Rise not, dark rushes…

It was the hottest day of the year.

The last day of the month Solhaeth — the summer solstice — had since ancient times inspired both awe and fear in common folk. The Sun raced across the sky in its blazing chariot for its final vigil. It had struck down in a merciless battle all foul spirits, and now would begin to fade, leaving the world of men and retreating for half a year into the ethereal realm of Wendside.

Evening brought no relief. The stuffiness gathered throughout the day pressed down like a heavy blanket, wrapping the hut in an almost crushing heat. A little girl tossed and turned on a narrow wooden cot, trying to find a cool corner of her pillow. Fine strands of wheat-colored hair clung to her forehead, damp with perspiration. Along the log walls danced the flickering glow of a dim oil lamp — yellow, trembling, like fiery moths.

“Graaam … I can’t sleep…” The girl pushed aside the sheer lace curtain that separated the alcove from the common room. Her voice was tiny, like the chirp of a sparrow lost in thick foliage.

“Off to sleep with you now, you little wriggler!” the woman scolded, not looking up from her spinning.

“But Graaam…” The small face began to crumple dangerously, lips trembling — a sure herald of tears.

“Keep on fussin’, and the gray kavrak’ll come nip your side,” the stern voice of the old woman quickly cut off the brewing complaints.

The girl shivered involuntarily, imagining the powerful jaws of the swamp beast snapping shut on her skinny side.

From the corner of the room came the steady creak and thump of a spinning wheel. Behind it sat an elderly woman in a simple, time-faded sarafan. Her gnarled fingers, lined with veins, deftly twisted the shaggy flax into smooth thread. The work was monotonous, the kind she’d done all her life, and the old woman hummed softly under her breath:

Hush ye, tall pines,

Hush ye, weeping willows,

Sleep now, my lambkin,

Softly in the cradle.

Rise not, dark rushes,

Bloom, fair cloudberry,

Sleep now, my lambkin,

Softly in the cradle…

In these remote villages at the edge of the swamps, life had come to a complete halt. Outside the hut, the air quivered above the marshy expanse, and not even the usual howls and hoarse grunts of swamp creatures — so familiar to the locals — echoed through the shimmering haze. It seemed as though the very earth had held its breath, and even the beasts, hardened to anything, had hidden in the shadows of roots and mossy crevices. Even for them, born to this dampness and heat, the day had grown unbearable.

Neither the lullaby nor the threats of bloodthirsty beasts did anything to lull the girl to sleep. After lying still for a few minutes, she began to toss again, bunching the sheet into a shapeless lump.

“Grandma, tell me a tale? Pleeease, Gram, just a little taaaale…”

“Ah, you’re a handful, you are,” the woman sighed, giving her a stern look. Yet in the playful sparks of her age-clouded eyes, the girl knew at once: she’d grumble a bit, then spin the story.

“You mind when we went to the temple, on the Days of Mourning?”

The girl remembered. Built from logs blackened with age, its dome resembled a shaggy onion bulb — the wooden shingles were overgrown with dark lichen, like fur. And inside, on the ceiling, strange patterns intertwined — beasts, birds, and saints, woven together in an eternal dance.

“Well now, that temple’s for Zaebal the Bog Tamer,” the woman went on, her voice deepening as if taking in the whispers of the ages. “The grandest icon on the iconostasis, that one’s his — in the finest frame.”

“Is that the one with the man and the scary doggy?” the girl piped up.

She remembered the icon vividly: a stern man in crimson robes, his face as though carved from oak, and beside him a hideous dog, the size of a calf, its eyes burning like coals.

“Dog? Pfft — that’s a kavrak, you daft little thing,” the grandmother sniffed. “Zaebal cleared these very lands with his own two hands, he did — drove the swamp monsters clean out. Back then, you couldn’t set foot outside — they'd tear you apart soon as look at you. Foul things, they were… Even the kavraks — nasty brutes, through and through. But now, look around — folk live in peace.”

“Grandma, did kavrak bite him too?” the girl asked breathlessly, recalling the recent threat about her own side.

“And of course it bit him,” the old woman smirked, her voice tinged with a quiet pride, as if the ancient warrior were her own son. “Only he was a saint, so no such bite could harm him. The battle was to the death — the earth shook, the water in the bog boiled! And in the end, the beast yielded and served him like a loyal hound. That’s why, ever since, they’ve been painted together on the icons…”

***

The heat was so intense that even the swamp sludge seemed to boil.

The air trembled, heavy with sweetly putrid vapors — thick as jelly, slowly shifting, warping the trees and turning the distance into a wavering mirage.

The sounds pressed in: a many-voiced chorus of frogs rasped their shrill trills; birds cried out sharply. Insects droned, vicious and relentless, forever eager to pierce the skin.

The moss carpeted the ground, dense and springy, stitched with tufts of sedge crowned by shaggy spikes. Black peat patches yawned dark and empty, while rare islands of firmer earth bristled with stunted trees and brush. Puny pines, gnarled like the fingers of the old, decades gone yet never grown tall. The willows that bent low, their long narrow branches stirring in the faint breeze — as if some hidden beast breathed in wait. Even that breeze, so weak, carried an unpleasant heat.

