Captain Erskine Erwell stood in the prow of an assault boat; hands clasped behind his back as his eyes swept the jungle in front of him, the chitters and screeches from the beasts hidden within drowning the low grunts from the rowers behind him. Several other boats, identical to his, cut through the water on his flanks, each one packed to the brim with Calandorian marines on the hunt for the Skjar reavers who had abducted their people.

The tobacco in his pipe was usually enough to calm his nerves on the rare occasions he needed it, but today it did precious little. Neither did the squads of marines following him. The northern reavers had taken an entire village, and in their attempts to escape justice at the hands of the Royal Navy, had fled into the most dangerous and inhospitable country in the world.

Marduk.

He heard a splash off to his side and his head whipped around, hand going to his sword, until he saw it was just one of his men in the water. Their boat had run aground on a submerged mangrove root, and he was standing in the waist deep water trying to push it clear. Erskine turned to find his sergeant major, a towering southern Calandorian with a scarred face and a chest like a barrel, and nodded to him. Sergeant Major Groth dutifully started berating the marine, and Erskine allowed himself a small smile. Discipline issues were much easier to resolve when your right hand man’s right hand could envelop most men’s heads.

“But sir!” the marine protested. “The boat is caught, I’m trying to dislodge it.”

“I’ll get my boat over and we’ll pull you out. Get back in, afore a drake gets you.”

“We haven’t seen a drake since we got here, sir. This’ll be faster.”

Groth went red in the face at the back talk and was about to unleash on the man when the surface of the river erupted. The marine screamed as a swamp drake burst forth, its massive jaws clamping down on his chest as it drove him under the surface and the river started frothing.

Erskine knew they were in trouble. Though little more than the armoured head and neck had surfaced, it had dwarfed the marine. The drake would easily be five meters or more from tip to tail, which meant it was heavily armoured, old, and fearless. The marines In the surrounding boats froze for a mere moment, staring into the roiling water, before kicking into action. Those in the closest boat started shouting and stabbing at the reptile with their spears, until an errant flick of its tail effortlessly capsized them, while the rowers in the others brought their craft around.

“Sergeant Major!” Erskine shouted. “Bring us round!”

“Aye.”

Erskine tapped out his pipe and pocketed it as the boat surged forward, closing the distance to the struggle as he drew his sword. He eyed the narrowing gap, and when he was confident, dove headfirst off the prow into the foam and blood.

He landed on the drake’s back and started driving his sword point into it again and again. Its armoured hide was thick, but the gaps in the scutes were weak points and Erskine kept striking, in a different spot every time, looking for something vital. He realised he hit something tender when the crocodilian released its prey and thrashed, throwing Erskine off, before disappearing under the surface with an angry hiss.

Erskine quickly found his feet and stood, eyes roving the surface of the water, as he turned in a wary circle.

“Sir! Get back in the damn boat!” Groth shouted as he came up alongside.

“Get the marine first.”

“This is not a negotiation!”

“You’re right,” Erskine replied, taking his eyes away from the water long enough to lock eyes with Groth. “I’m giving you an order. Hop to it.”

Groth swore again, but turned to give the order to the rowers. The boat leapt forward, marines reaching over its side and dragging the casualty towards them. Satisfied the man would be recovered soon, Erskine turned his attention back to the water. He knew he was unlikely to detect the drake first. Their ability to move through shallow water without so much as a ripple was well known, despite being several times larger than a man, but finding the drake before it attacked was still his only hope of survival. And then he felt something, the slightest pulse of water against his back.

Against the flow of the current.

He spun, his sword raised, as the drake exploded at him from the surface of the river. Its jaws were wide open and Erskine caught a flash of conical teeth longer than his fingers and the smell of rancid flesh, before it crashed into him, driving him under the surface of the water. He hit the riverbed with a thud, hundreds of kilos of reptile coming down on top of him and pinning him in the mud. Fortunately, the jaw didn’t clamp shut. Erskine squinted through the brackish water and saw his sword blade disappearing through the meaty roof of the drake’s jaw, and into its brain.

