Chapter 27: Marked

  The sun starts its descent toward the horizon like a dying ember, painting the marsh in shades of blood and amber. As darkness begins to creep across the water, the larger blue moon begins its ascent, its pale light transforming the swamp into something both beautiful and terrible.

  I stand at the edge of the higher platforms, watching this transition in awe. It is the first time I can appreciate a view like this, a wonder singular to this world. The blue moon starts its ascent while the sun still clings to the edge of existence, as if the day itself is reluctant to surrender to what comes next.

  "Gather!" Hynnal Death-Howl's barks, cutting through my contemplation.

  The full expedition assembles on the central platform. Ten Gnoll warriors form a loose semicircle, their weapons gleaming in the fading light. And we, the seven slaves cluster together, though we maintain careful distances from each other. United only by circumstance while separated by species and distrust.

  Lord Zhex emerges from his dwelling, and the casual chatter immediately dies. Even the ever-present sounds of the marsh seem to quiet in his presence.

  He ceremoniously carries with him a carved wooden bowl filled with smoldering herbs that release thick, acrid smoke. The scent is unlike anything I've encountered before, even Magba’s strange mixes. Not unpleasant at all, but fundamentally wrong, as if the smoke itself doesn't quite belong.

  And then, he begins to chant.

  The words are incomprehensible, not Gnoll or any language I've heard. They appear older, deeper, carrying a resonance that seems to bypass my ears and speak directly to something primal in my chest.

  Deep down, even my small core stone responds with a faint warmth, as if recognizing something familiar in those ancient syllables.

  I glance at Kor'ik, hoping for translation, but the Frogman's face is pale, his eyes wide with something beyond mere fear. Whatever language the Alpha speaks, even our multilingual translator can comprehend any of it.

  Having finished this first part of the ritual, Zhex now moves through the assembled expedition members with deliberate ceremony. He then proceeds to dip two clawed fingers into as if scraping the ash at the bottom of his bowl.

  When he reaches the first Gnoll warrior, he presses those fingers to the warrior's forehead, leaving a distinct mark. Two parallel halfmoons, crossed in the middle by a line.

  The warrior's entire body goes rigid for a moment, muscles tensing as if struck by lightning. Then he relaxes, though his eyes carry some new weight or awareness.

  One by one, the Alpha marks the Gnolls in our expedition. I watch as the pattern repeats, the ash applied, the moment of rigidity, the subtle change in bearing.

  Unexpectedly Lord Zhex then reaches the Bog Goblins, and starts marking them as well. Their small bodies convulse more violently, and one actually cries out before the sensation passes.

  Gorvash stands straight when his turn comes, meeting the Alpha's gaze with characteristic defiance even as those ashen fingers touch his scaled forehead. Immediately after, I can see something new in his eyes, a flicker of recognition, before he closes his fist with such strength that even the scales in his knuckles pull back.

  By Kor'ik’s turn, he is trembling so violently I believe he might collapse before Zhex even touches him. The Alpha's expression shows no sympathy as he applies the mark. The Frogman's legs give out entirely, and he falls to his knees, gasping and clutching at his chest.

  And then, it's my turn.

  Lord Zhex's (or should I just call him Green Gnoll to keep up with my naming conventions) presence is overwhelming up close. That intoxicating scent that emanates from him is a weapon on his own, even if it appears he is suppressing it right now. His dark eyes bore into mine with an intelligence that sees far more than I'd like to reveal.

  Before I can process all this haze of emotions, his fingers press against my forehead.

  The sensation is immediate and intense. Not pain, exactly, but something more than simple physical discomfort. It's as if molten metal has been poured directly into my skull, spreading tendrils of liquid fire through my nervous system. I can also feel my core stone flaring with sudden heat, responding to whatever magic the Alpha has invoked.

  For a brief, disorienting moment, I feel connected to everyone else who bears the mark. I sense Gorvash's battle-readiness, Kor'ik's and the Bog Goblins' overwhelming terror. Even the Gnolls register as distinct presences, predatory, focused, alive with anticipation.

  Then the connection fades, leaving only a persistent tingle where the ash touches my scales and a deep, bone-level awareness that something has fundamentally changed.

  I immediately grasp what this damned mark or curse represents. It's not just a ritual blessing or made for protection. It's a locator, a magical leash that will allow Zhex and the Gnolls to track our movements through the marsh. Any thoughts I'd harbored about using this expedition as an escape opportunity evaporate like morning mist.

  The last to be marked is the shackled Frogman. Unlike the rest of us, he doesn't wait passively. As Zhex approaches, the warrior's powerful legs tense, the iron weights groaning as he prepares to…

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  "Nakta!" Hynnal Death-Howl barks, and two Gnoll warriors immediately press spear-points against the Frogman's throat.

  The Frogman goes still, but his eyes burn with hatred as Zhex applies the mark. When the moment of connection comes, I catch a flash of his presence, sharp, dangerous, and utterly unbroken despite his chains. This one is no simple warrior it seems. He's a weapon just waiting for an opportunity to be unleashed.

