Arden could taste the water from the moment he touched it. Tumbling in head-first, it rushed up his nose and into his sinuses. Still wide open, his eyes burned. Gripped by mortal terror, he looked around frantically, seeing only bubbles in the filthy water. Like a noose, he could feel the pack around his neck, pulling him ever farther from air and life.

Madly, he clawed the water, trying to swim with bound hands, his every stroke hampered by the rope that connected him to Torun. His feet kicked wildly, trying with all their might to overcome the weight of the pack and push him back to the surface. But it was no use. His lungs felt as though they might burst. Against all reason he let out his breath, fighting the urge to draw in a lungful of water.

It was then, when all hope seemed lost, that firm hands found him. Catching hold of the rope that connected Torun and he, they pulled hard, dragging him up to the surface. As his head touched the air, Arden gasped a moment too soon, breathing in many droplets of water and sending himself into a coughing fit. His eyes caked with filth and algae, he was half blind, still kicking for his life as he dangled from the rope. Then more sets of hands gripped him, by his clothes and by his arms, pulling him up onto the boardwalk.

All around him he could hear voices. They seemed to be arguing, their tenor filled with adrenaline, but Arden was too fixated on breathing to make out any of the words. He tried to rub his eyes. They still burned and he could not seem to fight to get them open. All of a sudden, he felt a knife slide between his hands and cut his binds. Then someone put a hand on his forehead, forcing his head back and pouring water into his eyes.

“Easy there, ya little bandit. Hold still, let me wash out them eyes.”

Feeling the cool water running over his face, Arden tried his best to hold them open and let the water do its work. He brought up his newly freed hand and wiped his face, blinking the world into focus.

Over him stood a man of exceptional size, with a barrel chest and a chubby, pleasant face. The man was bald, drips of sweat standing on his smooth head, and was holding the waterskin from which he had been rinsing Arden’s eyes. Beside him was Torun, sodden but alive and unbound. By him stood several more figures. Three men and two women. Still holding their bows, they were easily identifiable as the brigands who had attacked the column.

Blinking, Arden glanced at the boardwalk around him. Only a few steps away him lay the bodies of the captain, one of the legionaries, and the other four prisoners. The corpses were a horrifying sight. Bristling with arrows, large gashes rending flesh, horrified expressions on the faces of the drowned. Looking on them drove Arden to near panic, and he tried feebly to stand and move away from them.

“Easy… easy there,” said the large man, setting a hand on Arden’s shoulder. He turned to the other brigands. “I think we should get the boy away from the bodies. They don’t seem to be sittin’ well with him.”

“Go ahead, Bogan” said a short haired woman with deeply tanned skin and a large knife hanging from her belt. “I’d be more than happy to stand in for you when we’re divvying up the spoils.”

“Fine,” said the man, helping Arden to his feet. “But then take two shares, split them in half and let me pick.”

“How about I split them and we roll on it. Let the dice decide.”

“Fine.”

“And a drink for the trouble?”

Bogan sighed. “You’re a piece of work, Sola. Not a good piece. But a real one.”

Sola grinned, showing off her inset canine teeth. “I love you, too” She blew him a kiss and turned back to the group, who were busy trying to fish the drowned Legionary out of the swamp.

Bogan led Arden down the boardwalk, helping him over the downed branch and sitting him down in the forest beyond. Here there were several bags of dried food, hidden beneath leaves in the underbrush. Opening one, Bogan handed him a roasted cricket, and helped him drink from the walterskin. Arden’s mouth and nose were still clogged with the residue of the swamp, and he swished the water around, gargling and spitting it onto the forest floor.

The sun had begun to set and the shadows to grow long. Already there came the night sounds of the forest, floating out from its depths. Sitting next to the path, his back to a massive pine, Arden shivered, looking at the cricket in his hand. Rattled by the ordeal of the day, he was amazed to find that his hunger had not left him. Soon he had eaten it, and another handed to him by Bogan who sat nearby, munching a cricket and blotting the sweat from his head with a piece of rag. Glancing over at Arden’s soaking clothes, the man stood, disappearing into the underbrush and returning with a tunic of green cloth like that worn by all the brigands.

“Here you go, my boy,” he said, handing Arden the tunic. “A proud fugitive such as yourself ought not wear those prison rags. You’re a wanted man, best to dress to make you hard to find.”

"Thank you,” said Arden, struggling to his feet and slipping to the far side of the tree to take off his wet clothes. Returning he asked, “Where are Torun and the others? I want to see him. I… I don’t mind if the bodies are still there. I’m alright now.”

Bogun laughed. “Ah, don’t you worry about all them. They’ll be plundering pockets and squabblin’ over spoils. Better we sit all that out. Stay where the food is and perhaps sneak a bite while we’re at it. You still hungry?”

