A World Without Heroes

by Brandon Mull

  “Do not dishonor your involvement,” Jasher chided. “For each of us destiny is a blend of potential, circumstances, and choices. You could flee and hide. You could bargain with Maldor. You have chosen a heroic path. Walk it without apology.”

  “I guess that makes sense,” Jason admitted. “For what it’s worth, I think I’ve finally really accepted the challenge.”

  “Me too,” Rachel agreed.

  “You have enjoyed much success,” Jasher said. “Surely Maldor has offered you attractive alternatives by now.”

  “I got invited to Harthenham,” Jason said.

  “Ferrin hinted he might be able to help us get home,” Rachel added.

  “Yet here you are, toiling in the wilderness,” Jasher emphasized. “The two of you picked the right road, even though it is the most difficult. This is the essence of heroism.”

  “You would know,” Rachel said. “You walked away from your people to do what you felt was right.”

  “I have lived many lives,” Jasher said. “I know myself. I could never have found peace while ignoring the crime against my brother.”

  “How far to the Sunken Lands?” Jason asked.

  “This is rugged country,” Jasher said, looking to the northeast. “The outskirts lie more than a week away. The contours of the land cause water to collect and stagnate there in a vast swamp, a festering breeding ground for foulness and slime. During a certain season the Sunken Lands become inaccessible due to rampant disease spread by impenetrable clouds of biting insects. This time of year we should survive if we take the proper precautions.”

  “So we’d better enjoy the ride in the woods while we can,” Rachel said.

  Jasher nodded. “The Sunken Lands will not be pleasant.”

  Traveling with Jasher proved simple. He gathered nuts and berries and supplemented their meals with fish and fowl. After two days of circuitous wandering to confuse pursuers, he began improvising easy routes across the gentlest available terrain, occasionally finding secluded paths to follow. Sometimes on high ground he climbed a tree to get his bearings or to check for enemies, but the days passed without hardship.

  By their fifth day traveling together their path through the hilly wilderness trended down more than up. Early on the eighth day, from a hilltop, they glimpsed hazy, green lowlands to the north. Late on the ninth day, beside a rushing spring, Jasher informed them that they were filling their water skins for the last time before they left the Sunken Lands.

  The next day Jasher left the horses on long tethers, and they proceeded on foot. He explained that the upcoming terrain was unsuitable for horses.

  After leaving the horses, as predicted the ground became boggy and the air more humid. Jason’s boots squelched in clinging muck so often he eventually ceased trying to avoid it. Persistent rafts of mud on his soles added weight to his strides and sometimes made it feel like he was wearing snowshoes.

  As they progressed, Jason, Rachel, and Jasher all selected long walking sticks. Several times they were forced to double back because of quicksand or impassable mires.

  Evening had fallen when Jasher paused beside a pool where a cluster of large violet flowers flourished. The striking petals looked venomously bright against the dull greens and browns of the surrounding foliage.

  “I hoped to find some of these orchids before proceeding much farther,” Jasher said. He plucked a closed bud from a stem and squeezed the tightly sealed petals. Blue gel oozed out. Jasher licked it. “The results are not entirely pleasant, but this nectar will keep most of the biting and stinging insects at a distance.”

  Jason ripped off a bud and ate the gel. It had almost no taste. Rachel tried some as well. Jasher plucked a few extra buds.

  Not long after leaving that pool, Jasher found a section of higher ground covered in leafy ivy. They dined on gutplug and dried meat.

  “We are at the threshold of the Sunken Lands,” Jasher said as he bedded down. Jason and Rachel lay at either side of him on their backs, the ivy adding some cushion beneath their blankets. “Tomorrow you will see the actual swamp. The depths of the swamp cannot be negotiated without a watercraft. Fortunately, my people forage sporadically in the swamp to gather rare herbs and fungi. I believe I can guide us to a hidden skiff.”

  “What kind of animals live here?” Rachel asked. Her tone suggested she dreaded the answer, but couldn’t resist asking.

  “Our concern tonight will be serpents,” Jasher said. “Should you feel a scaly visitor coiling against you in the night, keep still. Most snakes will not strike a person unless provoked. Be thankful the night is warm. On cold nights serpents are drawn to people for warmth. I once awoke with a black-ringed water prowler curled against my chest, inside my robes. Are you familiar with the species?”

