by Sean Golden
His own shoulder was bleeding freely again due to the exertion. Readjusting the bandage, he managed to get the bleeding to subside. Lightheaded and weak, he wondered how much blood he had lost.
Lirak realized then that something had changed inside himself. His sense of panic was completely gone. He knew that he was wounded and was in serious trouble, but instead of fear, he felt a sense of triumph. Overwhelmed by the sheer joy of still being alive, he lifted his head to the sky and screamed out his victory, his shout echoing through the trees. An eagle’s cry sounded as if in response. A few moments later, from some distance away, he heard an answering cry, and knew the big cat had not given up yet.
Regaining his composure, he looked around and saw nothing but the placid trees. He forced himself to stand, and when his head stopped swimming, made his way to where he had shot the cat. There he found the haft of the arrow, broken about a hand’s width from the arrowhead. He didn’t find the arrowhead and guessed that it must have lodged in the cat’s chest. He decided not to look for the other arrow, which could have gone far into the bushes. Looking around he found blood on the leaves of bushes, and some of the blood had small bubbles in it. “Lung blood” Lirak muttered to himself. “Well, I’ve hurt you more than you’ve hurt me at least.”
Turning back to the west, he continued to trudge forward, stopping frequently to check behind, but there was no sign of the cat. Suddenly he found himself at the edge of trees and saw the river directly in front of him. It was just about midday.
The Fire River, as Lirak had named it, was about thirty strides wide at the point he found it. A powerful current swept limbs and other debris quickly from his left to his right, and in his weakened condition, he wondered how he would be able to cross the river. Looking to his right and left, he saw that downstream to his right it widened considerably. Hoping that meant the current was weaker, he began to make his way downstream.
Fire River
Dalpene is the River, the Stream, the Lake, and the Rain. Without Dalpene, the world is merely dust. Dalpene is the life-giver. But Dalpene can be capricious and jealous. Dalpene is both loved and feared by all who know him.
– Dwon oral tradition
The rushing sound of the river’s current was different than the slower pace of the Fedon River Lirak was used to. Working his way along the bank of the Fire River, he kept a constant lookout in all directions for the great cat. Stepping around a clump of willows, his left foot went into the frigid water. The current pulled insistently at him, surprising him with its power. The river moved faster in the middle and he worried that it might be impossible for him to stand or walk without getting swept away. Swimming across would be difficult with his wounded shoulder and leg. He might get swept into a boulder or trapped under a tree root. What strength he had left would quickly be sapped by the frigid water.
Bumping or jarring his shoulder unleashed an eruption of blinding pain. The entire arm felt stiff and clumsy and he felt lightheaded. His thigh wounds seemed trivial compared to his shoulder, but they also ached. He stood, swaying a little, at the bank of the river and looked back the way he had come, expecting to see the big cat charging up at him again, but he only saw a few birds. He took another long drink from his water skin and refilled it again.
Several boulders lay together at the river’s edge like the remains of some giant’s game. He made his way to them and found a fairly comfortable one that he was able to sit on while resting his back against another. Closing his eyes, he tried to will away the pain in his shoulder. He sat for a while, taking deep breaths and trying to remember everything he could about how to treat wounds such as his. Jerok had once been gored by a river-pig, but not badly. Hetyl had made a poultice of mud and herbs and put it on the wound, then had bound it up with a particular broad shaped leaf that was used for many medicinal purposes.
He tried to find something similar to the herbs and leaves Hetyl had used. To his surprise he thought he recognized one particular plant with small green leaves and tiny star-shaped flowers. He carefully picked several of them and crushed them into a pulp. The skin around his shoulder punctures was red and puffy, oozing both blood and a clear, viscous fluid. He carefully pressed the pulped herb into his wounds, gritting his teeth against the pain. Refastening the bandage, he sighed and leaned back to rest again. The sun-warmed rocks and warm air felt like a comfortable blanket, and Lirak’s mind faded into sleepiness. Faintly, as if from far away, he felt the internal voice urging Move! Mustering all of his remaining willpower, he half rolled and half-fell off the boulder, then forced himself to stand and stagger onwards.
