Dark Rot

by Simon McHardy

  The burden of this realization crushed her further. The weight of it so heavy, Morwen felt as if she were wading through quicksand as she wriggled through the mushroom patch. What did she have to show for her life? She was a high exarch of a crumbling castle and had no friends or lovers. She took a shuddering breath and looked piteously to Goron for consolation.

  Goron’s wasn’t paying attention. He was slumped against a giant mushroom. Violent sobs wracked his body, and he pounded the cave floor with his fists.

  “You’re crying!” Morwen said astonished, her own misery momentarily forgotten. She’d always thought Goron had the emotional depth of a puddle.

  “I’m a drunk, a glutton and a womanizer.”

  “That’s nothing. I’m selfish, and nobody likes me,” Morwen wailed. “I want to be loved. I want a man to hold me and say he loves me.” Morwen edged closer to Goron.

  Goron straightened out of his slump and stared at her through the blur of his tears. “We should kill ourselves. We’re worthless. Nobody can love us.” He reached for his axe.

  Morwen tried to swallow, but her throat was dry. All she managed was a clench of her neck muscles. “Yes,” she rasped. “Let the world be rid of us. How shall we do it?”

  “Nothing says commitment like an axe.” Goron fingered the edge of the blade. “I could kill you and then drag my neck across the blade. It’s wickedly sharp.”

  Morwen’s stalk eyes wobbled from the weight of tears. She nodded and clutched herself in her arms to await the blow.

  Goron raised the axe ready to swing.

  “You’re pitiful both of you,” Szat said. “Haven’t you two dimwits figured out it’s the mushrooms? That gas they emit makes you want to kill yourself. They feed on you when you’re dead. C’mon, move out of the cave. You’ll be fine.”

  “Why should I? Nothing’s changed. I’m still a horrible person not worthy of this world.” Morwen craned her neck to the axe hovering above her, willing the shiny blade, sickly green from the fluorescent glow of the mushrooms, to fall.

  Goron was caught in a violent internal struggle. His mouth twisted as he tried to suppress his sobs and the blade wavered in his hand.

  “Just do it,” Morwen yelled.

  Goron clenched his jaw, his eyes flashed in determination, and the blade steadied.

  “Honestly, you couple of maudlin dopes.” Szat shot a jet of flame at the axe. The handle glowed red. Goron yelped and dropped the weapon. “Right, that’s enough of that.” Szat scooped up the axe and led the two malcontents from the cavern.

  The horn sounded. Its deep rumble made the cavern tremble and woke Goron from the slime heap. The slaugs slept in a jelly-like mass for warmth using one another for blankets. The heap rose and began to move, sweeping Goron and Morwen along with it. The crowd, armed with clubs, halted by the horn blower, a stooped and wizened slaug weighed down by heavy, jewelled necklaces. Two hundred yards away was an equally large force of boggarts armed with bows and spears.

  “What’s happening?” Goron nudged a pimply adolescent squeezed beside him.

  The slaug looked him up and down as if he were a peculiarity.

  “I don’t get out much. I work in the gardens,” Goron explained.

  The slaug’s mouth curled in disdain. “You’re one of those lettuce lovers are you? We soldiers compete with one another to catch boggarts. Whoever captures the most and carries them back to where we started spends the night with the queen.”

  Goron’s and Morwen’s chance to prove themselves—to gain access to the queen.

  He spotted the huge axe slung over Goron’s back. “You won’t catch any slaves with that. You need a club.”

  “Where can I get one?”

  The slaug rolled his eyes and arrogantly waved his club in Goron’s face. “You have to make it, of course.”

  Goron punched the juvenile in the face and snatched the club off him as he went down and was swallowed by the surging crowd. He turned to Morwen and whispered, “This is madness, clubs versus spears and arrows. We’ll be cut to ribbons.”

  “I think, that’s the whole idea. It’s the queen’s way of keeping down the population. Haven’t you noticed how many noisy brats there are crawling around? She’s got to make room for them somehow.

  Goron stretched up and looked around, assessing the distance and the boggarts’ numbers. “I can think of an easier way to cull the population.” The furrow in his brow deepened as he leaned in closer to Morwen. “Can’t the queen stop popping out so many babies? It’s just a vicious cycle.”