The last day of Solhaeth, the traveler thought grimly, prodding the yielding bog beneath him with his staff. A doomed time. Best to find shelter in the shade, before the Sun Rider decides I’m just another swamp högg and strikes me down with the rest of the fiends.

Here and there uneven patches of water glimmered, choked with reeds. Some were deep and clear, bordered only by thick mats of moss-floe. Others — especially those in the lowlands — resembled impassable thickets flooded by the spring freshet. Even the swamp beasts kept their distance from such places.

The traveler stepped carefully, testing each hummock for firmness. He tried to keep near the birch groves, their supple trunks gleaming with snow-white bark, marked with black shapes like watchful eyes. The ground there was firmer, more reliable. Through long years of wandering life he had come to understand that the swamps were a finely tuned, well‑oiled mechanism. The man had learned to read it as precisely as a watchmaker’s keen eye reads the intricate pattern of gears.

He listened to the birds rustling in the reeds — true children of the marsh, they knew where the danger lay. His tall leather boots, with greaves up to the thighs, were caked in thick layers of mud; travel-worn clothes had long since lost their color. At his hip swung a broad, trusty sword, while a wide bandolier crossed the chest, heavy with battle crystals. A waterproof haversack dragged at weary shoulders. The land was truly wild, and one had to carry all supplies of water and food with him.

Burdened by the sweltering heat and the weight of his gear, he pushed on, sweat streaming down his face. Still, he aimed for a small clearing he had marked earlier with bright cloth scraps on the branches.

The traveler had spent the day trudging through the fens, searching for traces of a nearby Myrkscearu. Agile and light as a shadow, armored with a spiked, composite shell, and capable of slicing a man in half with a single sweep of its powerful tail — a most loathsome monster. For many years the man had devoted himself to clearing the swamps of such beasts, to turn them into lands where people might live in peace. He knew well that these deadly creatures had to be eliminated first and foremost. For if he had spotted the monster — the monster spotted him as well.

The sun was already in its zenith, the deadliest, hottest hour, and it was time to set up camp in the shade. However brave a warrior might be — trudging the bogs in this infernal heat was not bravery, but folly. Better to rest today; the hunt could wait.

He traveled alone, and so had learned to measure his strength carefully, never rushing headlong into heroics — the kind of hotheadedness young soldiers often succumbed to. The swamps forgave neither rashness nor haste. More than once he had joined patrols of the Protectorium conducting raids in these lands, and each time it ended with someone’s recklessness bringing disaster upon them.

***

By some sixth sense the man felt another’s gaze upon him. He wrenched the haversack from his shoulders, turning in one swift, fluid motion. The sword slid into his hand of its own accord — yet he had no time to strike, only to throw up his forearm, blocking the path to the throat.

A heavy carcass slammed into him at once, knocking the traveler onto the soft carpet of moss and forcing a momentary choke on the hot mire that surged around two bodies locked in desperate struggle. A sharp pain shot through his arm as massive jaws clamped down on the thick leather bracer, biting straight through and threatening to snap the bone. A broad muzzle, wolfish in shape, loomed inches from his face, its putrid breath striking his nostrils.

A kavrak.

A great lean brute. Though a marshland kind — lighter than the forest one, with long, supple limbs — it was no less lethally dangerous. If the gods had granted the blessing of not falling prey to the very first deadly leap, one had to strike at the vulnerable points on the muzzle or the soft brown underbelly. The man instantly regretted reflexively grabbing for his sword instead of his short dagger. The long blade only hampered him in such a grapple, leaving him no way to land a proper blow.

Swinging blindly, almost choking, he brought the sword’s hilt crashing down on the beast’s nose with all his strength. The creature yelped sharply, its jaws snapping open. A dangerous numbness was already creeping up man’s arm, climbing toward the shoulder. With a powerful kick, the warrior drove his boot into the beast’s belly, forcing it to leap back, and at last managed to rise, gasping for air. Filthy water streamed from both of them. The mossy carpet beneath was torn open to its pale brown underside, dark pools gathering in the gouged ruts. The man barely had time to glance at his foe before the beast lunged again, striving to pin him down once more.

A young male, and wounded — the man judged. The beasts’ mating ritual was elaborate and brutal, leaving the female ill-tempered and usually marking the male’s flanks with deep, distinctive gashes.

Dodging the leap, the warrior kicked the beast hard in the wounded side, wringing from it a new cry of pain. Landing heavily, the great creature set the spongy moss quivering with ripples. The soft ground shifted underfoot, and the man himself nearly toppled, struggling to keep balance. Beast’s deadly jaws vibrated, rumbling with a deep, guttural growl. The lower jaw split at the center like two petals, making the monster’s mouth resemble a crimson marsh cinquefoil — that dark, star-shaped flower of the bogs.

