Chapter 1: The Mud

I'm sweating like a pig.

The Weald has two temperatures: hot as hell, and cold as death – and it always seems to be whichever one you ain't ready for. Right now, it's a humid, swampy, stinking jungle. Probably it'll freeze over in a couple of hours, once we're good and sweaty, so we'll freeze too.

Don't help we're hauling a cannon through a swamp, either.

"Fuck," grunts Florent, stopping for a moment to wipe his brow.

"Fuck," I agree.

"Don't stop!" yells Rodin, and we keep at it.

It's all their fault, those bastards up in town. We used to have three cannons. The old gun was an eight-pounder – just right for a job like this. Not so hard to carry, not so difficult to pull from the mud, and because the shots were only eight pounds each, we could carry a lot more with us. Sure, it wasn't as powerful as the other two, but that cannon was a real beauty.

Was. The "adventurers" in town, they show up four months ago and smash it to scrap. I saw the wreck and I wanted to cry. And then, on top of that, they spike the twelve-pounder, too, just a couple of weeks ago. So we're stuck with the biggest, heaviest one, which is why the gun behind me right now, breaking my spine, is a sixteen-pounder. Powerful, deadly, and absolutely impossible to haul around. Never mind how difficult it is to carry all the powder, and cannonballs that weigh sixteen pounds apiece. There's ten of us here, and it's still taken us half a day to get through this muck.

"I'm gonna die," I wheeze. "We need a horse."

"For the meat?" asks Florent.

"To pull the cannon, idiot," I snap. But he winks at me, and I realize he was joking.

I look behind me for Guy, who's walking slowly along behind the gun. Most of us like to joke Guy's half-Giant, but I'm not so sure that ain't the case. He's massive – the size of two men, at least. Right now, he's got his hands full carrying a box with the cannonballs, and the powder barrel strapped to his back. I take a second to spit and curse again our rotten luck. Old eight-pounder, we could carry the balls, and he could help lug the damn thing around. Good luck carrying balls sixteen pound each 'less you're strong as an ox.

The cannon stops moving, and we all realize the wheels have sunk in the mud under its weight. Most of us just start swearing 'cause we can't think what else to do, but Rodin keeps his head.

"Guy! Put the damn balls down somewhere safe, and help us get this thing outta the mud," Rodin yells.

"What, so they sink in the mud too?" Guy says.

"Just do it," we all holler back.

So while we keep hauling on the ropes, trying to keep the thing from slipping further into the swamp, Guy trudges on ahead to find a dry spot he can put the balls down on. It's an hours-long couple minutes of pulling, gasping, and straining until he finally comes back, stands behind the cannon, and starts pushing. Even with his help, it's another minute before the cannon pulls free of the mud with a wet pop, and then we all have to pull some more 'till the cannon's far enough from the swamp it won't slide back in. Then we pause for a breather while Guy goes back to get the cannonballs.

He comes back with exactly two, both of which are covered in filth.

"Box sank in the mud. I managed to fish these two out."

"Fuck!" says Rodin.

"Fuck!" says Florent.

"Fuck," I contribute. Don't wanna be left out.