The sun stood high overhead.
The sky was cloudless, and the light shimmered harshly across the sparse yellow grasses of the savanna like a sheet of pale white heat. The air felt heavy, as if even breathing had slowed. Each step of the Lurgim pressed into the dry earth and sent thin clouds of dust drifting around the caravan. Despite the light cloth coverings pulled over their heads, most of the Urtu were clearly exhausted by the heat.
Nurk, as usual, could not stay quiet.
"Hey, Dunk… how much farther do we have to go?"
There was no answer.
A few minutes passed.
"Hey, Dunk… when are we going to arrive?"
Dunk grunted but still said nothing.
Nurk called out again.
"Hey, Dunk—"
At last, Dunk turned his head slightly toward him, making no effort to hide his irritation.
"Boy," he said in a slow, heavy tone, "why don't you try enjoying the peace of silence for a while?"
Nurk shrugged.
"We've been on the road for days," he replied casually. "Travel like this is unbearable without talking. And I've been with this caravan for three years now. This is the first time we're going to Zeswa. I'm curious about the place. What's wrong with talking about it a little?"
Dunk stayed quiet for a moment. Then he let out a long breath.
"You'll see it when we get there anyway," he muttered. "But fine. If it will make you stay quiet for a while, I'll tell you."
Nurk immediately straightened. Even Maya tilted her head slightly, listening with a faint smile.
"We turned south from the mountains two days ago," Dunk began. "Soon we'll reach marshland and wetlands. The ground softens. Water replaces the grass. Trees grow thicker. And the air fills with insects."
Nurk raised his eyebrows.
"Marshes?"
"Yes," Dunk said. "And once you see them, we won't be far from Zeswa."
"So what kind of village is it?" Nurk asked eagerly.
Dunk tilted his head slightly as he spoke.
"Their houses stand on the water," he said. "Built from wood. Raised above the surface. They move around in small boats they call canoes. They use them to catch water animals they call fish."
Nurk's eyes widened.
"Really?"
"Really," Dunk replied dryly. "And most of all, they grow something called rice. I never liked the taste. Feels like mud. But they mix it with water and eat it all the time. You'll see their fields everywhere."
Maya let out a quiet laugh.
"You say that about every new food you try."
Dunk shrugged.
"And I'm usually right."
By then, Nurk had already begun imagining the place, his curiosity growing stronger with every word. He did not hesitate to keep asking questions, bothering Dunk—and sometimes even Elder Loren—again and again as the caravan continued its slow journey forward.
At roughly the same hour the following day, Dunk's prediction proved correct.
The plains had begun to change long before the caravan reached the forest itself. Dry grasslands gave way to darker, softer soil, and shallow pools of standing water appeared between clusters of unfamiliar trees. The air grew heavier with moisture. Insects gathered in drifting clouds just above the ground, and the open silence of the savanna was gradually replaced by the distant sound of flowing water.
Soon, their path was cut by rivers splitting into wide, branching channels.
The Lurgim slowed.
Their heavy feet sank slightly into the wet earth with every step, and in some places they had to shift their balance carefully to avoid hidden patches of mud. Before long, it became clear that advancing deeper with the entire caravan would be difficult.
Loren raised his hand.
"We stop here."
Most of the caravan remained behind among the thick roots of large trees where the ground was firm enough for the Lurgim to stand safely. Supplies were checked again, bindings tightened, and watch positions quietly arranged.
Then Loren and Dunk continued forward on foot.
The forest quickly closed around them. Between the trees, narrow but carefully constructed wooden walkways began to appear, raised just above the surface of the water. The air carried the scent of wet timber and slow-moving river currents.
Before long, the settlement of Zeswa came into view.
Once the villagers noticed them and word spread ahead, a small delegation of elders gathered on one of the wide river platforms to receive them. They greeted Loren in the old way, clasping his forearms with calm warmth, followed by brief words of welcome.
Dunk wasted no time. He spoke with several villagers and quickly arranged for narrow boats to be prepared and sent back along the river to retrieve the rest of the caravan's cargo.
Meanwhile, Loren remained on the platform built above the slow-moving water.
Familiar figures gathered around him one by one.
Familiar faces. Familiar voices.
As always, they began with small things first. Trade. The condition of the harvest. The health of neighboring settlements. Old friends and shared memories.
The important matters, as always, would be discussed later.
With the arrival of the boats, the cargo began to be transported one by one across the river in narrow wooden canoes and lifted onto the platform. Gradually, the atmosphere around them began to change.
What had started as a calm conversation between old friends soon shifted into trade.