  “Maybe that’s the only enjoyment she has,” Morwen said.

  The slaug who Goron had punched in the nose poked his bloody head between Morwen and Goron. “Give me my club back, or I’ll tell the guard.”

  “Get lost,” Morwen said and spread his nose farther across his face with her elbow.

  “Where’s Szat?” Goron asked adjusting the strap of his axe. It was designed for dainty human backs not gelatinous slabs.

  “He wandered off in the night grumbling about only salad and vegetables to eat. I suspect he’ll be looking for some bats.”

  The overeager slaugs jostled them from behind. “Let them, it’s safer at the back without shields or armour,” Goron said.

  The horn blasted out, and with a testosteronic roar, the slaugs broke into a run, which for any other humanoid species was a brisk walk.

  “Keep behind me,” Goron shouted. The air hissed with arrows. The metal heads clanged off the cave walls, thudded into the ground, and sliced into slaug flesh. Many in the front row dropped soundlessly, bristling with shafts, but there were still dozens of meat shields ahead. Goron hugged the cavern wall and kept low. Morwen was his shadow.

  The slaug to Goron’s left went down with an arrow sticking out his forehead. He manoeuvred himself directly behind another slaug to use him as a guard. Just in time—a shaft sank into Goron’s slaug shield up to the feathers.

  There was a loud thwack as white rocks sailed through the air and shattered as they hit their targets—the boggarts had a catapult.

  “Salt, Salt,” a hundred voices cried out.

  What’s so scary about salt Goron thought. A clump of it struck Goron on the back with a hiss, and he howled as it ate into his skin like acid. His slaug shield was frothing and bubbling like a mad science experiment. He jockeyed into position behind a rather plump specimen and glanced behind him in time to see Morwen drop back. From the look on her face, she was horrified by the carnage she was witnessing.

  The slaug in front of Goron went down with a spear buried in his chest. Goron now found himself at the front of the slaugs’ onslaught. “Murdus protect me,” he whispered and lowered his head to push on.

  He crashed into the boggart line with all the force of a slow tide. His club swept a path through the enemy like a scythe through a field of wheat. With their short spears, arrows, and diminutive size, they were no match for the slaugs in close quarters. It was the slaugs’ turn for some population control.

  Goron didn’t stick around for the slaughter. He picked up six unconscious boggarts, two under each arm and two slung over his shoulders, and made his way back to the starting point.

  He passed Morwen on the way. She was gliding along slowly in no hurry to join the battle and grinned when she saw him. “I guess you’ll be getting lucky tonight at last.”

  “How bad could it be?” Goron returned the grin and added, “She will have had plenty of experience.”

  Other slaugs were making their way back with their prizes. Only one, though, matched Goron in strength. The huge slaug carried a squirming heap as if it were a barrel. Goron counted twelve legs.

  “We have a tie,” the wizened slaug called out and beckoned the two winners over. “What are your names?”

  “Goro,” Goron replied. That was the most slaugish version of his name he could think o
f.

  “Bok,” the other grunted.

  “Goro and Bok for their bravery shall spend a night inside the loins of Gagurt, our most behemothic and voluptuary queen.” Bok thumped Goron on the back. Goron glowered at him and quickly looked away after he caught sight of how eager Bok really was.

  “No weapons in the queen’s presence.” A contingent of the queen’s guard had joined the wizened one. One of the guards eyed Goron’s axe greedily and held out his hand. Bok thrust his hatchet into the open palm, but Goron wasn’t as keen. How was he going to kill the queen without a weapon?

  “It’s okay. I’ll look after it for him.” Morwen claimed the axe from Goron, pausing a moment to whisper, “I’ll think of something, I promise…it might take me a little while, though, so just do your thing in the meantime.” Goron’s nose wrinkled. He was sure she smirked again. The guard gave the axe one last, longing look and settled into a sullen silence. Ten guards marched Goron to the queen’s quarters, a spacious cavern lit generously with fluorescent mushrooms which illuminated what looked like a mound of garbage.

  “She’s beautiful,” Bok said his voice husky with reverence.

