“We don’t need fire, Dave,” Scott sighed. “we need light.”
Dave’s brow furrowed. “Fire... light?” he ventured.
At that, Scott’s expression brightened. “I have Had A Thought,” he proclaimed, and Loth could hear the capital letters. “We shall use the dragon as light to read the map, and I shall lead us to safety.”
Well, he’d certainly lead them somewhere, of that Loth had no doubt. He just wasn’t sure that he wanted to follow. Still, he nudged at Pie where he was sleeping in the pocket of his scarf.
“Come on, little one,” he murmured, “go keep our great and glorious leader happy.”
Up until then, Loth never knew that a dragon could roll its eyes, but Pie managed it just fine. Then he stretched his wings and flapped them once or twice, yawning, and glided over to land on Scott’s shoulder. Loth was pleased to see that once again, the dragon crapped down Scott’s back. It was almost like it was deliberate.
Scott was blissfully unaware as he held up the parchment. “I NEED YOU TO BREATHE FIRE ON THIS,” he said loudly, pointing at the map.
So Pie did.
The scroll caught alight almost instantly, and Scott flailed wildly and dropped it into the mud, where the flame burned inexplicably brighter for a second, consuming the entire thing. Pie made a pleased sound, and flapped over to Dave, chittering excitedly. Loth couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like the dragon was congratulating himself on a job well done. Really, Loth couldn’t entirely blame him—normally when he produced a flame, he was fussed and fawned over.
The rest of the party stared at the smouldering remains before Ada summed it up for them: “Well, fuck.”
“It—I didn’t—that dragon is defective!” Scott exclaimed, pointing wildly at Pie, and Loth was overcome with an overwhelming desire to shove Scott face first into the stinking mud.
But it was Grub who spoke up. “The dragon did what he was told, and although we don’t have time to stand here arguing about whose fault it was, it was definitely yours. Now pick up the reins of your horse before it wanders off.” He pointed at Scott.
Loth was struck by the air of authority that Grub suddenly wore, like an invisible cloak.
“We need to get moving,” Grub repeated. “Come on.”
Dave nodded in agreement and led them forward, and the rest of the party followed, not quite silently. Loth caught mutterings of “useless” and “... sure we can’t drown him?” and he had to admit, it was quite nice not to have those sentiments directed at him, for once.
Without the map, and with the darkness closing in, their progress slowed to a crawl, and Loth could feel the nervous energy radiating off Grub. He wasn’t feeling the best himself, he realised. His mind was foggy, his vision not quite right. It was as if he’d indulged in some of the so-called ‘medicinal herbs’ that you could buy if you knew the right person, the ones that gave off an intoxicating vapour.
Glancing around the party, he saw that he wasn’t the only one and that the darkness wasn’t the reason they’d slowed. Every one of the party was wearing a dazed expression. He shook himself and tried to unglue his tongue from the roof of his mouth. It took him a minute to form words. “Grub, how does the swamp kill people?”
The reply was slow, dazed. “Kills ’em. Poison air, then they fall in.” He paused, and then he said, more urgently, “Shit. Poison air.”
This was bad.
Loth scraped together his remaining motor skills and wasted no time pulling his scarf off, unrolling it to its impressive full length, then wrapping it half around his face and half around Grub’s so they were at least somewhat protected from the fumes. It meant that they were shoulder to shoulder like some sort of conjoined twin, but Loth didn’t care—his focus right now was on not dying. In no time at all, his mind started to clear, and he waved his arms at the rest of the party, shouting “ovr yr mfhth!”
“What?” Calarian grinned at him lopsidedly and cupped his bat-like ears.
Loth huffed and dragged the scarf down. “Cover your face. We’re breathing poison gas.”
Calarian’s eyes widened. He dug in his saddlebag for a length of cloth and tied it around his face, and it was obvious when it started working, because he blinked and shook his head, and his posture straightened. A moment later he pulled out another length of cloth and tied it around the muzzle of his horse.
Loth took a moment to curse that he hadn’t thought to do the same, and after looking about, he dragged his doublet over his head. It was torn anyway, he silently consoled himself as he handed it to Grub who froze for a second, eyes wide, before taking it and tying it around the horse’s muzzle.
The rest of the party followed suit, and it was apparent as they walked that the effects of the swamp gas were quick to wear off. Dave led the way with one hand extended, Pie perched on a fingertip, letting out breaths of flame and light that allowed them to pick their way carefully forward. Grub’s arm was slung around Loth’s shoulder to allow them to share the scarf, fingers cool against his bare skin. It wasn’t unpleasant, and Loth only felt slightly guilty that he’d made no move to find something else for Grub to wear as a mask. After all, he reasoned, neither had Grub.
At first Loth thought it was his imagination, but as they advanced it became clear that the undergrowth was gradually thinning. They were able to make faster progress, and Loth guessed that whoever was pursuing them, they were well out of their grasp by now. He glanced over at Grub to see if he shared his opinion, and found him paler than usual, sweat beading his forehead, obviously exhausted. He stopped abruptly. “We need to 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.”