White foamy water danced over hidden boulders between dark smooth stretches where the current ran fast and deep. Downstream the river continued to widen and looked shallower. As he walked, Lirak examined his broken knife while eating some smoked meat and cheese. There was a jagged edge across the top of the blade now, with one side coming to a sharp point. It was still suitable for stabbing he guessed, if he needed to. But it was now just long enough to reach from his wrist to the big knuckle of his first finger. He fingered the blade gingerly, remembering the painstaking effort he had gone through to create it, and how proud he had been of it. With a sigh he replaced it in its sheath, where it hung awkwardly, its balance no longer the same. He shaded his eyes from the early afternoon sun.
Soaring high above, bright sunlight glinted off an eagle’s silver wings. A hawk on the other side of the river swooped down and snatched something from the reeds. A large animal with strange shaped antlers tramped around a marshy area, its head dipping from time to time as it fed. Lirak marveled at its size, its shoulders reached at least a head taller than Lirak. He had never seen its like. But it seemed not to be aware of him, or care about his presence anyway. Flashes of red and silver from the river betrayed the teeming presence of fish.
Continuing his search for the widest, shallowest stretch of river, his feet were soon sinking in marshy soil. Finally he reached the area where the river was widest. Deciding this was the best place to cross, he found a stout branch of a tree to use as a walking stick. After a careful look in each direction, he stepped into the rushing water.
The water was cold, fed by melting snows from the higher mountains. At first it only covered his ankles, and the current was gentle. But soon he found himself up to his knees, and each step was a fight to maintain his balance as the current pushed against him. His feet slipped several times on the slick rocks. Without the branch he would surely have fallen. The strain of holding his position made his wounded thigh throb. He glanced back at the eastern shore; something was moving there. His heart went cold as he saw that the cat was just passing the boulders he had sat on, and there was no doubt that it had seen him, exposed as he was in the middle of the river.
Lirak considered pulling his bow, but the shot was difficult enough even without a wounded shoulder and the unsteady state of his stance in the water. Instead he took a step forward, then another. Now the water was halfway up his thighs and the current was threatening to wash him away. Probing ahead with the stick, he could feel that the riverbed here was much deeper, and the current much faster than he had anticipated. On the bank behind him, the cat had reached the point where Lirak had entered the water. As Lirak fought to maintain his balance, the cat howled and paced back and forth at the water’s edge. There was no going back now. And as he had that thought, the cat suddenly turned and plunged into the water, charging straight at him.
Lirak flung the branch toward the cat and dove into the frigid water, desperately deciding to swim across the remaining stretch of water. A battering ram swept him to the right. He struck out with his right arm and kicked his feet, but his left arm had too little strength, and the current swept him downstream as ice cold water filled his mouth and nose. Desperately he fought to keep his head above water, but the cold sapped his strength. Forcing his head up, taking a great gasping breath he reached for the other bank with no success. Kicking with all his strength he again stretch
ed his right hand out. His hand brushed against some slimy river weeds and then hit the gravelly river bottom. He felt his right leg going numb from the cold, and his lungs burned as he fought for air, but again he kicked and reached his right hand out grabbed firmly on a root or branch of some tree or brush, and it held. The crushing current swept him around as he clung to the branch, and his knees were suddenly resting on the river bottom.
A sharp pain lanced through his head, yanking his head underwater and downstream. Just as suddenly it was gone, and he lifted his head up from the water to see the cat struggling against the current with a murderous rage in its yellow eyes as it was swept downstream. Something warm ran down his forehead. Reaching up he felt the torn edges of his skin where the cat had clawed him.
