Brenton felt the presence of the stilt-walkers behind him, fatigued from paddling, unsure of how much longer he could continue to flee. “Lead me toward Ton-den-Beau,” he said. “I’m not leading these bastards to Pormetto.”

  “That’s even farther,” Tomas said. “Just paddle!”

  With sore arms and a foggy mind, Brenton pushed on. His shoulders burned.

  “They’re gaining on us!” Tomas stood up, turned around, and shot one of the beasts. It shrieked and continued to lumber after them, unfazed.

  “Sit back down,” Brenton said.

  “We’re doomed.” Tomas threw his rifle. “Each of us for ourselves.” He vaulted over the canoe and splashed into the knee-high water.

  Coward.

  Brenton kept paddling. Tomas trudged off to the side between a row of trees. He was much slower than the canoe. Unable to halt his curiosity, Brenton glanced backward and saw the stilt-walkers were now tall as buildings. He counted ten of them. Mother of mercy.

  Tomas tripped over a root and slammed into the water. A stilt-walker crawled over him and restrained him. It impaled his legs to the ground. He begged for mercy from his tormentor. Its response was a merciless stab to the neck. He gurgled blood and brine. Another limb stabbed through his torso and lifted him skyward.

  “Help me, Brenton….”

  The stilt-walkers made their way toward Brenton, swift in the shallow water. He released his paddle and lowered his head. With his eyes closed, he prayed to the heavens. This time, he knew exactly what to pray for—a quick and painless death.