“No. Thank you,” said Arden. “I think this is the first time I’ve been full in what feels like forever. And thank you for pulling me out of the water. If it was you, that is.”

“It was. And don’t mention it,” said Bogan, taking Arden’s prison clothes, balling them up and throwing them through the underbrush and out into the swamp. “Would’a been a mighty poor excuse for a rescue if we let every prisoner drown in the process.” He laughed again.

The man had a deep rumbling laugh that made his big chest bob up and down. It made Arden feel safe. Having only known him for a few minutes, and despite his apparent callousness with regard to all that had happened that day, Arden could not help but like this man. Already he hoped that they would not be separated, and that the rest of the brigands would be at least half as friendly.

Soon there came the sound of voices and then of the others climbing over the branch. Arden sat up anxiously, trying to act unconcerned but unable to keep himself from glancing in the direction of the voices. Sola led the way, swaggering with a shield, javelin and some smaller objects bundled in her arms. She was followed by the three men. The men looked remarkably alike, almost certainly brothers, with dark hair of varying lengths, and lean, muscular builds. Next came the other woman. Taller than Sola, she had a hard look, thin lips and a prominent scar across her chin. Her hair, though not long, was tied up in a small pony tail. She had her bow slung across her, and was carrying the captain’s sword, still stained with blood.

Finally came Torun. He walked slowly, with sad eyes and a downcast look. He had been unbound, and was rubbing his wrists where the ropes had left their mark. As he drew close, he looked up meeting Arden’s gaze. At the sight of the green tunic, however, he frowned, shaking his head but saying nothing.

Coming over to Bogan, Sola laid her haul on the ground before him. In addition to the javelin and the shield she also had a small necklace which she laid on the shield. Reaching inside her tunic, she pulled out two stone dice, shaking them in her hand.

“Alright, Bo, what we playing for? First choice? Or the whole pot?”

Without answering her, Bogan called to one of the dark-haired men who was lingering nearby. “Hey, Solomon, is this really all she took from the bodies?”

The man was clean shaven, handsome, and had his long hair done up in a bun. He walked over, looking at the stakes. “There was coin purse, too,” he said, “It didn’t look empty, but I’m sorry to say that I didn’t look in it.”

“You bastard,” said Sola, taking a small coin purse from her breast and tossing it down next to the javelin. “Can’t ever let a girl get a break. Alright, Bogan, what’s it gunna be?”

“Odd numbers, you pick first. Even numbers, I do.”

“Fair enough.” Sola began shaking the dice.

“Not so fast,” said Bogan. “Let Solomon roll.”

Sola sneered. “Damn, Bo. I don’t know if you’ve not got enough faith in me, or too much.”

She handed the dice to Solomon. No sooner had he touched them then he let them fall into the dirt. They came up eight. Bogan smiled, looking down on the two piles. For a second his hand hovered. Then cautiously he reached down, picking up the coin purse.

“Can’t argue with the dice,” said Sola, sticking out her tongue as she picked them up, along with the shield and the necklace. Then she took Solomons arm and walked off, grinning and swaggering more than ever.

Opening up the coin purse, Bogan eagerly tipped it over, dumping its contents into his large palm. Out spilled a half-dozen tiny pebbles. He shook his head. “I don’t know whether that woman loves to gamble… or just to cheat.”

Suddenly, from the other side of the camp, a cold voice rung out above the rest. It was the woman with the scar on her chin, speaking out in a voice that seemed long accustomed to command. “Alright,” she said. “It will be dark in little more than an hour. Shoulder your packs and lets head for camp.”

Hearing this, and uncertain what to do, Arden instinctively looked for Torun. The older man was a little way off, sitting forlornly, still rubbing his wrists. However, before Arden could walk to him, Bogan handed him the javelin as well as the now near empty waterskin. “Think you can manage those?” he asked, taking up the sacs of food.

“Sure,” said Arden.

“Good. Then follow me and stay quiet. The sooner we get to camp, the sooner we can get a proper meal.”

Arden nodded, tearing his eyes from Torun and joining this new column as it left the path and made for the heart of the forest.

The going was hard. Arden had lost one of his moccasins in the swamp, and carried the other for the sake of balance. Soon his feet were raw from walking barefoot over the needles and twigs of the forest floor. As the shadows grew, the undergrowth seemed to close in around them, buzzing with nocturnal insects come awake at last.

Almost an hour later they came to the camp. It was a large area surrounded by spits beside a fallen tree, making it both hard to see at a distance and well guarded against predatory animals. Even so, the group cautiously waited a little-ways away, sending another of the men, Samuel, in as a scout. When they were convinced that it was safely undisturbed, the rest of the group followed him in, making their way between the spits and tossing down their things.

