Swamp Lords

By Kevin Wright

A power-hungry priestess. A malevolent temple sworn to a monstrous god. Can a low-born lackey survive the brutal ascension through a dark cult?

Madam Spew seems fated to suffer a wretched death. Shackled into slavery by a heinous church, the frog acolyte toils away endlessly, mindlessly, monotonously. But when the High Priestess tasks her with a crucial quest, the lowly croaker leaps at the golden opportunity.

Awakening hope and hunger, Madam Spew struggles to accomplish her critical quest and rise above her baseborn origin. But on the cusp of her greatest triumph, she's waylaid by a mad scrum of conspiring rivals.

Will Madam Spew survive the death sentence her quest's failure guarantees, and if she somehow does, will her legion of foes give her the drop?

Swamp Lords is a darkly funny series of high-fantasy short stories woven into one complete saga. If you like backstabbing villains, questionable heroes, and all manner of hideous monstrosities, you'll love Swamp Lords.

Get some low-brow humor from this high-fantasy series and buy Swamp Lords today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kevin Wright
• Release date: Jul 14, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393905905

Kevin Wright

About the Author Kevin Wright studied writing at the University of Massachusetts in Lowell and fully utilized his bachelor’s degree by seeking and attaining employment first as a produce clerk and later as an emergency medical technician and firefighter. His parents were thrilled. For decades now he has studied a variety of martial arts but steadfastly remains not-tough in any way, shape, or form. He just likes to pay money to get beat up, apparently. Kevin Wright peaked intellectually in the seventh grade. He enjoys reading a little bit of everything and writing sci-fi, fantasy, and horror. He does none of it well. Revelations, his debut novel, is a Lovecraftian horror tale. GrimNoir is a collection of his best short stories, and Lords of Asylum is an insane detective fantasy. His mom really likes all of them even though she’s never read any of them and wonders continually why he can’t just write anything ‘nice.’ Kevin Wright continues to write in his spare time and is currently working on a new full length novel.

Book preview

Chapter One: Madam Spew

1. Spew’s Quest

ACOLYTE SPEW CREPT forth with cool amphibian smoothness, a bone stiletto jutting tooth-like from her fist. Forever don’t always take so long as you think, boy, she croaked. Sometimes it takes but a moment.

Bit me, you stupid hag. Malving’s vision began to clear, to focus. Where am I? His hovel. On the floor. RRrrg... My hands! They were bound behind him. What the Craw do you want?

Acolyte Spew’s crimson eyes blazed.

Let me go! Malving shrunk back.

After I just finished tying you up? Spew hopped closer, the slap of her belly against the ground splashing slime and brown putridity alike. Pretty-pretty pink. She caressed his forehead, leaving four snail trails glistering. So soft. So smooth. Her eyes narrowed. I could cut out your heart and wear it beating round my neck as a pendant, boy, or, she paused dramatically, I can not.

Huh? Malving grunted. What in hell’s she blabbing? If he could just slip free. Just his hands. One hand. Almost... He was bigger. Stronger. He’d beat stupid croakers raw before. Cannot what?

"Can ... pause... Spew articulated the stiletto like a teacher’s pointer, not."

What!? Malving’s face burned crimson. Come on.

Cretin! Spew raised her stiletto overhead.

Up yours! Malving spat. Almost...

I’ll shut you up for good! Two-handed, Spew stabbed down.

Malving jack-knifed a squirm.

Snap!

Spew missed wide, breaking her stiletto blade off at the hilt. Damn you!

It broke! Malving wriggled further back through the muck. It’s somewhere. Somewhere behind. He had to get it.

Laughter filled the hovel.

Spew whipped around, her glare choking the fledgling laughter still-born.

Malving’s newfound hope plummeted through him like Swamp Rat Stew. The croaker hag wasn’t alone. He squinted past her, into the dark corner of the hovel. A shadow gallery of silhouettes stood lined up against the far wall. Watching. Snickering. Elbowing one another. There were five of the blackguards.

Yes... Now he remembered. Villains. Blackguards. Weirdos. They’d come to his sty to buy a sow, or so Spew had claimed. And when he’d gone out back? All six jumped him.

Malving squirmed back towards the broken blade. Spew hadn’t noticed it. Almost...

