It was when they seemed to be within sight of solid ground that I Manetho gave a cry, and disappeared up to his waist. Niall and Doggins each grasped one of his hands, and began heaving him out. At that moment Manetho shouted: “Look out,” and they turned to see a horde of the frog-like creatures running swiftly towards them from among the reeds. Niall and Doggins let go of Manetho’s hands — he immediately sank back into the muddy water — and snatched up their Reapers from the ground. Doggins was the first to fire. The roaring blue flame carved a path through the running bodies, and set fire to the reeds behind them. Yet, amazingly the others continued to run towards them. Niall fired, aiming for their legs, and moving the Reaper with slow deliberation. It disgusted him to slice through their bodies, as if wielding a scythe, but he could see there was no other way. It was as if the creatures had no fear and no sense of self-preservation; their one aim was to destroy these intruders, and the death of their companions was unimportant.
And then, suddenly, there were no more of them. The ground was covered with their bodies, most of them cut off at knee level; these were still jerking and writhing. Others were merely charred remains — Doggins had used a higher power-setting for his Reaper. The smell of burnt flesh filled the air. Niall lowered his Reaper, feeling sick. Doggins continued to fire until there was no more movement. As he replaced his Reaper on the ground, the hot barrel hissed against the wet earth.
By now, Manetho had sunk as far as his chest; the more he struggled, the deeper he sank. When Niall and Doggins tried to pull him out, their feet slipped on the muddy ground. Finally, Niall took a length of rope from his pack, and they tied it under Manetho’s arms. Then they retreated until they found firmer ground, and exerted all their strength; Manetho helped them by clawing at the ground. With a sucking, squelching sound, his body suddenly slid out of the bog, while Niall and Doggins fell over backwards.
They sat there for ten minutes, recovering their breath, while Manetho tried to clean the mud off his lower extremities with handfuls of grass. The sun was now low over the western hilltops; darkness would fall in less than two hours. But from where they sat, they could see that the point where the marsh ended, and the solid ground began, was only a few hundred yards away.
Niall stood up and pulled on his back-pack. The other two heaved themselves reluctantly to their feet. Manetho looked back at the charred remains of the frogmen.
“Let’s hope it’s the last we’ve seen of them.”
Doggins said: “Amen to that.”
They moved forward slowly and carefully, picking their way between the pools of standing water. These were covered with a fine deposit of emerald weed, and a scum made of a green, plankton-like substance. To reach firmer ground, they had to choose a winding path among them. Manetho, who was marching in front, looked back over his shoulder.
“Do you know what I’d really like?”
“No.”
“A hot bath.”
Doggins cackled, gesturing at the weed-covered surface of the pool they were skirting. “Won’t this do?”
As he spoke, the green surface broke apart, and a frog-like face stared up at them. Manetho saw it and grinned. Then, before Niall could shout a warning, the mouth opened, and the jet of green-coloured venom shot out, striking Manetho square in the face. He screamed and staggered backward. With a shout of rage, Doggins raised his Reaper and fired. It was a mistake. Suddenly, they were surrounded by a hissing cloud of scalding steam; Niall fell to his knees, covering his face with his hands, the steam forcing its way into his eyes and his nostrils. For a moment, he felt completely vulnerable and helpless. Then the steam cleared, and he could see again. The pool into which he had been staring a few seconds earlier had almost disappeared; in its place there was a crater of slimy black mud, covered with weed and green scum. Water was seeping in from an adjoining pool. Lying in the mud, face upward, was the frog-like creature, its arms and legs flung apart. The body was swollen and very white; the flesh was hanging loosely from one of its arms, exposing the bone. In the blast of hot steam, its body had been instantaneously cooked.
Manetho was howling and screaming, pressing his face into the wet ground. Doggins and Niall threw off their packs, and removed spare clothing, which they soaked in water. Niall, whose own face was still burning unpleasantly — the skin of the cheek had broken out into tiny blisters — knew how much he must be suffering. Manetho groaned as they forced him to hold still, and placed the soaked rags over his eyes, then sat with the rags pressed tightly to his face, rocking back and forth with pain, while Niall and Doggins looked on helplessly.
Manetho finally found a small degree of comfort by lying flat on his face over one of the pools, with his forehead and his eyes in the water. But when, after half an hour, he finally sat up, the flesh around his eyes was so swollen that he was scarcely recognisable. He forced his eyelids apart with his fingers, and gave a cry of despair.
“I’m blind! I can’t see anything.”
He collapsed on all fours on the ground, sobbing. Niall looked on in misery, wishing that his own pain were greater, so that he might feel less guilty. He felt no contempt for Manetho; only an abyss of pity.
Doggins placed an arm tenderly round Manetho’s shoulders.
“I know it hurts, but we’ve got to move on. If we stay here, we’ll die.”
With an effort, Manetho controlled himself.
“You’ll have to guide me.”
“Yes, we’ll guide you.”
Manetho stood up. “Which way?”
Doggins looked at Niall. “We’re going back.”
“Through the marsh?”
“It’s the only way. We’ve got to get him back to Simeon. There’s no point in going on if he can’t see.”
Niall saw that he was right. He looked behind him at the sun.
“We’ll have to hurry.”
Manetho’s teeth were chattering; the pain had been succeeded by shock. He said miserably:
“I’m sorry.”
Doggins said gently: “Nothing to be sorry about. Do you think you can walk all the way back?”
“Yes. But I can’t see.”
“You’ll be all right. We’ll guide you. But now we have to go.”
They strapped Manetho’s Reaper across the top of his pack, and placed the pack on his back. Both regretted having to make him carry this burden, but it was the only practical course; if either of them had attempted to carry it, their speed would have been halved.
Now, as they tramped back along the path through the reeds, Niall was surprised that all his fatigue had vanished. The crisis had renewed his strength, allowing him to draw upon hidden reserves of energy. His only concern was to regain the campsite before darkness fell. Each of them took one of Manetho’s hands — it was less awkward than trying to hold his arms — and they walked with long, swift strides. Manetho was also aware that their lives depended on speed, and he made no complaint when he stumbled and fell to his knees. Periodically he asked: “Is it dark yet?” and they answered: “No, not yet.” When they set out on the return journey, Niall was secretly convinced that they would be overtaken by darkness long before they reached the camp; but their progress encouraged him, until he once again began to allow himself to hope. When they reached the corner where he had first glimpsed one of the frog-men, he knew that they were more than half-way, and his heart suddenly lightened. Twenty minutes later, they rejoined their own original path. The sun had just dipped below the western skyline, but the sky was still dusky blue. Then, suddenly, they were out of the reeds, and Niall saw a flickering light among the trees immediately ahead. He and Doggins both began to shout at once: “Simeon! Milo!” Manetho’s horribly swollen face broke into a smile. Five minutes later, they were limping into the clearing that was illuminated by the camp-fire, while Simeon helped to support Manetho. Milo, who was lying by the fire, wrapped in a blanket, raised himself painfully on one elbow.
“Back already? Did you enjoy yourselves?”
Niall flung himself down on the ground, and closed his eyes. For a few minutes he experienced a sense of sheer delight and relaxation, the feeling of total security he had often experienced in his mother’s arms as a child. It made no difference that they were still surrounded by dangers, and that they might never escape from this terrifying place. For the moment they were safe, and he accepted the present moment as a weary man accepts a feather bed.