The soldier was going to die, and he knew it. We made him as comfortable as we could, piling blankets for him next to our fire. I tried to help ease him to the ground.
“Don’t touch me,” he warned. “And burn my body in these blankets when I’m dead.”
We would. Even without his orders, we would. The growths on his face and arms made sure of that. He had stumbled into our outpost on the border between Death’s Cradle and the Forest of Caldavar, exhausted and repeating the same phrase: “Jin Chan is here.”
After a quarter hour near the fire, his breath seemed more labored than when he’d arrived.
“Wine,” he said. “Throw it, don’t come close.” Continue reading Jin Chan and the Curse of the Rulian Marsh