  Who is Goron thought? What’s he seeing I can’t—he then realized the mound was Gagurt. She reached to the dizzying heights of the cavern ceiling, a shapeless blob as feminine as a boil. Slimy, grey meat was encrusted with jewels—sapphires, diamonds, rubies, jade, topaz, and many more Goron did not recognize. Some were as large as fists, others little more than raindrops. How was he to kill this monster? It didn’t have a neck to throttle.

  The horn blower bowed low. His lips almost touched where his knees would be. “The winners of today’s race, my queen.” Two large eyes, like black holes in the sky, blinked slowly, and the head lowered a fraction in recognition.

  A mouth opened like an axe wound and belched, sending a ripple from the throat which gained in ferocity as it traversed the belly before dying out somewhere near the foot. Involuntarily Goron stepped back only to bump into the sharp ends of the guards’ weapons. They prodded him. “Go to her, she’s ovulating,” the horn blower said.

  Morwen watched the slaug, withered and brown like a strap of beef jerky, spoon a mud-coloured fluid from a great vat into a barrel. He sampled each spoonful—for quality’s sake—with rubbery lips, smacking them with satisfaction. Four boggarts, his assistants, were nearby having a mid-morning nap. “What are you putting in the barrel?” Morwen asked.

  The slaug rolled bloodshot eyes and huffed. “Address me as the brewmaster, or don’t talk to me at all.”

  “Brewmaster,” Morwen corrected. Now that she was closer to the vat she could smell the liquid’s sickly-sweet odour.

  Satisfied he’d been accorded the respect he deserved, the brewmaster continued, “If you only knew how many times I’ve heard that before. Next you’ll throw your arms up in the air when I tell you it’s sluugouak, fermented vegetable juice.” The brewmaster paused, his bloodshot orbs roving over Morwen. “Well!”

  “Well what?” Morwen asked.

  “Pretend you’re surprised.”

  Morwen threw up her hands, opened her mouth, and wobbled her head moronically.

  “Then with a casual air, you declare you’ve never heard of it and can you please try some for curiosity’s sake.” The brewmaster paused again. This time his bloodshot orbs rolled up to Szat perched on Morwen’s shoulder. Szat poked out a fat, purple tongue. “Well!”

  “Sorry, I didn’t know we were still playing that game. I’ve never heard of it, and may I please try some, Brewmaster.”

  “Bugger off, it’s not for you,” he said and rapped Morwen on the head with his ladle. The boggarts chuckled. Morwen didn’t share their merriment and clobbered one with the haft of Goron’s axe.

  The brewmaster’s attention returned to Szat perched upon Morwen’s shoulder. “Why’s he so fat? You haven’t been letting him run riot in the vegetable garden I hope?” Szat blew another raspberry. The boggarts giggled.

  “He’s big boned,” Morwen said walking away. She stayed nearby and kept a close eye on the brewmaster, eager to see what he was going to do with the barrel.

  An hour later his four assistants loaded the barrel and the inebriated brewmaster onto a wagon and did the rounds spooning out generous portions to all the slaug guards. Morwen had an idea.

  Skruc flipped over the dirt-brown mushrooms. The gills emitted a puff of yellow gas. “Gaash miath’uunt or death mushrooms, their gas drains their victims of hope, causes their suicide, then the spores feast on the corpses,” Skruc said.

  Almost instantly Morwen’s stomach clenched, her heart quickened, and she felt a vague feeling of disquiet. “Could they be made into a poison I could put in a vat of sluugouak?”

  Skruc grinned having anticipated the question. “Of course, but two won’t be enough.”

  A growing darkness moved to the centre of Morwen’s vision. It brought with it a sense of despair and hopelessness. She began to pace the room.

  “Remember it’s the mushrooms, just mellow out,” Szat said.

  Morwen forced herself to take a series of long, deep breaths. “A barrel then?”

  “More than enough for a barrel.” Skruc tenderly stroked the mushrooms’ gills which produced another cloud of gas. “It’s going to take me a few hours to extract the poison, though.”

  The breathing exercise didn’t help. The despair Morwen felt was overwhelming. What was she thinking? Her plan was pathetic. She would be too late. Goron would die, and she would be forced to live as a slaug forever. It was best to end it all and save herself the misery.

