If there's one thing I learned from the past two days in this medieval dumpster fire of a fief, it's that "maps" here are about as reliable as a toddler's crayon drawing.
Yesterday's walk had revealed fields full of tree stumps, rocks the size of wagons, and suspiciously aggressive geese. Today?
A swamp.
Not just any swamp—this thing was an unholy combination of quicksand, pond scum, and enough frogs to start a biblical plague. And the best part? It was right in the middle of what was supposed to be my "prime farmland."
"I… don't remember this being here," I muttered, staring at the green-brown mess that stretched out like a putrid blanket.
Old Man Garrick, my chief steward, squinted. "It weren't here last year, milord. Not this big, anyway. Might've started when that river upstream changed course after the spring floods."
"So… you're telling me my farmland turned into a swamp because Mother Nature decided to do home renovations?"
He scratched his head. "Aye. Nature's a fickle mistress."
I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Fantastic. Truly inspiring. Should we send her a fruit basket, or perhaps a strongly worded letter?"
The other three retainers stood behind Garrick, looking as useful as ever. Bram, the burly "head of labor," had his arms crossed like this was someone else's problem. Sella, the cook, was chewing on a stalk of grass like she'd wandered in from a farmyard. And then there was Young Pip, who was apparently some kind of apprentice squire but mostly just followed me around with big eyes like I was going to hand him the secrets of life.
"So…" I said, clapping my hands together, "we're going to drain it."
"Drain… the swamp?" Bram repeated, his tone somewhere between disbelief and pity.
"Yes. Drain the swamp. You know, remove the water, reclaim the land, grow food, avoid mass starvation—basic landlord stuff."
Sella frowned. "Wouldn't it be easier to just… plant something in the swamp? Like cattails? Or leeches?"
"I'm not feeding my people leeches, Sella."
"But they're high in iron—"
"Stop. Just… stop."
Now, in my world—the 21st century—draining a swamp involves heavy machinery, pumps, maybe even environmental impact assessments. Here? I had four people, some shovels, and a wheelbarrow that squeaked every third rotation.
We started digging a channel toward the small river that ran along the edge of the property. In theory, the water from the swamp would flow out, and the land would dry over time. In practice?
The mud was so thick it swallowed shovels whole.
Bram grunted as he pulled, only for his boot to get stuck. Then his other boot. Then—"Milord, a little help—!"
With a spectacular slurp, Bram faceplanted into the mud, sending a spray of swamp juice directly into my shirt.
"Congratulations," I said flatly. "You've discovered medieval dry cleaning."
Half an hour later, our channel hit a massive rock. Not just big—immovable. The kind of rock that seemed to have been forged in defiance of human ambition.
Bram stared at it. "We'll need more men."
"Or a miracle," Sella added helpfully.
I eyed the thing. Back home, I could have just rented a backhoe and been done in an hour. Here? My "options" were:
Hit it with a pickaxe for the next two years.
Build the channel around it like some kind of rock shrine.
Pray it rolls away on its own.
I chose the scientifically advanced option of swearing at it for a solid minute before deciding to dig around.
As if the rock wasn't bad enough, it turned out the swamp had residents. Angry ones.
While Pip was scooping mud, something splashed behind him. We turned just in time to see a giant frog—no joke, the size of a small dog—leap out of the water and aim straight for his bucket.
Pip screamed, dropped the bucket, and ran. The frog hopped after him like a green missile.
Garrick just shook his head. "Ah, swamp toads. Means the land's healthy."
"Yes, Garrick, nothing screams 'healthy farmland' like an amphibian home invasion."
Six Hours Later
We had… half a channel. My arms felt like they'd been replaced with lead pipes, my shirt was now more swamp than fabric, and I was fairly certain Bram had lost a boot permanently to the mud.
The water had gone down… by about two inches.
"Milord," Garrick said, "might be we'll need more days at this. Weeks, maybe."
I took a deep breath. Modern brain: This is insane. This is futile. Sell the land, buy a cottage, live out your days fishing. Damien brain: You can't quit. They'll starve without you. And you'll be remembered forever as 'That Useless Lord Who Lived in a Swamp.'
I exhaled. "Alright. We keep going tomorrow. But tonight—hot food, dry clothes, and if anyone mentions leeches again, they're sleeping in the swamp."
Sella looked personally offended. "They really are nutritious, milord."
I ignored her and trudged back toward the manor, the faint slurp of Bram trying to retrieve his boot echoing behind me.
By the time we reached the courtyard, the sun was setting over my beautiful disaster of a territory. It was going to take blood, sweat, and probably a few questionable engineering decisions, but I'd drain that swamp.
Eventually.