They’re two of the longest days of my life, and I’ve had some very long days before. But by the time the swamp levels out and the trees become so sparse that we see nothing but mud flats as far as the eye can see, I’m so tired I’m numb. I’ve got mud in places I didn’t know I had places, so many bug bites that I feel like one big blister, and I’m almost out of rations. I’m thirsty, my stomach’s growling, and Dingle smells utterly foul. Wet goat and swamp muck are not a great combination.
Kalos hasn’t complained in the slightest, though. I’m rather impressed with that. He never volunteers conversation, and I don’t expect it from him. But when I ask him questions, he answers to the best of his ability. Most of his answers are “I don’t know” or “Why are you asking?” but they’re still answers, at least.
The one bright spot? There’s no sign of the enemy army that was supposedly hot on our tails. Either we’ve lost them cutting through the swamp, or they elected not to come after us.
I’ll take it.
The sight of a small fishing village on the horizon makesme burst into tears of joy. I clutch at Kalos’s arm in sheer delight as I point to it, and he stares at me in shock when I grab him. I’m shocked, too—the mere act of touching him sends a hot flash through me, as if I’ve had a sudden spike in fever.
“Sorry,” I say, immediately releasing him. “I was just…excited. Please don’t give me the plague. Not after all we’ve been through.”
He rolls his eyes at me. “I won’t give you a sickness every time we touch. The first time is just to link us.”
“You said it was to teach me a lesson!” I remember, because I’d wanted to choke him for being so petty.
He gives me a dismissive look. “We’re not to use our powers—for good or evil—while we’re here. The High Father wants us humbled.”
He can’t use his disease powers while he’s here? That’s a relief. I reach out and pat his arm, then smooth it as if I can wipe away my touch. “I am sorry, though. I’m sure you don’t want to be manhandled by a mortal.”
Kalos glances down at his arm where I’ve grabbed at him. He says nothing.
“A village,” I tell him again happily, turning back to the settlement in the distance. “Fresh water. Food. Do you think they’re friendly?”
He huffs. “Not if we tell them who we are.”
Oh. Good point. I’m not traveling with someone who is likely very popular amongst mortals if the goal is to “keep him apathetic.” I suppose it’d be too much to hope that they’d be in awe. Most likely they’d try to stone us or run us out of the village entirely. “Okay, we need a plan.”
He looks at me, waiting.
Right. He’s not going to come up with anything. It’s all on me. For a moment, I feel a brief rush of frustration, but I push it aside. This is what I signed up for. I pressmy muddy fingers to my equally muddy, bug-bitten brow and think. We can’t go in and announce ourselves. We need a cover story of some kind, and we need to think carefully about who we approach. As we get closer to the village, I notice there’s a few cabins (hovels, really) scattered along the shores next to rickety docks. It’s a poor village, that’s for sure, and there’s a smell of rotten fish in the air.
I eye the cabin closest to us—and farthest from the village—and notice the door opens and an old man steps out. I touch Kalos’s arm again, leaning in close to whisper. “Follow my lead.”
He glances down where I’m touching him.
“Shit. Sorry.”
“You can’t keep swearing every time you touch me,” he comments.
No, I can’t. And I can’t keep grabbing him every time I feel like it, too. I need to remember that he’s a god and he’s off limits. I smooth my hands on my swamp-encrusted clothes and try to compose myself. “Let me do the talking.”
I stride forward and put a bright smile on my face, approaching the man as he slowly walks out onto the rickety, weather-beaten wooden dock. He’s seen us and his steps are cautious, his hand moving to his belt where he keeps a knife. Over one shoulder, he’s got what looks like rope or looped netting, and his gaze flicks to the small boat moored at the edge of the dock, as if he wants to make an escape.
Okay, now I need to say something but make it sound like I belong here. I wave a hand over my head excitedly. “Hello, good sir! Can we trouble you for a moment?”
Hopefully that sounds sufficiently medieval.
“What do you want?” he calls, stopping in his tracks as we approach. The skeptical look remains on his face, and as we approach, I notice he’s not as old as I thought. His face is justlined and weathered, a deep tan on his skin from days on the boat. A stocking cap with a funny little point at the end is atop his head, and if I were in a laughing mood, I’d say he looks like a surly overgrown garden gnome.
But I’m tired and cranky and hungry and covered in mud and bug bites. I don’t care what he looks like. I keep smiling at him and slow my steps, Dingle trotting at my side. “Can we trouble you for fresh water and food? I promise we’ll be on our way quickly once we’ve eaten and cleaned up.”
He scowls at us, gaze darting over me and over my shoulder, where Kalos stands a few steps behind me. The fisherman thinks for a moment longer, then lifts his chin. “Where’d you come from?”
“The swamp.” I gesture at my muddy clothing and my skin, which is covered with a layer of hardening, gritty filth. “There was an army of the Disease God coming from Balsingra and they were marching over the farms to the north. We decided it was safer to run than to confront them. We’ve been in the swamps for a week now.”
The fisherman grunts. “I can sell you food and water, but it’ll cost you. It’s the Anticipation, you know.”
Oh, I’m well aware. “Have you seen any gods yet?”
