Bab 62: Swamptown.

"I'm not going any further! Kill me if you want, but I'm tired, and there's cold dirty water in my boots. In fact there's cold dirty water everywhere." Frumble pulled himself onto a small rise in the sea of mud and sat down with a squelching sound.

"What are you talking about? How can you not like this?" Cuthbert attempted to breathe deeply, with lungs not used in centuries. "Smell that air!"

"You mean the methane," grumbled the wizard, wringing out his beard. "We should have brought a canary." He coughed once, for effect.

"What's the hold up back here?" The figure of Dreth appeared out of the fog. "Come on, we can't get separated in this place, we'll never find each other again."

"Shorty's gone on strike," said Cuthbert, gesturing. "Something about the water."

"What's wrong with the water?" Percy splashed up to stand next to Dreth, Sprat sitting on his shoulders. "It's so refreshing."

"Exactly! Thank-you," said Cuthbert, folding his arms.