Kalkrut slowed himself to a halt.
Ankle deep in bubbling sludge, he drew a desperate wheezing breath, filling his giant lungs with the miasmal swamp air. He straightened from a stoop and adjusted the harness that came over his bare shoulders. Arcing backwards – as far as the oblong crag would allow – sounded out a rapid sequence of hollow pops. Barrel-chested and reaching out to either side, Kalkrut grabbed hold of Cyprus trees. They moaned and bowed to his strength, the intertwining root system holding fast. Veins throbbed from his blushed temples, flanking his empty, intense glare. After a few moments his mind began to gasp. Swollen bubbles of thought segregated and distanced themselves ever upward from the core. Each passing second carried a new, fancier, deeper microcosm of veiled meaning. Muted shades then heaved and warped, soon threatening to sprawl out and smother his consciousness. Instinctively, he let up and exhaled with great resolve, boring a hole through the dense fog. With another breath his better judgment swirled to unity. The weight returned. Kalkrut’s glazed eyes witnessed the fog fill in and once again become homogenous with the stifling blur that was all around. The omni-drone of insects intensified.
He sensed there was still a great distance to go. This notion weighed on his mind while the cellophane air was sapping his strength and the gunk in his lungs churned ever hotter and the limestone mocked continually and sadness jerked his face taut. His hands clenched in frustration at the ends of his trembling arms. Feelings of rebellion sizzled through every criss-crossed fiber of his hulking physique. Kalkrut’s mind flashed with scenes of rallying cries and gory retribution; when might shall overcome intellect in hoary conflict; when the united roar of triumph will mask the dwindling screams of terror. And just then he blinked, quickly recalling the super-charged slave band locked around his neck - a band that could easily encircle two or three of his puny captors. Even if Kalkrut had had the strength to remove the rock and hurl it far into the swamp he would still have no choice but to continue following the setting sun – the smeared mirage that it is, hovering above the dark sketches of tree branches – to the building site. Once there, he’d have to fumble through explaining why he arrived with an empty harness; an offense whose consequences are far more callous than trudging through a bog with a two ton chunk of limestone strapped to your back. Likewise, at this thought, Kalkrut’s static condition caused the slave band to sound a curt warning. Likewise, his static condition made it that much easier for the swamp to claim his weakening and impressive weight.
He ran a hand down his bald head and flicked globs of sweat into the murk. He slowly closed his eyes, took another deep breath, strained, pulled a bare foot out of the bog’s stubborn suction and took a stride forward, chasing away the swamp’s hungry ripples.