Soon a fire had been kindled with wood from a nearby pile, and fish stew was being brewed in a large tin caldron. Many of the company disappeared into small bark lean-tos, emerging with sacs of dandelion wine which they jealously guarded and begrudgingly shared. For his part, Arden set down the javelin and empty waterskin and made his way over to Torun, who was sitting quietly by the fire. Pulling up next to him, Arden noticed that unlike himself, Torun was still wearing the clothes he had worn as a prisoner. The same clothes he had been captured in, filthy and tattered. Sitting beside him Arden smiled, but Torun did not return the look and continued to stare into the fire.

When the stew was finished, Bogen ladled it out into wooden bowls made from the tops of acorns. It was rich, thickened with flour and seasoned with wild herbs. Around them, the brigands talked cheerfully amongst themselves and recounted their exploits of the day and the proceeding weeks and months. Arden only half listened, his eyelids growing heavy as his stomach grew full. He felt comfortable and warm in his new tunic. It had been so long since he had been among people who treated him well, he felt he had almost forgotten that it was a possibility. Sitting by the fire, he tried to chase the memory of the dead prisoners from his mind. He felt it was only Torun’s pained continence that kept him from forgetting at least for a moment, and slipping into true contentment.

It was not until they had eaten and Arden was on the verge of falling asleep where he sat, that the they were approached by the woman with the scar on her chin. As she walked towards them, a hush fell over the camp. Blinking himself awake, Arden suddenly perceived some unidentifiable danger in his surroundings. With a strange sinking feeling he looked on the woman as she stood between them and the fire, a dark shadow outlined by the flickering light.

“I am Iana, Partisan Chief,” she said. “First of all, I want to welcome you to our camp. And welcome you back to the world of free men.

“Thank you, you have been more than kind” said Arden eagerly, smiling and looking over at Torun.

But Torun was not smiling. There was no warmth or appreciation on his deeply lined face. He looked up at the woman without moving his head.

Iana addressed him. “And you, old man, you have nothing to say to us? No thanks to give?”

Torun frowned. “If I speak to you, it must also be on behalf of my comrades. Those whose bodies you left to rot, after their pockets were searched. To lose four friends to free myself is not a choice I would make willingly.”

The woman’s expression turned hard. She pursed her thin lips. “I am sorry about your friends. But it was not us who killed them. To be taken as an Abaddon slave is to forfeit one’s life. We did not kill your friends, but brought you and the boy back from the dead.”

“I see,” said Torun. “I have heard stories about partisans entering villages and killing those accused of cooperating with Abaddon. The Collective Farm Chiefs, and the like. Even when these are simple villagers, elected by consent of the peasants. I suppose their lives are forfeit as well?”

“Collaborators are collaborators. Those who make the oppressor their friend make the partisan their foe. Those who make freedom their enemy make retribution their fate. The choice is simple and it is theirs to make.”

Torun sighed. “And I suppose that is the life you have planned for the boy and I? We are to be conscripted? Left with no choice but to help you squeeze the peasants, crush them as if between mill stones and make their situation impossible? I can see you work quickly. The boy already wears your colors. Before even knowing what they mean.”

Even in the dim light, Arden could see the woman’s eyes flicker at the sound of these words. “You are free to join us or to leave. We will not force you to remain. We have no plans share our cause with cowards. Nor do I intend to be lectured by someone who knows nothing of our struggle. Who would judge us based on rumours, or the experience of a single day.”

“It only takes one sip to taste the swamp.”

“Go then.” Anger was thick in Iana’s voice. “If that is how you feel. Go on. Stand you coward. I will not share my tent with a snake. Even for a night. Go. On your feet.”

Torun stood. “Fine. Better to be a corpse in the woods than a plague on the land.” Contemptuously, he spat on the ground before her feet. Then, turning to Arden he said, “I wish you strength and luck, my child. God knows you are innocent. Try not to sell your soul for a kind word and a bowl of soup.” With that he walked from the camp, out into the forest and the night.

Bristling with rage, Iana nodded to Sola, who stood and slipped quietly out of the camp in the other direction. Then, she turned to Arden, looming over him, her eyes burning with intensity. “And you,” she said. “What will it be for you?”

Arden felt the eyes of the entire camp fix on him. He glanced around, meeting Bogen’s warm smile, seeing an expression that seemed to beg him to agree. He looked back to Iana. He could feel the pressure, buzzing in the air around him. It would be so easy to say yes. So easy to fall in with this fugitive tribe. Become a partisan’s apprentice. At war with the world but surrounded by friends. So easy to say what was wanted of him. But the devil only needs one little word. And right then, in that moment, he resolved to leave. Not just this camp. But to flee this country, where atrocities breed and multiply, turning people into serpents, coiled and ready to commit their own.

Suddenly the air around him felt tainted. He felt he could smell the swamp, clinging to his body, the stink of it floating up to his nostrils. At this moment there was nothing he wanted more than to wash himself of this place. To start fresh somewhere new and pure. He swallowed hard. “Please,” he said. “Let me sleep on it.”