  With the marking complete, Lord Zhex returns to the center of the platform. Arms raised to the sky, his chanting resumes, building to a crescendo that makes the very air vibrate. The smoke from his ceremonial bowl spirals upward in an impossible pattern, forming shapes of letters or symbols, much similar to those I once saw before Magba’s vision.

  Finally, he speaks again in Gnoll, his voice carrying across the assembled group with ceremonial weight.

  Kor'ik, still on his knees and visibly shaking, manages to translate in a hollow voice.

  "Ancient stone-spirits sleep in the depths below." He swallows hard. "Do not wake them, as their waking is death for all."

  The Alpha continues, and Kor'ik's translation grows more strained with each word.

  "Take only what is offered. Touch nothing that calls to you, no matter how beautiful, no matter how powerful. Greed is punished with eternity."

  I file away this warning. Whatever treasures or artifacts exist in those ruins, we're being told to be selective. But what does "offered" mean? How are we even supposed to distinguish between what we're allowed to take and what will curse us? And what about this greed being punished with eternity? Even Kor’ik appears confused in this translation.

  Without caring for any additional explanation, Zhex gives his final words with the weight of absolute certainty.

  "Return before dark moons, or do not return at all. The way will close, and the depths will keep you forever."

  The translation hangs in the air like a death sentence. I do some quick mental calculation, both moons going dark means a new moon phase for each. Given their different cycles, that gives us roughly two weeks, maybe slightly more.

  Two weeks to navigate to the ruins, explore them, retrieve whatever the Gnolls want, and return. All while surviving whatever monsters, ghosts, traps and who else knows what else that remains in this ancient city.

  The odds don't look very promising.

  ____________________________________________________________________________

  The reaction to the Alpha's announcement is telling.

  The Gnoll warriors, despite their natural bravado and combat experience, have gone somber. No howling, no aggressive displays of dominance. They check their weapons with careful precision, their movements speaking of respect tinged with genuine fear.

  Even Hynnal Death-Howl, whose very name suggests a life of violence, displays thoughtful caution as he addresses his pack.

  Among the slaves, the responses are more varied.

  The three Bog Goblins huddle together, chittering in their own language. Their webbed fingers clutch at crude talismans they've somehow acquired, probably traded for in the slave markets. Whether these charms offer any real protection or just psychological comfort, I can't tell. But their fear is palpable.

  Kor'ik has managed to stand now, though he sways slightly. His earlier arrogance has been completely stripped away, leaving only the raw terror of someone who knows exactly what awaits. He catches my eye, and I see a desperate plea there. For what, I'm not sure.

  I barely have the confidence of surviving myself. Especially now with this bullshit brand on my forehead.

  Gorvash, in stark contrast, went back to his almost energized self. His scales gleam with an internal vitality I haven't seen before. He flexes his claws, rolls his shoulders, and I can practically see him calculating angles of attack, planning combat strategies against unknown enemies. The mark on his forehead pulses faintly with each movement, as if responding to his battle-readiness.

  "Brother," he says, moving closer to me. His voice is low, meant only for my hearing. "Whatever happens down there, we fight together. Agreed?"

  I nod, appreciating both the sentiment and the practicality. "Agreed… but try not to charge into every fight looking for glory. Survival is still the priority here"

  His mouth curves into that dangerous grin. "No promises."

  The shackled Frogman remains apart from everyone, his expression unreadable behind the weights and chains. I carefully approach him, aware that this could go badly.

  "Let’s work together," I say in my still developing Frogman language, keeping my tone neutral. "All the slaves. Better chance of survival."

  His eyes slide to me, and for a moment, I think he won't respond. Then he speaks, his voice like gravel grinding against stone.

  "Cooperation?" He snorts. "Think too much of blibble you gworp plop ribbit lizard." By his tone, it appears this Frogman is not the greatest supporter of the enemy of my enemy motto.

  He unceremoniously turns around ignoring everyone. Well, at least within expectations.

  I turn to Kor'ik, who's been watching this exchange with barely concealed anxiety. "Any help here?" I ask, to which he negatively responds in the same old downward and beaten expression.

  Pull yourself together," I tell him bluntly. "We need you functional."

  "Functional?" His laugh borders on hysteria. "We're marching to our deaths, and you want me to be functional?"

  "Yes. Because if you break down completely, the Gnolls will kill you for being useless. And then we lose our translator." I soften my tone slightly. "You've survived this long through intelligence, not strength. Use that intelligence now."

  He stares at me for a long moment, then takes a shaky breath. Some of the panic recedes from his eyes, replaced by the calculating mind that's kept him alive in captivity.

  "Fine, but don’t you dare forget again who the superior species is." He says holding his status as the last line of reason.

  It is incredible how even different otherworldly species also resort to hierarchy as a mechanism of defence and control.

  "Of course, Master Kor’ik." I answer him, still believing in his usefulness. In an interesting way I kind of got used to this arrogant prick. At least there is always someone to talk to.

  "MOVE!" a loud bark comes from Hynnal Death-Howl, cutting my thoughts short and signaling the start of our journey.