Red Heir - Lisa Henry Page 0,19

take a break.”

“Why?” Scott whined. “I'm leading you to safety!”

Loth wasn’t exactly sure how Scott was leading from the rear, but he let that fact go in favour of one far more pertinent. “Because if we don’t, Grub’s going to pass out, and I’m not carrying him.”

Scott blinked at him. “We could just...”

“Just what?”

Scott shrugged. “Roll his body into the swamp?” He doubled over abruptly as Ada kicked him in the nuts. “What? He’s only a peasant!” he protested once he could breathe again.

“So are you, dickhead!” Ada snarled.

“Well, yes,” Scott said, massaging his groin, “but not for much longer! I’m a hero, and I’m going to have ballads written about me, and other rewards too. Like land, and coin, and a title!”

“I don’t think Grub’s a pissant,” Dave said staunchly.

“Peasant,” Calarian corrected. “Some stupid human thing. Elves don’t believe in a class structure.”

“Do orcs?” Dave asked worriedly.

“No,” Calarian said. “It’s too complicated for you.”

“Oh, good. Cause I can’t spell it either.” Dave brightened slightly. “I can spell Dave, though!” Which for an orc was quite an achievement. He waved at Grub. “I like you, Grub.”

Grub’s mouth twitched under his makeshift mask. “Thanks, Dave. I like you too.”

“You shouldn’t have sex with horses though,” Dave said. “They’re probably not into that.”

“I...” Grub’s brow furrowed. “I’ll keep that in mind?”

Dave gave him a thumbs up, while Loth tried not to chortle.

Grub wrapped his hand in the reins of the horse and urged it forward. “We should keep moving. The longer we stay here, the more likely we are to succumb to the fumes.”

“You need to rest,” Loth argued, even as he wondered why he cared. It was because he needed Grub to be his patsy and play prince once they reached the capital, he told himself. This was survival, not sentiment.

Grub raised his eyebrows. “If we stop now, we die.”

Well, Loth supposed he had a point when he put it like that. Survival, he reminded himself, and not sentiment.

They continued on into the swamp, following the boggy paths, and picking their way around the strange, bubbling patches of mud that stank of sulphur and death. The trees here were twisted and ominous, their branches stripped bare of leaves. Most of them were rotting. Loth wondered how they’d even managed to grow in the first place.

The day darkened, and Loth had no idea if it was because night was approaching, or if the mist was growing thicker.

“Could we turn back?” he asked. “Try to find the road again?”

“That would have been much easier if we still had a fucking map,” Calarian pointed out.

They continued on, Loth subtly tugging Grub closer and taking his weight as they walked. “I know what you’re doing,” Grub groused.

“What am I doing?”

“You think I can't walk by myself when I’m perfectly capable.” Grub stumbled as he spoke, giving lie to his words.

“Nonsense,” Loth replied. “I’m just allowing you the pleasure of touching my near-naked body, that’s all. It seems like that charitable thing to do after you’ve been locked away for so long.”

“I...” Grub swayed alarmingly. “What?”

Loth put an arm around Grub’s waist, and Grub didn’t even try to fight him.

“We can’t stop,” Grub mumbled, blinking rapidly. “Can’t stop in the swamp.”

“Yes, the gas,” Loth said. “We won’t stop. We’ll keep going. Reach some higher ground, perhaps.”

“No,” Grub said, squinting sidelong at Loth. “Not the gas. The monsters.”

And then he pitched forward spectacularly into the mud, and Loth was so surprised that he let it happen.

Five minutes later they were picking their way through the Swamp of Death still. Grub was slung over the back of the horse like a saddlebag. He had a strip of cloth torn from Loth’s doublet wrapped around his face, since they could no longer share the scarf and Loth wasn’t about to part with it—there were limits to his generosity—and the doublet was ruined anyway. Loth was relieved that nobody had taken Scott’s advice to just roll Grub’s body into the swamp and leave him there. Pie flitted about Grub like a drunk will-o’-the-wisp, eventually settling on his arse and folding up his tiny wings to rest.

“He said monsters, didn’t he?” Loth queried. “Definitely monsters?”

“I like monsters,” Dave said, and then thought for a moment. “No, wait. I like mustard.”

Loth’s throat was beginning to hurt, and he was fairly certain the swamp gasses were starting to addle his brain again. “Does anyone here have any actual knowledge about the Swamp of Death?”

He stared at four very blank faces.

“I’m not from around