by Brent Weeks
Half a dozen rats splashed into the water, kicked by the other animals. Each of them began swimming in a different direction, including several right at the boys.
Kip's stomach knotted in visceral fear. It was ridiculous that a rat should freeze him while two drafters didn't-but he hated rats. Hated hated hated them. Sanson yanked on his sleeve, pulling him away. Kip launched off the post, splashing awkwardly. He turned back, making sure none of the rats latched onto his clothes. His eyes flicked up to the apprentice drafter Zymun, the boy's head tucked between his arms as his master beat him. But then Zymun stiffened.
Zymun shouted something and stood, and his master stopped hitting him. Kip got his first good look at the boy. He couldn't have been more than a year older than Kip, with unruly black hair, dark eyes, and a wide, fleshy mouth curved into a triumphant grin. Even in the moment Kip saw him, Zymun's and his master's skin were filling with red, the swirls like smoke being inhaled, but then compacted until it filled their bodies.
Kip turned and swam as hard as he could. There was one metal screen in front of the waterfall to keep boats or swimmers from going over, and a dock and stairs next to it. Sanson was already to the screen, more than ten paces ahead of Kip.
After a few more hard strokes, Kip glanced back. The bridge and the jostling animals blocked much of his view of the two drafters, but as he looked, he saw the master run a few quick steps forward. He jumped, spread his arms wide, and slapped his hands together. A shimmering ball of red luxin formed between his hands, and as they slapped together it rocketed forward. The drafter was blasted back by the force of what he'd thrown, but still landed on his feet.
The ball caught fire in midair, right before it plowed through the animals on the bridge. Sheep, horses, and pigs exploded in every direction, body parts flying. Wild shrieks filled the air, sounding almost human. The burning missile tore off the railing and blasted a chunk out of the middle of the bridge itself, and then it streaked over Kip's head with a fiery roar and smashed the wood stairs above the dock. Kip didn't think the drafter had missed, and for a moment he thought the man was trying to trap them.
The drawbridge cracked, and all the animals on it stumbled toward the sagging middle.
Now Zymun ran forward. He slapped red hand to red hand, but this time Kip couldn't even see the ball of luxin-because it wasn't aimed at him. One moment, Zymun was falling back, completely bowled over from the force of what he had thrown, and the next, the entire wood bridge exploded.
Flames and blood and spinning, detached body parts leapt into the sky. One great flaming section of the bridge streaked toward Kip, tumbling and filling his vision. It hit the water beside him with a great hissing splash.
When Kip could see again, he was pressed against the metal screen in front of the waterfall, surrounded by scraps and shards of wood, some sections still burning, one great section of the bridge slowly sinking, and hundreds of rats, some burnt to charcoal, others wounded, others simply wet, but all the living desperate to get out of the water. The larger animals hadn't been blown so far by the explosion, but they were coming, thrashing, kicking, splashing, biting each other in their fear and pain.
"Kip! Climb over! We've almost made it!" Sanson shouted. He was already on the other side of the metal screen.
"Don't move!" the older drafter shouted. His skin was already filling with red swirls. "Don't move or the next one's coming for your head!"
Kip grabbed the screen, but as soon as his hands touched it, he felt little claws scratching on his legs, then more on his back. He froze. Rats. First one or two, then half a dozen.
His eyes clamped shut as he felt the claws scramble onto his neck, and then over his head. In holding on to the screen, his body had become a bridge-the only way out of the water-and the rats swarmed him.
In moments, it wasn't half a dozen rats. It was hundreds.
Kip's muscles locked. He couldn't move. Couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. He didn't dare even open his eyes. Rats were in his hair. A rat had fallen down the front of his shirt and was clawing his chest. Rats were running up his arms.
"Move, Kip! Move or die!" Sanson shouted.
Suddenly, Kip felt detached from his own body. He was nearly drowning, the town was on fire, almost everyone he knew was dead, two drafters were trying to kill him, and he was worried about rats. Even as he clung here, the drafters were preparing the death blow, and he was too frightened to move. Ridiculous. Pathetic.
He felt a hand grab him, and his eyes snapped open. It was Sanson. Sanson had climbed back up the grate and was braving the rats to try to help Kip over. Kip shook like a dog, dislodging perhaps a dozen rats, but leaving many more. Still terrified, he began climbing up the grate.
He threw one leg up onto the top of the grate, but he couldn't pull himself up. He was too heavy. A rat fell into his gaping pant leg and began scurrying up against his bare skin.
Sanson grabbed Kip's clothes with both hands and yelled with the effort. Kip pulled one last time, and felt his body rising, rising-and finally rolling over the top of the grate. He crashed into the water on the other side.