  “No,” Rachel said, a quaver in her voice.

  “The black-ringed water prowler is among the most poisonous of serpents. Its venom will claim the life of a strong man before he takes twenty breaths. The pain is instant and unbearable.”

  Jason leaned up on one elbow. “What did you do?”

  “After I gingerly peered down my robes and observed the markings of the dread snake, I lay still and dreamless the remainder of the night, perspiring despite the chill air. I may live again after I die, but there is no guarantee my seed will be planted, and occasionally an amar is defective. Even under the best circumstances death can be highly inconvenient. In the morning the serpent stirred. It exited my robes past my neck, slithering against my cheek, as if daring me to flinch or cry out. Then it was gone.”

  “Are you trying to make me crazy?” Rachel asked. “Why would you tell a story like that on a night like this?”

  “As a warning,” Jasher said.

  “More like psychological warfare,” Rachel muttered.

  “I hear the snakes like girls best,” Jason teased. “Rachel can be our snake magnet.”

  “I’m walking back to Trensicourt,” Rachel declared.

  “You should sleep in the middle,” Jasher offered. “It will offer some protection.”

  Rachel gratefully traded places with him.

  Jason eyed the surrounding ivy. He rested his head on his arms. Every rustling sound in the night set his nerves on edge. It was a long while before sleep overtook him.

  Jason wakened in the morning to an awful stench. He sat up, sniffing the rank air with sleepy disgust. A low fog hung over the marshland, fuming up from the surrounding pools.

  Rachel remained asleep. Jasher lay with his eyes half open, crystal blue irises shifting eerily from side to side.

  Jason put his nose near his wrist, and the unsavory stink was stronger. Sniffing at himself, he found that his entire body smelled putrid, his armpits unbearable, as if his natural body odor had been grotesquely magnified. Wasn’t his own stench only supposed to bother other people?

  Leaning over Rachel, Jason found she reeked even worse than he did. Leaning farther, he could smell Jasher as well.

  Jasher fully opened his eyes. “The pungent odors of swamp travel,” he said, sitting up and stretching.

  “Ugh,” Rachel griped, propping herself up, bleary-eyed. “What died?”

  “We did,” Jason said.

  She sniffed her shoulder and made a revolted face. “That’s us? What happened?”

  “Think about it,” Jasher said.

  Jason shot Jasher a hard look. “The stuff from the flowers? You did this on purpose?”

  Jasher grinned. “Trust me. To venture into the swamp without a means of repelling the insects is not merely inconvenient. It borders on suicide. Some of the pests are poisonous; others carry diseases. This time of year the stink should suffice to keep the insects away.”

  “And the bears,” Jason said. “And the skunks. And the girls.”

  Jasher laughed, slapping his thigh. He reached up a hand, and Jason hoisted him to his feet. “Take this as a consolation. In the deep swamp there are insects as dangerous as any snake. Be glad you will not make their acquaintance. As for
women, I suspect none of us will mind if the Pythoness keeps her distance.”

  “I wish I could avoid myself,” Rachel mumbled.

  The rising sun dispersed the mists. Rachel and Jason followed Jasher along a meandering route.

  At length, with the sun high overhead, Jasher stopped and announced, “Here we are.”

  Jason had been focusing on the ground, watching for snakes. He had spotted nine so far. Two were pretty big.

  Raising his gaze, he beheld the coast of a black lake, full of tall trees with spreading branches, huge arboreal umbrellas that blocked out most of the sunlight. Leafy vines hung in haphazard loops. Long beards of moss and glossy coats of slime added texture to the dark trunks. Out in the water, islands of filthy mulch and half-drowned logs showed that not all the swamp was submerged, though Jason had no trouble seeing why they would need a boat.

  “You know where we are?” Jason asked.

  “I think I know where our skiff should be,” Jasher replied.

  To reach the water’s edge they weaved around a few reedy pools where cattails protruded like hot dogs on sticks. At one point the sludge became so deep it was almost over the top of Jason’s boots, sucking and slurping with every step.