Everything they had brought from Anjum and the smaller northern settlements was unpacked piece by piece. Shell-crafted goods, hardened resin blocks, dried hides, medicinal roots, woven fiber cloth, bone tools, and bundles of preserved fruit were carefully arranged across the platform. The elders of Zeswa examined each item closely, lifting them, weighing them in their hands, and exchanging quiet remarks as they judged their value.
In return, the villagers presented what they had in abundance.
Rice.
Large baskets filled with pale grains were carried forward and placed in neat rows along the platform. They also offered freshly caught river fish, some of which still twitched faintly, but Loren declined the offer politely yet firmly. The journey back north would be long. The fish would spoil before they arrived.
What truly caught their interest, however, were the remains of river predators.
Thick hides taken from the three-jawed, club-tailed crocodiles were brought forward with visible pride. Alongside them came crude tools and ornaments carved from their dense bones—slings, spearheads, and pieces of armor shaped from rib fragments.
Loren accepted these without hesitation.
By the time the trade was complete, the daylight beyond the trees had already begun to fade.
Night slowly settled over the village built upon the water. Loren once again found himself seated with the elders on one of the open platforms, while the final shipments brought by canoe were being distributed along the walkways and storage decks of the settlement.
One of the elders spoke first.
"We are grateful that you brought your caravan this far south," he said in a calm voice. "We are not a poor settlement. But we live far from the main trade routes. Many merchants believe it is not worth the journey."
He gestured toward the dark river beyond the platform.
"Because of that, we often remain unaware of what happens in the north."
Loren answered modestly.
"There is no need to thank me. We are friends. I want your village to prosper as well."
Alta paused for a moment before continuing.
"Thank you, Loren. Because of what you bring, we are able to reach many things we otherwise could not. But it troubles me that the villages farther south cannot."
His expression darkened slightly.
"You already know this. Even though we live in the south, we are still the northernmost settlement of the wetlands. Beyond us, the lands stretch farther than most people imagine. There are many more villages."
He leaned forward slightly.
"But life there is harder."
Then he lowered his voice.
"And there are the wild tribes."
The other elders nodded silently.
"They do not come often," Alta continued, "but when they do, they bring trouble. Recently, several families from the south have taken refuge here. They say the wild ones attack their settlements at night. They say people are being taken."
His voice dropped even further.
"They claim the captives are used in rituals... offerings to the soil itself."
Loren listened quietly but said nothing. The wild tribes had always existed. There was little anyone could do except regret such things.
After a while, the conversation drifted back toward safer subjects—trade routes, fishing seasons, the condition of southern waterways, and the rice fields.
It was then that Loren noticed movement in the darkness around the platform.
Dozens of small shapes stood silently near the water's edge.
Eight-eyed frogs.
Their pale bodies were barely visible in the dim light.
One of them stood very close to his foot.
Curious, Loren leaned forward and reached out to touch it.
The frog suddenly inflated its throat and expelled a thick cloud of green gas into the air.
Loren flinched and pulled back immediately.
A moment later, the creature leapt into the dark surface of the water and disappeared without a sound.
The Urtu seated on the platform chuckled at Loren's sudden reaction. Some of them leaned back against the wooden railings, still smiling faintly, while one of the elders wiped his eyes as if he had genuinely enjoyed the moment.
"Have you really never seen one of them before?" one of them asked, still grinning.
Loren shook his head and glanced again toward the dark water where the frog had disappeared. "Not like that. I thought it was about to attack me."
Another elder let out a soft laugh. "No, no. Those are frogs that come from the southern marshes. Mostly harmless."
"Mostly?" Loren repeated, raising an eyebrow slightly.
The man smiled and nodded.
"They like to live in the water beneath the houses," another added with a laugh. "Sometimes they rise from below and release that green gas. I suppose those chubby things swallow too much of it themselves."
Several of the others laughed again.
"We call them glutton frogs," one of them said.
Loren let out a quiet breath now that his tension had faded. "I'll remember that the next time one tries to poison me."
"Don't worry," another elder replied calmly. "If they were dangerous, we wouldn't allow them to live here."
From there, the conversation drifted naturally into other topics. Old trade stories were shared, followed by memories of past journeys, difficult harvest seasons, and the great floods from years ago. When someone mentioned a canoe that had overturned during a crossing, the group burst into laughter once more. Even Loren found himself relaxing as the night deepened.
The air slowly cooled, and the sounds of insects grew louder. One by one, the elders rose and returned to their homes. The fires burned lower. The platforms emptied.
Before long, the village fell completely silent. Loren lay down to rest and closed his eyes.
Sleep came quickly.
But sometime in the middle of the night, that silence was suddenly torn apart by screams.
And just like that, another troubled night had begun.
-----
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