Ahem... Spew adjusted her purple wig. As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted, she cast the gallery a fell glare, "I can, or conversely, I can not cut out your worthless heart. It depends solely upon you and your attitude. Forthwith."

Wartback, Malving hissed.

Tsk. Tsk. Shaking her head, Spew withdrew a fish club from her bag. Flattery will get you everywhere.

I’m just a kid! Malving pleaded as his fingertips touched the blade! You all gonna just stand there and let her gut me?

A blanket of rotten silence stifled the room.

Well, that was the plan, one finally admitted.

Ridiculous, another scoffed, you can’t gut anyone with a fish club.

You bunch of sissies! Malving seized the blade! Took six of you to kidnap one kid.

Is he questioning our villain-hood? One was obviously taken aback.

It was five, really, another confided behind a hand. Spew barely helped.

Behind his back, Malving sawed feverishly at his bindings. Almost...

A worm on a hook you are, boy. Spew polished the fish club on her sleeve. And the nether-gator’s come cruising.

The bindings split off Malving’s hands! Hah! He surged to his feet, blade brandished. Get back!

Feet pounded across the mud floor as the shadow gallery trampled one another fighting to escape.

Malving smirked as he turned to Spew, Just you and me now, hag, and lunged—

!@#HOLD#@! Spew’s command reverberated through space and time, sundering reality in waves of purple energy, a cavernous echo whipping swirls of indigo energies devil dusting away.

Magic. Black Magic.

A hair’s breadth from skewering Spew, Malving stood quivering still as a statue, teeth gritted, sweating, whimpering as arcane forces slithering on him, in him, through him.

Pathetic. Taxed ragged, gasping, trembling, Spew wiped her maw.

Malving sneered, the only thing he could do.

You’re nothing but fodder, boy. Spew plucked the bone blade from Malving’s inert hand, turned to the shadow gallery, all five of them jammed in the doorway. Grab him. Her rictus oozed evil. The Ribspreader wants his new project.

2. The Chosen One

A MAELSTROM OF DEMON skulls screamed through the dungeon. Eldritch energies and arcane forces sparked like lightning, bouncing off the ceiling, rattling the skeletons and iron masks spiked to the walls. Within the safety of the pentagram etched into the floor, before the Altar of Woe, the two Wrackolytes stood yet untouched, protected by an invisible arcane-barrier.

Do you see her? Abzgorn the Ribspreader hissed close.

By Sanctos, Lorgex the Eyes growled. I’ve harnessed the demon, but... His old bones creaked as he straightened from gazing into the empty sockets of his seer-skull. Spew cannot hide from me. Not from the Eyes. He wiped smears of sweat down either side of his leather slicks, then started patting down his pockets. He glared at his torture slab across the room. Damn.

What in the Craw? Abzgorn barked. Focus, you fool!

I— Lorgex shivered, glaring, growling, I need my eyes.

You need to focus!

The swarm of demon skulls ripped into the shield, biting, bouncing off, nearly breaking through.

Take it over a moment, would you? With that, Lorgex tossed Abzgorn the Elder Sign, then leaped through the arcane-shield, the demon winds searing his face, his arms, his lungs. Ducking, dodging, screaming, he skidded to a halt at his slab. Where—? He scattered an armada of trinkets and paraphernalia in his haphazard search. "They’re here. They have to be. They must be!"

Hurry, you old fool. Abzgorn grimaced, brandishing the Sign quivering above. The ice you tread was rotten already. He winced as arcane horrors slammed the barrier. Grimnir’s teeth!

Curse you! Lorgex swept his arm across his slab, a hailstorm of instruments clattering across the floor.

The High Wrackolyte has already considered castrating you, Abzgorn roared. Cracks began fissuring the barrier. Fail me now, and I shall will it so!

I need my goblin eyes! Lorgex cast about under his slab.

The barrier’s failing!

They’re here—

Curse your eyes!

I left them right here! Sweat coursed down Lorgex’s liver-spotted egg of a head. Ethereal demon-skulls buzzed past, gnashing with sharp teeth. I know it. He snatched up his torture bag, looked under it, cursed, then dove back into it, rifling through with reckless abandon. Metal forks flew, spiked-spirals, chisels and other horrible blood-crusted instruments. Aaaarg! He upended his bag, flung it against the wall, and started slamming his puny fists against the slab. Damn you, Spew!