  After reaching the brink of the gloomy swamp, they skirted the murky water for more than a hundred yards. Then Jasher began tearing decayed leaves and creepers off of a low mound by the waterside.

  “Here we go,” Jasher said, after stripping off enough vegetable matter to expose the wooden hull of the small vessel. “Help me uncover it.”

  Before long they removed the vegetation. Working together, they flipped the skiff right side up. An eight-foot snake uncurled from under the vessel and whipped away into the water, moving in a black blur.

  “That was a dangerous one,” Jasher said, staring at the ripples where the snake was lashing across the surface. “Did you notice the red dots behind the head?”

  “I barely saw the snake,” Jason said. “That thing was fast!”

  “Mud viper. Big one. Be glad we were on land. They’ll attack almost anything in the water. One bite causes paralysis. A few more bring death.”

  Jason shuddered.

  “Snakes never really freaked me out before,” Rachel said numbly.

  “Don’t worry,” Jason said. “Your smell should keep them away.”

  “If your smell doesn’t kill them first,” she fired back.

  Jasher inspected the skiff from bow to stern. “Looks watertight. Only one way to be sure.”

  They pushed it over the muddy bank into the water. “Get in,” Jasher said.

  Jason and Rachel stepped over the stern of the broad, shallow vessel.

  “Move to the bow and sit down.”

  They complied, and Jasher sprang into the skiff, the force of his landing propelling the little craft away from the shore.

  The skiff rode low with the three passengers, the gunwale scarcely six inches above the water. Jasher fitted the single long oar into the oarlock at the stern and began deftly sculling the vessel deeper into the swamp.

  “Need any help?” Jason asked.

  “No. I can do this all day. Better if you two stay in the bow. There is a species of predatory slime that drifts on the surface of the water. It will digest flesh down to the bone. Keep a sharp lookout so I can keep it from attaching to the skiff. It’s yellow-green in color and floats listlessly until it senses prey.”

  Jason sat taller, scanning the water ahead. Off to one side he spotted a fat frog squatting on a floating log. Bigger than a rabbit, the frog bulged with warty bumps.

  “Big frog,” Jason said.

  Jasher snorted.

  “They get bigger?” Rachel asked.

  “Big enough to prey on men, I am told,” Jasher whispered. “I have never ventured deep enough into the swamp to behold one. Keep a sharp lookout. We should generally avoid speaking. Certain creatures have sharp ears. It would be better if we passed unnoticed.”

  Jason nodded. He kept watching the water. The only sounds were the gentle swishing of the scull and the mellow hum of insects. Jason glimpsed many more big frogs, both swimming and squatting. He saw a snake streak through the water, just as the mud viper had, and steal a big, hairy spider off of a tree trunk.

  Insects abounded—dragonflies, mosquitos, gnats, water skimmers, and beetles in metallic greens and blues. As Jasher had promised, they kept their distance from the boat.

  After some time Jason spotted an amoeboid shape floating in the water ahead, like a huge wad of snot. “I see some slime,” he whispered.

  Jasher navigated around it.

  As night fell, the swamp blackened. Jasher found a soggy island, and he and Jason hauled the craft out of the water.

  “The night is dreadful in the swamp,” Jasher whispered. “Or so I have heard. I am told it is best to stay out of the water and to remain in your boat.”

  A deep, resonant croak, almost a bark, sounded somewhere not far behind Jason. He gasped and turned quickly but could see nothing through the murk. Jasher placed a steadying hand on his arm.

  “Was that a frog?” Rachel murmured.

  The croak was soon answered by another farther off. Before long the swamp was alive with a confused chorus of deep-throated croaking. Some of the croaks were like massive belches, others almost musical, others fierce and threatening.

  Jasher moved between Rachel and Jason, whispering softly. “I had heard the night sounds of the swamp were unnerving. Never did I imagine it would be like this.”

  “I never imagined frogs freaking me out,” Rachel whispered back.

  “Swallow some insect repellant,” Jasher suggested.

  Jason and Rachel consumed the gel gratefully.

  Soon it became as dark as the bowels of a cave. Jason found that closing or opening his eyes made no difference.