Unfortunately, Erskine reflected, this was also a concern as it was preventing him from reaching the surface of the river and the precious air he needed to breathe. He gritted his teeth and braced his hands against the reptile’s body, but for all his strength, he couldn’t budge it an inch. His lungs started to burn, and he felt panic welling up in his chest, when suddenly the drake moved. He gave it a final shove as it rolled off him, and he scrambled for the surface. He breached with his eyes and mouth wide open, dragging in lungful’s of air. He looked around, slightly wild-eyed to find Groth and a handful of marines holding the drake’s tail.

“Yer welcome, sir.”

*

The marine died before his comrades pulled him from the water. The company’s medic believed that the force of the bite crushed his ribs and put a jagged bone through his heart. It had been a quick death, at least.

Erskine sat heavily in the boat. He felt his pocket for his pipe, then decided against it. The tobacco wouldn’t change the basic facts of their situation. They were in a foreign land, surrounded by dangers, and still trailing behind the Skjar.

Erskine spat over the side as his thoughts turned to the northern reavers they were hunting. They had almost caught the bastards in an ambush along the Calandorian coast but a handful of boats had escaped, running south as the Royal Navy swept down from the north. The plan had been sound; force them towards the Rift and let the almost daily tropical storms force their longboats ashore where they could be dealt with, but when a massive tropical squall had broken out four days ago the Skjar had defied expectations by instead fleeing into the fucking jungle.

The Marduk jungle was an infamous death trap. The day the Calandorians followed the reavers in, one of Erskine’s men had brushed against a tree and been struck blind, ranting and screaming until the toxin finally killed him. Another was caught up in a thorny vine that same day, which wouldn’t have been so bad, if he hadn’t immediately been swarmed by the attached nest of voracious ants, each over an inch long. The man’s squad leader had seen it before, and put a javelin through his heart to spare him the agony of having ants tunnel into his brain through his eyes and ears. The list continued in much the same fashion, this last casualty was just the latest.

Four days. They had been here four fucking days and already lost a squad’s worth of marines. They had entered the jungle with close to one hundred men, and with the latest loss they were already below ninety with no end to their pursuit in sight.

But they couldn’t retreat, not while the reavers still had captive Calandorian slaves.

Groth sat down beside him. “What’re you thinking, sir?”

Erskine glanced at him, then returned his gaze to the river. “At this rate, the jungle will take us apart before we catch the reavers.”

“The jungle could be taking them apart too?”

“That doesn’t make me feel better, they have our women and children with them.”

“Fair point. What’s the plan, then?” Groth asked as he shimmied his butt on the seat, trying to get comfortable. It was an exercise in futility when your legs were thicker than the seat beam.

“We need local guides. The natives somehow live in this environment, if we could secure their assistance, maybe we could make better time. Take fewer casualties.”

“Well, making contact is easy enough,“ Groth said, slowly. “The question is, do you really want to? They can be… prickly towards outsiders.”

Erskine looked back to his sergeant major who looked away quickly.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“They’ve been following us since before the drake attack.”

Erskine’s blood ran cold, and his eyes narrowed. “How do you know?”

“I’ve been here before, sir. I know how they communicate. Clicks and whistles to imitate jungle creatures, but when you’re here long enough, you learn to tell the difference.”

“Where are they?”

Groth waved his hand at the surrounding jungle. “We’re surrounded, sir. They haven’t attacked, which is a good sign, but they also haven’t made contact. I’d say they’re keepin’ an eye on us until we leave their territory. Forcing contact might make them aggressive.”

“And do you know whose territory we are in?” Erskine asked, sweeping his gaze over the dense greenery along the riverbanks. The noises in Marduk were constant, loud and varied. Insects chirped while raptors called and drakes hissed, with the occasional animalistic scream as something died horribly. He had no clue how Groth could pick hunting calls amongst the general din.

“It’s impossible to say, the tribal boundaries ebb and flow like the tide.”

“Alright. And what happens if our current course takes us deeper into their territory, as opposed to out of it?”

Groth hesitated ever so briefly. “Then they’ll ambush us and kill us,” he said matter-of-factly.

