The river was slow and breathless, choked on both sides by thick jungle vines and tangled trees that shut out the sun. The insects buzzed dizzily and the two longboats glided forward, paddles dipping silently into dark, turgid water.
Afternoon dissolved into evening and then night and Salt’s
boat began to drift — not forward, but sideways. At first it seemed like some
hidden current had taken hold, but then shapes moved beneath the surface: broad-shelled
turtle-creatures, humanoid in posture, long arms pushing steadily against
the hull.
They didn’t attack. They didn’t speak. Only when the boats
neared the shore did a cadaverous figure step into the torchlight. It
stood upright on the bank — skin stretched tight over its bones, jaw slack and
trembling. It let out a gurgling wail, half gibberish and half song.
That was enough. The travelers took no chances. With swords
and arrows, they tried to drive off the turtles, but only Bo-Jing have much
success in cleaving the hard shells.
As the boats turned and edged toward the opposite bank, the
ghoul screamed louder. The turtles began to rock the boats. That’s when Bangqiu
raised a hand. Three bolts of crackling light flared from his fingers.
Salt followed with a streak of white flame. Fen added a searing spark of his
own.
The ghoul fell twitching, its body burning as it
slumped into the reeds. The turtle-creatures didn’t seem upset — only confused.
They conferred among themselves in their own tongue, bobbing
slightly in the water. Then one of them called out:
“That was the deal. If he lost, we eat him. If we lost, he
eats us. He’s dead, so… we eat the loser?”
The party’s reply was cautious, but curious. A challenge was
offered — a fair fight, one champion from each side. Bo-Jing accepted.
The turtles directed their chosen fighter to a muddy island
in the middle of the stream. The others kept their distance, floating in a wide
semicircle. The party remained in their boats. No one wanted a
misunderstanding.
Bo-Jing stepped ashore, calm and barefoot. The
turtle-creature facing him was larger than the others. It crouched low,
knuckles in the mud, but moved with surprising speed. The first exchange was
light, respectful — a bow, a feint, a counter-grip. Bo-Jing shifted into Mad
Monkey form, playful and elusive, but, when paired with a ki shot, very
devastating.
Then the turtle touched him — just a tap to the inside of
his arm. A bloom of pain burst up through Bo-Jing’s shoulder. His fingers
wouldn’t close properly. He stepped back, eyes narrowing.
The others in the water began to drift closer.
“Wait,” Bo-Jing said. “How about we teach each other?”
The turtle blinked. “We are okay with that,” it said, “as
long as we get to eat someone first.”
That ended negotiations.
The fight resumed — but the rules were gone. All five
turtles surged at once, splashing and clawing toward the island. Bo-Jing
didn’t wait. He leapt clean over their heads, landed in the boat, and
barked, “Go!”
They were fast. Faster than the boat.
Salt and Bangqiu locked eyes. Without a word, they each
grabbed a rope and dove into the river, disappearing beneath the surface
— and moments later, two enormous hippos burst from the water, ropes
cinched to their harnesses.
The boats lurched forward.
The turtles gave chase, but they were no match now. The
great hippos thundered through the dark river, heads high, teeth gleaming.
Behind them, the turtle-creatures dropped back — slower, sullen, and hungry.
The jungle swallowed the sound of their escape.