Crawling desperately on his hands and knees, Lirak made his way out of the river and onto a gravel sandbar in its midst. Gingerly massaging his scalp, he decided the scratches were deep, but not life threatening at the moment. He pressed his hand against the wounds hoping that would stop the bleeding. His breath came in deep, heaving gasps, and he had never felt as completely spent in his life. With a supreme effort of will, he rose to his knees and looked downstream, expecting to see the cat charging him again. But instead he saw that he was on a small island. The cat had been swept past this, and there was no sign of it at the moment. To his left, to the west, was another branch of the river, which had split just upstream to form an island six strides across at its widest, and perhaps two dozen strides long. With a cry of pain, he fell backwards and lay for several moments on the gravel like a dead thing.
Eventually some small strength returned, and removing his bow, he did his best to dry the wood and the strings so they wouldn’t warp or stretch from the water. The bleeding on his scalp was slowing, but he would probably have a scar on his forehead for the rest of his life, and he was lucky his eyes had been spared. He staggered to his feet and walked downstream to the northern end of the little island. Scanning the area, he saw the wounded cat lying on the western bank of the river, a good bowshot downstream. It didn’t seem to be moving. In his anger, he drew his bow back and let an arrow fly but the arrow landed harmlessly several feet short. Lirak silently cursed the bow’s damp string. The cat stirred, looked upstream at him, and faded into the bushes alongside the bank.
Lirak found another rock to sit on, and rested a few moments. Basking in the warmth of the sun, he emptied his pouch, backpack and quiver to dry his things. Pausing to take another long drink of the cool water, he watched the fish dart to and fro, marveling at their size and color. Some were as long as or longer than his forearm. Briefly wishing he had the time and means to try to catch some, he sighed and stretched his aching right leg. The island was also home to a seething mass of insects. Some of the flying ones bit and a small cloud hovered over his head, attracted by the bloody gash. Swatting angrily at the cloud of biting bugs, he sat on the driest patch he could find and waited, turning his things over to allow them to dry more quickly.
Finally his gear was relatively dry. He removed the bandage on his shoulder and checked the wounds. The deep punctures were an angry red color and the swelling was worse. The clear fluid still oozed from the punctures, but the bleeding had stopped. He replaced the bandage. He then replaced his pouch, pack and quiver and stepped into the cold, clear water on the west side of the island, thankful that the water barely covered his feet. Quickly he was across the last bit of river and standing on the western bank. He had conquered the river.
Finding the waterfall proved to be much easier than he expected. Moving north, he kept a lookout for the cat, which he knew had been swept downstream so would now be ahead of him. Hoping it would put more distance between him and the river, he followed a game trail into the forest between the river and the western wall of mountains. A strange sound came from the northwest, growing louder with every step. The sound was like a distant rolling thunder. He suspected that the sound had to be the waterfall which grew louder as he moved steadily north. He smelled dampness in the air and could see a mist that seemed to flow from the western wall of the valley ahead. As the trees thinned out, he eventually found himself on the edge of a meadow. To his left a thundering crush of water smashed into the valley floor from a point high above on a sheer cliff wall. He could feel the power of the falling water through his moccasin covered feet.
Lirak had never even dreamed of anything like it. The western wall of the valley was still some distance away, much farther than a bowshot. A large stream from the west joined the main river at his feet. The stream had carved a long gully into the rising ground to the west, and spread out into a large pool at the base of the valley wall. In the middle of the pool, a white wall of water crashed down, sending spray in every direction. Above the waterfall an eagle flew, and along the shore of the pool small dark birds flitted from weed to weed as they fed on insects. Lirak walked west, following the gully as it rose above the stream. Finally he stood on the edge of the large pool on an earthen cliff about fifteen feet above the roiling waters of the pool; close enough that he was soon soaked by the spray of water. The sound of the waterfall was almost deafening. A short arc of a rainbow was visible on the northern edge of the mist. Caught up in the sight of the falling water, Lirak forgot about his trial of manhood, his wounds, and the stalking cat. This was an experience he would remember forever. He stood silently, feeling the ground shake through his moccasins, thanking Kathoias and Dalpene for this magnificent experience, soaking in the sight, smells and sound while enveloped in a cool mist that brought a welcome chill to his skin.