The current pulled at him immediately. When he surfaced, Sanson was yelling something, but Kip couldn't even make out the words. He reached down into his pants and grabbed the struggling rat and threw it away.
Then he was at the waterfall. There were ledges running perpendicular to the falls, and the town daredevils would sprint along those and leap over the falls. It was too late for Kip to try that. There were sections where the water was shallower than others. Kip turned desperately and his feet caught an underwater rock. The force of the current pushed him forward, and he squatted on the rock, gathering his feet underneath him, flailing his hands to right himself. The pool at the base of the falls was plenty deep, but if he didn't jump far enough, he'd hit rocks on his way down.
He jumped as hard as he could. To his surprise, he actually went the direction he was trying. For a moment, there was perfect freedom. Peace. The roar of the water drowned out all other sound, all other thought. It was beautiful. Somehow, he and Sanson had been floating in the river all night, and now the sun was just peeking above the horizon, beating back the midnight black of one horizon to deep blue, to icy blue, to pinks and oranges that lit clouds like halos.
Then Kip realized how fast he was falling. His body was at an angle to the fast-approaching water below. From watching the bolder youths, he knew he had to hit feet first or headfirst with arms extended or he would be hurt badly.
There was no way he was going headfirst, so he arched his back and wheeled his arms.
Whatever he'd done, it seemed to be the exact wrong thing, or maybe he'd already been twisting forward, because he found himself parallel to the water. He was going to land the most colossal bellyflop ever seen. From this height, it might well kill him.
Not only that, but he realized that he was falling with the water-all the divers he'd ever seen had jumped out beyond it. The water always glanced off one rock on the way down.
He didn't even have time to think a curse before a rock smacked his foot, hard. He threw his arms out-
– as he crashed into the water headfirst, feeling like someone had just hit him over the top of the head with a board. His arms felt like they'd been torn off. And he'd forgotten to take a breath before he hit. Kip opened his eyes underwater in time to see something big streak down into the water beside him in a gush of bubbles. Sanson!
Sanson had hit feet first, but had been spun when he hit the water so he was upside down. He seemed stunned for a moment, unmoving, then his eyes opened, but he was looking away from Kip. Obviously disoriented from the fall, Sanson began swimming-down. Kip grabbed his foot to get his attention.
But Sanson panicked. He thrashed and kicked Kip square in the nose. Kip yelled-and watched the last of his air go rushing toward the surface.
Sanson turned, saw Kip, saw the direction the bubbles were going, and then saw the blood blossoming in the dark water. He grabbed Ki
p, and together the boys swam for the surface.
Kip barely made it. He gasped, inhaling water and blood, and then coughed it out. He coughed again, then retched. Sanson tugged on his arm. "Kip, help me! We've got to get to shore before we get to the rapids."
That woke Kip up. Within fifty paces of the deep, still area where the waterfall landed, there was another set of rapids so steep they were almost a series of waterfalls themselves. And already the current was getting swifter. Foot aching, head splitting, nose streaming blood, he swam with Sanson.
They made it to shore with ten paces to spare. The boys hauled themselves onto a grassy bank and inspected the damage, exhausted. Sanson was uninjured, and he looked sheepish. "Sorry, Kip. I mean, about your nose and all. I never liked swimming. Always thought there were things in the deep that'd grab me."
Pinching his bleeding nose, Kip looked at his friend. "Oo sabed my life ub dere," he said. "Oo din't eben break ma nose." Kip was more concerned about the foot he'd struck on his way down. He unlaced his shoe with one hand and tugged the shoe and stocking off. His foot was sore, and there were some nice scrapes along the top, but when he rubbed it he didn't think any bones were broken. He began tugging his wet stocking back on, which was hard to do while still pinching his nose with one hand.
"I can't believe we got-" Sanson started.
"Away?" Kip asked. He had abandoned trying to tie his shoe with one hand and was sniffing hard, trying to keep blood from dripping all over him. Even as he finished the knot, though, he knew why Sanson had stopped speaking. They were bathed in a harsh red glare.
Looking up, Kip saw a red flare hanging in the sky above them, marking their location for the rest of the king's army-who had to be nearby. The flare's smoke trail led back to the top of the falls, where the two drafters stood, looking at them.
Kip and Sanson had escaped two drafters. Now they had to escape the rest of the army.
Kip hopped to his feet, sniffing hard. He thought he was going to hyperventilate. Then he saw a horseman on the ridge that wound from above the waterfall down to the Sendinas' farm. He abruptly forgot about his bleeding nose. The horseman would have to go farther to go around, but he had a horse. Kip and Sanson had to make it down the trail along the rapids and get to the farm before the horseman did.