I-In my bag! The Elder sign in Abzgorn’s hands vibrated so badly his teeth chattered. A demon-skull broke through the barrier, biting, latching onto his leg. Arrgh! He kicked, flinging it off. The b-bottom left—

Lorgex was there in an instant, elbow deep in the bag, rifling through it, ducking demons, yelping at the burn of hellfire gales. Aha! Lorgex yanked a jar free. Oh... Orc eyeballs stared out numbly from within. These won’t appease the demon.

Do it! Abzgorn roared. Give it something! Or I’ll see Spew made Madam and you— The thought went unfinished as spurting balefire drove him to his knees.

She’ll be no Madam! Lorgex ducked another skull, dove across a slab and hurled himself back into the pentagram. Blood streamed from a shatterstorm of cuts and bites to his head, face, and arms. No damned wart-backed croaker’ll be a full Wrackolyte. He latched onto the Elder Sign alongside Abzgorn. Not while I draw breath!

Together then, as one, trembling, they rose.

Enough. Forget her and her quest—

Quest? Lorgex’s blue eyes beamed ravenous in the polychromatic swirls. What quest?

Do it! Grab the skull, now!

Lorgex obeyed, abandoning Abzgorn and the Elder Sign for the Altar, the seer-skull perched atop it. Abzgorn screamed in pain. Lorgex ripped the jar from his slicks and smashed it on the altar. Snatching two rolling orbs, he took up the seer-skull. Yeouch! It snapped at his fingers. Please. What quest?

I, Abzgorn withered beneath the failing barrier, I cannot say.

But you must! Lorgex collapsed to his knees. You must tell me. I must know!

Harness it! Abzgorn cried. Do it now, or we’re doomed.

Leaning his head back, holding the skull aloft, staring into its bulging eyes, Lorgex squeezed his thumbs into the eye sockets. The aqueous-humors squirted, pouring down his arms, first a trickle, then a stream, finally, a torrent. The seer-skull moaned luridly. Its jaw slackened, hanging open. Sated.

Abzgorn collapsed to the ground, dropping the Elder sign rolling across the floor. Cold silence filled the room. The demon-heads were gone, the sacrifice spent, the arcane energies harnessed.

Dark words Lorgex muttered, the Woebringer’s tongue, the lexicon of pain and rage, the tongue of fear and hate. The clear juices upon him began to hiss, steaming, sizzling as though he were aflame. The white steam swirled, entering his eyes. The crypt shook, a cacophony of vibrations, tools dancing across the slabs.

Lorgex shuddered in ecstasy as he SAW.

I can see her, Abzgorn. Her shade. She walks— No, she rides, Lorgex hissed. Yes. She rides in the company of others. Five. Lorgex stared deep into the seer-skull. Yes, I see you, Spew. You filthy frog. What is it you’re doing? Where is it you’re going? No. Coming. Yes. You are coming here, but what are your words? What are you saying? He stuck a finger in his ear and wiggled. What task has the High Wrackolyte set you?

There is no one else with her? Abzgorn gasped from the stone floor.

"No. I see nothing — Wait!" Lorgex’s face peeled back in a rictus of ecstasy. There’s more. She rides atop a ... a child. A pilloried boy? Lorgex muttered. Who is he? What does it portend?

She brings him here? Abzgorn shuddered in awe. Now?

Who is this child? Lorgex turned. I must know! Tell me! You shall have whatever you desire of me! Name it. He blinked. Is he a sacrifice?

I-I cannot say, Abzgorn gasped.

Tell me! Murder in his eyes, Lorgex stood above him, the seer-skull raised overhead for a killing blow.

The child is the one sent to usher in a new age of darkness. Abzgorn cringed. Blood of the Ancients reborn, he shall lead Grimnir’s hordes forth from the Craw. He shall destroy and defile all that is Shagra’lor! Spew brings the Chosen One! The Chosen One of Grimnir!

What? No. It cannot be. Legs wobbling, Lorgex clutched his chest. "It must be me! It should be me! It shall be ME!"