With the thunder of the waterfall all around him, he heard no other sound. A sudden sense of movement from his right brought him back from his reverie. The cat had returned, but it was in bad shape. Blood ran down its chin from its open mouth, and it limped heavily whenever it put its left front foot down. Blood seeped from three places in its chest. When it exhaled, Lirak saw bubbles of blood form on its lips. It circled to its left, and Lirak responded by drawing his broken knife and circling to his left. Soon Lirak stood with his back to the waterfall. The cat suddenly sprang forward, and Lirak involuntarily took a short step backwards. The soft earth gave way and before he could react, Lirak was tumbling down the steep bank, where he landed with a splash in the shallow water at the edge of the pool. He was soaking wet, but took no additional harm.
He could feel the billowing mist from the waterfall engulf him. The cat seemed not to like the waterfall, and paused at the top of the gully. Realizing this, Lirak stepped back further. The cat paced back and forth, but didn’t approach him. He took another step back and could now feel the spray of the water on his back. The cat uttered a growl in frustration and sat on its haunches. On an impulse Lirak turned and stepped through the falling water so that it formed a curtain between him and the cat. The water had cut a depression out of the rock walls and there was an area of relative dryness behind the falling water. The depression widened to the north and Lirak moved in that direction.
The waterfall where he had come through had been thin and light, but here the water fell in a heavy, thick sheet that reverberated through the chamber with a constant, deafening roar. Behind the waterfall was a large open area, with walls of smooth stone on all sides. In the middle of the area was a large flat stone. One corner of this stone was broken and had fallen to the floor. On the north wall, just adjacent to the waterfall itself, were markings in the wall, a series of strange symbols in straight rows and columns. Lirak quickly made Rysdun’s ward against magic.
In spite of himself Lirak found his eyes drawn to the marks on the wall. He stepped forward, drawn by some dark curiosity. He mouthed a plea to Kathoias to forgive him, and found himself moving around the broken center stone and toward the wall. Soon he was standing directly in front of the markings, which were carved into the face of the rock. He reached out and touched one of the markings, and as he did he felt the hair on the back of his neck rise up. Turning slowly he faced the dripping form of the big ca
t, which had climbed atop the stone table.
Quickly nocking an arrow Lirak took aim. The exhausted cat feebly twitched its tail. Red blood dripped from its mouth. It sank back on its haunches on the large rock, its tongue lolling out. Slowly the great head fell and the mighty paws slid along the stone until the cat lay prone on the stone, panting heavily, burbling blood through its lips as its eyes began to dim.
For some reason Lirak didn’t send a final arrow into the beast’s heart. Stepping forward he peered into the cat’s eyes, looking for any sign that the cat would attack. But the cat was completely spent, and its chest heaved with the effort of drawing breath. For the first time Lirak noted that it was a female. The hot breath of the dying cat blew on his hand as he instinctively touched its cheek behind those absurdly long fangs. The cat seemed to relax, and with one final rattling effort to breathe, the eyes glazed over. A feeling of relief mixed with sadness swept through Lirak. He knew the cat would have killed him many times, but somehow seeing the magnificent creature die in that manner, from wounds he himself had inflicted, he felt somehow that he had no right to be the one who lived. But he was grateful nevertheless.
Firestones
The Seven themselves cannot see all ends, and there will be many false before there is one true. In prophecy, destiny demands fulfillment, and fulfillment demands perseverance.
– The Prophecies
Turning back to the wall, he pondered the meaning of the timing of the cat’s death and his touching of the markings. He knew that writing had terrible power. Had he somehow drawn on that power at that moment? Again he touched the markings, feeling how they had been chipped into the wall by some unknown means. The manner of tool that could carve stone so straight and deep was a mystery he could not solve.