Clashing once more, the warrior shielded his weakening arm, managing to thrust his sword forward. The blade stopped the creature’s gaping maw from reaching his throat. They rolled across the ground, sinking and reemerging by turns from the green waterlogged surface. It seemed to grow deeper. And deeper. And deeper…

Only when they were fully submerged did they break apart, thrashing desperately. A moss-floe! - the traveler realized belatedly. A false bank, woven of tightly interlaced plants. Its thickness could reach half a meter, strong enough to bear a man’s weight — letting him walk across the overgrown stream. But the weight of man and beast locked in combat was more than it could ever hold.

Sagging beneath their weight, the green furry carpet slid them into the water, then leveled again in relief, freed of its burdensome load. Kicking off from the beast’s body, the warrior lunged back toward the bank, seizing a lifesaving tangle of grass. Gasping, he clawed his way forward with his elbows, inching toward firmer, steadier ground. Just don’t sink deeper. Don’t touch the hidden mire beneath the water, a hungry trap eager to swallow whole whatever set foot on it.

Behind him came the frantic splashing and whimpering. The great beast, dragged down by its own weight, was sinking ever further beneath the surface. At last reaching safety, the man turned, still gasping. The creature, thrashing wildly, was mired up to its neck now, letting out a panicked, monotonous shriek. The sound was utterly heartrending.

A vile beast, this kavrak.

The creature usually stalked its prey, and when it struck, it went straight for the throat with speed and force enough to tear the head off a calf.

The shrill cry turned into a hoarse wail of terror. No one will help you, friend, the traveler thought distantly, sheathing the sword that by some miracle still remained in his hand. He slung the pack over his shoulder and picked up his trusty staff.

Kavraks were solitary by nature. They formed packs only during mating season or in so-called “harvest times”: war, plague, displacement. In those periods they trailed armies and abandoned caravans, scouring all life from the rear. If a village was left with only the old and the young after a war — there would be no survivors. The kavrak would finish the job. Loathsome, loathsome creatures…

The wail was sounding more and more like a cry.

And in that cry he suddenly heard unbearable, bestial loneliness. Cry or don’t, it wouldn’t matter — no one would help, dear friend… And if truth be told, had he himself sunk into the mire, no one would have come for him either. No troop, no companion, no hand stretched in his hour of need. No one to help… except himself.

Ah, damn it all…

He spat the swamp water that left a rotten taste in his mouth and, kneeling at the bank, braced himself firmly before sliding the staff flat across the grass. The pole stopped mere inches from the beast’s muzzle, but it still sobbed helplessly, gulping at the air.

“Well? What are you waiting for? Grab on, you fool,” the man growled irritably, shoving the pole almost into the monster’s nose. At last the creature understood and, surprisingly gently, clamped its jaws around the lifesaving staff. It could have bitten straight through the wood without effort, and the man half-feared the beast might ruin a good and much-needed tool in its panic.

But the beast froze, stopped thrashing, and allowed the traveler to draw it toward the green bank, inch by inch. It weighed as much as a knight in full plate armor — not easily budged from where it was stuck. The man nearly burst himself straining to pull it out of the swamp’s deadly grip. Finally, the effort bore fruit: the monster managed to hook onto the floating mat and haul itself forward with its paws, never once letting go of the staff. Panting and whimpering, it at last dragged itself from the water.

Exhausted, they collapsed together into the hot, murky mire.

For a while they simply lay there, regaining their breath. The man was the first to stir. Rolling toward the beast sprawled on the moss, he deftly pinned it and, setting aside his disgust, bit down hard on its soft, puppy‑like furry ear. The creature gave a muffled yelp but, strangely enough, made no attempt to fight back, only tucked its wet tail and whimpered with every breath.

“That’s more like it,” the man smirked, settling himself onto the beast’s back. “And gods, you stink!” He spat again, slapping the creature’s haunch with a heavy palm.

In the monster’s black eyes glimmered a reproachful And you don’t? You reek worse than whole swamp yourself, as it covered its broad, wet nose with a paw and sighed heavily.

“Just try snapping at me again,” the man muttered as he stood.

He gave the brute’s broad, ugly mug a good pat, chuckling as he studied his “catch.”

“Scuvan’s your name now, and don’t you forget it. Hear me? Good lad. Off we go.”

The kavrak, still shaky as it struggled to its feet, trotted after the traveler without hesitation. The man did not even bother to glance back to check if the beast followed. There was still a camp to set, and something to shoot for supper. While they had been thrashing about, the shadows had already begun to lengthen.

***

The fire of the fight still burned in man’s chest, demanding release. And so he broke into a rough soldier’s song, the kind sung around campfires, his low, rasping voice hopelessly off-key on every note:

Birch so fair, oh, birch so bright,

Maiden’s joy in summer light.

Braid down low and laughter sweet,

Lift your skirts — your man to meet!

Hey, hey, birch so fine,

Dance with me, the night is mine!

Birch so fair, don’t be shy,

Kiss your lad and never cry!

The kavrak snorted, listening silently for a time. Then across the swamp rose a deep, wavering howl, breaking now and then into a high-pitched note. Needless to say, the creatures that should have fallen long ago to the valor of the noble Zaebal the Bog Tamer chose to avoid the musical pair that day.

Which, all things considered, was for the best…