A Sweet Kidnapping

Occasionally, he'd step on something soft. He'd tell himself that whatever he'd stepped on was probably just a small patch of bubbling bog. He'd look down, and no, his first instinct—that he'd stepped on a body—had been correct. It was better than the body he'd stepped on on the battlefield, because it wasn't human, but worse, because it'd been dead for a long time. Maybe a deer. Maybe a unicorn. Maybe he should stop looking down when he stepped on something weird.