  “Why are you not affected by the gas?” Morwen asked her jaw trembling.

  “Life as a boggart is an unpleasant affair. We’re always suicidal.” Skruc stood on his tiptoes and began to rummage around on a shelf that overflowed with bottles of all shapes, sizes, and colours. “Found it.” Skruc held up a cylinder-shaped, glass bottle inside of which sloshed around a pink liquid with veins of red. He passed it to Morwen. “It’ll make you feel much better.”

  Poison I bet—she wanted suicide. She uncorked the bottle and took a sniff. It smelled of roses and strawberries. She drained the bottle without another thought. The sweet taste of nectar tingled on her tastebuds. The darkness receded, as if the shutters of a lamp had been opened, and with it the melancholy and gloom.

  “All better then?” Skruc grinned. He began to dice the mushrooms amongst a cloud of yellow gas. Morwen managed a smile for her own sake and sat down by the fire. Eggs scuttled into the room eager to see what was going on but Skruc shooed him away. “The gas affects spoggarts,” Skruc explained. “I would wager it’s something to do with a spider’s eternal optimism. ‘Something is going to land in this web, I just know it.’ It overrides the boggart’s suicidal tendencies.”

  Skruc began to sing a diddy as he worked.

  Chop the mushrooms, boil the water

  Brew a potion for slaug self-slaughter

  Fill them with despair and gloom

  Help them to their waiting tomb

  Hone the knife, smile and gloat

  Another one’s slit his slimy throat

  “You don’t appear suicidal,” Morwen said.

  Skruc tossed the diced mushrooms into a pot of boiling water. “Revenge is a wonderful incentive to keep one going.” Over the next three hours the mixture boiled away to a single vial of brown sludge. “Liquid madness,” Skruc said passing it to Morwen.

  When Morwen returned to the vat, the brewmaster was filling another barrel for the guards’ afternoon drink. “You again,” he said spotting Morwen. Morwen didn’t have time to be discreet or play games. She grabbed the brewmaster by his scrawny throat and upended him into the vat. The boggarts, who were lounging around on the cave floor playing with bone dice, decided they wanted to help. They needn’t have gone to the trouble, instead of struggling, the ancien
t souse began to drink.

  “Whoa, what a way to go,” Szat said.

  Morwen agreed. When the brewmaster stopped blowing bubbles they released him. He floated to the surface, a brown lump bobbing up and down in the murky vat.

  “He doesn’t make a very appetising corpse, though,” Morwen said.

  “He looks like a turd,” Szat said. The boggarts’ laughter sounded like the snarling of a pack of dogs.

  Morwen finished filling the barrel and poured in the vial of poison. “We’re going to set every boggart free.”

  Morwen slopped a ladleful of sluugouak into a guard’s grubby mug. “Where’s the brewmaster?” he asked.

  Morwen shook her head.

  “Ah,” the guard said and gave a knowing wink. He downed his drink and let out a satisfied belch. “Full bodied with a rich, earthy aftertaste. Is it a new recipe?”

  “A secret ingredient,” Szat said. “The brewmaster put himself body and soul into this mix.” The other guards crowded around jostling one other to get their share. Morwen filled up their mugs and hurried to the next group. The slaugs gulped down the liquor and licked their lips. The mouth slapping was replaced by desolate sobs as the slaugs crumpled and wept inconsolably.

  Stopping at the entrance to the cave where Goron was a prisoner of the queen’s lust, she looked back. Guards wailed in each other’s arms. Those beyond comfort disembowelled themselves—it seemed the most popular suicide option. A few drowned themselves in the slime lake, and one even peeled himself like a banana. The bloodletting attracted a crowd of spectators.

  Morwen released the four boggarts carrying the barrel, and they hurried to join the others, who were already in flight. She sped down the tunnel leading to Gagurt’s quarters. The green glow from the mushrooms lit up the huge grin on Morwen’s face. She could not help but think of Goron trapped in the chambers of a nymphomaniac slaug for the night. What state would he be in? Oh well, she would deal with whatever awaited her with magic.