  New sounds joined the frog chorus. High-pitched squeals began to warble in long, quavering notes. Low moans like the winding of giant horns drifted over the swamp from far away, as if some immense creature were mourning. A sudden clicking like castanets, sometimes alarmingly close, added a startling rhythm to the cacophony. The relative quiet of the day was utterly forgotten.

  “Try to sleep,” Jasher whispered loudly over the increasing din. “I will keep watch.”

  Jason had to curl up to lie in the skiff, and he had difficulty getting comfortable. His mind raced in the blackness, imagining cunning snakes stealing into the skiff, or methodical masses of slime oozing over the gunwale, mindlessly craving his warm flesh. The ghastly clamor of the swamp would not relent. Strange dreams invaded Jason’s fitful slumber.

  When Jason awakened, all was quiet again. And he could see, though the light was dim.

  “Good morning,” Jasher said in a hoarse, hushed tone. “Let’s make haste today. I do not yearn for many nights like the past one.”

  “Is your throat okay?” Jason asked.

  “A little sore,” Jasher replied.

  Rachel handed Jason a sandwich made of gutplug and dried meat. He wondered how long the other two had been awake. He found the sandwich difficult to chew, but his hunger made it delicious.

  Jason stood up and could barely stretch because his back and neck felt so cramped. He noticed several dead snakes on the island beside the boat, heads crushed or severed.

  “Were these here before?” Jason asked.

  “I had a busy night,” Jasher replied.

  They got the skiff back into the water.

  Jason knelt in the prow, scanning the turbid water for evidence of danger.

  Jasher plied the oar expertly to maneuver them through mazes of muddy islands, tangled deadfalls, and slick masses of slime. Late in the afternoon they found a treeless lake. In the center was a long, muddy island, larger than any island they had yet seen in the swamp. At the far end of the island towered an enormous tree, both in height and girth: an arboreal skyscraper, dwarfing all the other trees within view. Its mighty limbs, themselves the size of the lesser tree
s, fanned out hundreds of feet above to overshadow the entire lake.

  On the black mud of the near bank of the island squatted a frog the size of a horse, an obese creature disfigured by bulbous warts and crowned with sharp horns. It raised its heavy head, wet nostrils flaring, as the skiff moved out into the lake.

  “We have arrived,” Jasher whispered. “The Pythoness dwells within that monarch of the swamp.” He gestured at the tree.

  As they approached the island, the frog sat up high, revealing a fat, pale underbelly. The rest of its slimy hide was dark gray and green. The frog emitted a low humming sound. “Think you can work the scull?” Jasher asked. “I believe this frog means to challenge us.”

  Jason traded position with Jasher, who moved to the bow, sword in hand. Under Jason’s clumsy guidance the skiff veered right, then overcorrected to the left, and eventually made a zigzag path to the muddy bank.

  Over his shoulder, Jason noticed that Rachel had pulled out her camera. She snapped a couple of pictures of Jasher approaching the frog.

  As the craft ran aground, Jasher sprang forward into the muck. The heavy frog shifted, letting out a terrible roar, throaty and impossibly deep and loud. Jason flinched.

  Jasher advanced slowly and evenly, walking sideways, sword held vertically in both hands. The gargantuan frog took a couple small hops forward, pausing five yards away from Jasher. Quick and sudden as a jack-in-the-box a long pink tongue lashed out and curled about Jasher’s waist.

  His sword flashed, severing over three feet of muscular tongue. The rest of the tongue retracted, blood spewing from the tip. The length of tongue around his waist clung there like a grotesque belt.

  The frog roared with twice the previous intensity, its obscene body quivering, dark syrup gushing from its wide mouth. It squatted low, and its hide chameleoned to a darker hue that matched the surrounding muck. Its hind legs released, and the enormous frog leaped in a fantastic arc, its bulk soaring high over Jasher’s head, beyond the reach of his slashing sword.

  It crashed down near the skiff and slid across the slick mud to slam against the craft, bumping the vessel abruptly into the water, the sudden jerk toppling Jason over the side. Rachel screamed. Jason flailed his arms to keep his head above the surface of the tepid water. His cloak and clothes and boots weighed him down and made him flounder.