It doesn’t rain, but it pours.

“That settles it then,” Erskine replied as he stood up, put his fingers to his mouth and whistled. “Oi! Show yourselves!” he shouted as Groth pinched the bridge of his nose, mumbling ‘bloody hell’ under his breath.

Erskine kept his posture relaxed and composed as his eyes swept the vegetation, looking for any sign of the natives. Sure enough, after a few seconds, a man materialised out of the jungle. He walked out along a thick tree branch hanging over the water, his steps confident despite the drop into drake infested waters below.

“Mornin’,” he called, raising a hand in greeting.

Erskine analysed him. He looked fairly typical for a native of Marduk, though Erskine would be the first to admit he wasn’t an expert on the subject. He was shorter than a Calandorian and heavily muscled, with dark brown skin, close cut fuzzy hair and a broad nose. His face was marked with yellow paint, two inverted chevrons on his forehead and two diagonal stripes on each cheek. He held a wooden spear in his hand and was dressed in nothing more than loose leather shorts. Erskine envied the outfit. It looked far cooler in the oppressive heat and humidity of the jungle than his marine armour.

“Hello,” Erskine called back, holding his own hand up as well to be polite. His eyes went back to roving the jungle, but he couldn’t see anybody else. “Are there more of you?” he asked.

“Nope,” the native replied.

“Really? It seems rather dangerous to be out in the jungle by yourself.”

“I’m not. There’s a whole hunting party here with me,” the man said, dropping to sit on the branch, his leg dangling a scant few feet above the surface of the water.

“You just said there weren’t any more of you.”

“Of course there aren’t any more of me. How could there be? Unless I had an identical twin, I suppose. But I’m not, so just me. In the company of a few dozen hunters who are ready to turn you all into pin cushions if you give us a reason to.”

This local was trying to make a fool of him, and Erskine felt the heat rise in his face. After a few seconds of internal struggle, he put on his best diplomat’s face. Carefully blank.

“I sincerely hope it won’t come to that.”

“Makes one of us. I really couldn’t care less. On the subject though, the best way to avoid it would be to turn around and go back the way you came.”

I guess we were heading deeper into their territory, after all.

“I’m afraid we can’t do that.”

“Levi,” the man said.

“What?”

“I’m afraid we can’t do that, Levi,” he repeated, a smug grin on his face.

“I’m sorry, is that some sort of title?” Erskine asked.

“No dip shit, it’s my name. You aren’t particularly bright, are you?”

Erskine bristled and he felt the flush in his cheeks come back. “Now listen here you little shit-“ he started, before he felt Groth’s hand on his shoulder, pulling him back. As Groth did so, a new voice rang out from the jungle behind Levi. Old and gravelly.

“Stop being an arsehole, Levi. Find out what they want and how we can get rid of them.”

On hearing the voice Levi stopped, his smile replaced with a scowl. He scratched his arm, a belligerent look on his face, and Erskine thought he was going to argue, but in the end he shrugged and turned back to the marines.

“Alright, I guess we’re biting. Why can’t you just leave?”

Erskine took a deep breath, his anger not fully abated, but a warning stare from Groth kept him civil. “There is a Skjar flotilla further upriver. They abducted our villagers further up the coast and fled here. We cannot leave until we have our people back.”

Levi’s face had gone slack as soon as Erskine mentioned the flotilla. He sprinted back along the tree branch and disappeared from view. Erskine shot a look at Groth, but the sergeant major held up his hand, urging patience. From within the jungle, they could make out voices, not clear enough to understand what they were saying, but clear enough to tell it was heated. A few seconds later, Levi reappeared, a dark expression on his face.

“Bring your boats into the bank immediately, we are getting aboard.”

“Excuse me?”

“Listen, you’ve got a choice between working with us or picking a fight. It’s in both our best interests to behave.”

“Why?” Erskine asked, wary of the sudden change of heart.

“Because our village sits on the banks of this river, just a day upstream. If what you’re saying is true, the Skjar will arrive any minute now.”

Erskine nodded, Groth already shouting orders to the crews to bring the boats in.

“Guess you’d better get in then.”