A World Without Heroes - Brandon Mull [129]
On the black mud of the near bank of the island squatted a frog the size of a horse, an obese creature disfigured by bulbous warts and crowned with sharp horns. It raised its heavy head, wet nostrils flaring, as the skiff moved out into the lake.
“We have arrived,” Jasher whispered. “The Pythoness dwells within that monarch of the swamp.” He gestured at the tree.
As they approached the island, the frog sat up high, revealing a fat, pale underbelly. The rest of its slimy hide was dark gray and green. The frog emitted a low humming sound. “Think you can work the scull?” Jasher asked. “I believe this frog means to challenge us.”
Jason traded position with Jasher, who moved to the bow, sword in hand. Under Jason’s clumsy guidance the skiff veered right, then overcorrected to the left, and eventually made a zigzag path to the muddy bank.
Over his shoulder, Jason noticed that Rachel had pulled out her camera. She snapped a couple of pictures of Jasher approaching the frog.
As the craft ran aground, Jasher sprang forward into the muck. The heavy frog shifted, letting out a terrible roar, throaty and impossibly deep and loud. Jason flinched.
Jasher advanced slowly and evenly, walking sideways, sword held vertically in both hands. The gargantuan frog took a couple small hops forward, pausing five yards away from Jasher. Quick and sudden as a jack-in-the-box a long pink tongue lashed out and curled about Jasher’s waist.
His sword flashed, severing over three feet of muscular tongue. The rest of the tongue retracted, blood spewing from the tip. The length of tongue around his waist clung there like a grotesque belt.
The frog roared with twice the previous intensity, its obscene body quivering, dark syrup gushing from its wide mouth. It squatted low, and its hide chameleoned to a darker hue that matched the surrounding muck. Its hind legs released, and the enormous frog leaped in a fantastic arc, its bulk soaring high over Jasher’s head, beyond the reach of his slashing sword.
It crashed down near the skiff and slid across the slick mud to slam against the craft, bumping the vessel abruptly into the water, the sudden jerk toppling Jason over the side. Rachel screamed. Jason flailed his arms to keep his head above the surface of the tepid water. His cloak and clothes and boots weighed him down and made him flounder.
Something slick and muscular and somewhat elastic snaked around his arm and yanked him toward a gaping, razor-toothed mouth. Black liquid sprayed from the wounded tongue. As abruptly as it had seized Jason, the tongue released him, dropping him prone into the sludge on the shore with his legs still in the water.
Looking up, Jason saw Jasher carving wildly into the back of the frog with his sword. The great amphibian turned to confront the assault. A mighty sweep of Jasher’s sword cleaved its horned head. Then he buried the blade to the hilt in the frog’s throat, wrenching it free to open a gaping wound as the creature lurched spasmodically backward to lie in the mud, its powerful legs twitching.
“Rachel,” Jason panted, rising.
The little boat drifted away from the shore, rotating slowly. Rachel grabbed the oar and began sculling it back toward the shore.
Jason and Jasher hauled the skiff well away from the water. Jason submerged himself at the edge of the water to rinse the majority of the grime from his sodden clothes.
“I’ve never seen a frog with teeth before,” Rachel whispered.
“Nor I,” Jasher replied softly. “Our adventure in the swamp is half done. Inside that tree you should find the Pythoness. You may want to consider entering one at a time. Galloran once cautioned that the tree plays tricks on the mind.”
“My turn,” Jason told Rachel.
“You’re not coming?” Rachel asked Jasher.
“I will stand guard, protect the skiff. Without it we’re doomed.