Then Kip saw three other horsemen join the first. And then another, and another.
He and Sanson started running.
The waterfall kicked up huge clouds of mist, day and night, and the valley stayed dark for hours longer than the surrounding country. When the flare winked out, Kip lost sight of both the horsemen and the trail.
He stopped, terrified. Broad-leafed plants, slick with the mist, obscured both sides of the tiny trail. One foot set on those, and he would plunge down the rocky incline to the river. In the rapids, he'd be battered to death.
He needed to see. He tried to look at things out of the corners of his eyes, the way Master Danavis had taught him. The part of your eye that focused on things was best at seeing colors, but outside the focus area was better at seeing light and dark.
"Move!" Sanson said.
Kip looked over his shoulder. Sanson's face looked like it was on fire. Kip took a step back and tottered on the sharp edge of the trail. Everywhere Sanson's skin was exposed, he looked hot. Kip could even see the steam evaporating off his arms in little orange whorls.
"What's wrong with your eyes?" Sanson asked. "Never mind. Move, Kip!"
Sanson was right again. It didn't matter what Kip was seeing, or how. He turned and started forward. Somehow, the wonder of it all crowded out his fear. The plants were like torches lighting his way, even gently illuminating the trail between.
One hand still hitching up his wet, heavy pants, Kip began jogging as fast as he could, fearless despite the slick rocks, narrow trail, and death beckoning from every side.
There were bodies in the river, caught up in the rapids. Dear Orholam, there were bodies at the Sendinas' farm, little lumps nearly as cold as the surrounding ground. Smoldering, ruined buildings burned hot in Kip's vision. More important for him and Sanson, he saw a flat-bottomed punt tied at the Sendinas' dock. He and Sanson hit the bottom of the trail at a full run. They rounded a corner and in the morning sun saw thirty mounted Mirrormen, drawn up in battle formation.
"We wanted to take you alive," the red drafter said. His skin was crimson, and fury tinged his voice. "A drafter with your potential doesn't come along every day. But you've killed two of King Garadul's men, and for that, you die."
Chapter 15
"You're not really going to crash us," Karris said as Gavin brought them over the scrub desert.
"Oh, I see. When I'm flying, we're flying, but when we're crashing, I'm crashing."
Gavin banked the condor to the right so they wouldn't be seen from Garriston. There was still a good chance some farmer or fisherman would spot them, but who would believe a lone fisherman who said he'd seen a giant flying man-bird? If a whole city saw them, it would be a different story. Garriston, despite being the most important port in Tyrea, wasn't much. The bay was overfished, the land was hot and dry with bad soil, the Ruthgari governor corrupt, his men worse.
It hadn't always been this way. Before the False Prism's War, there had been a vast system of irrigation canals that had brought this scrub desert into bloom, with two or even three harvests a year. There had been locks that fed trade to dozens of small cities up and down the Umber River. But canals and locks required drafters and maintenance. Without either, this land had withered, punished for the sins of dead men.
"Gavin, I'm serious. Are we really going to crash?"
"Trust me," he said.
She opened her mouth, then shut it. He guessed what she hadn't said: Because that's worked out so well for me before?
"Got anything fragile in your bag?" he asked.
"How bad is this going to be?" she asked, real concern in her voice.
"Sorry. I should have waited until we were closer to the ground."
"Wait, what's that?" Karris asked.
Gavin looked west, following her eyes, but didn't see what had made her curious. The land around Garriston was plains and dry farmland, but to the west it quickly yielded to steep, tall, impassable mountains that abutted almost directly on the sea. The Umber River was just on the other side of those mountains. If it could go straight to the sea-through the mountains-it would have been only ten leagues long. Instead, it had to go east to Garriston, separated from the ocean by fencelike mountains, almost a hundred and fifty leagues from origin to outlet.
"There," Karris said, pointing. "Smoke."
Gavin wasn't sure that the black wisp was anything more than Karris's-and now his-imagination. Regardless, it was on the other side of the mountains, so it didn't matter. He was just opening his mouth to tell Karris that when the condor passed over one of the foothills. A powerful updraft shot them higher into the air.
It took Gavin's breath away. He'd only experimented with the condor over water. He hadn't even thought about how the ground beneath where he was gliding would affect the air above it. Now that he had experienced it, it made sense. Why else did birds of prey spiral so often in the same places? Gavin had assumed they were good hunting grounds. Now he knew. Updrafts.
"Can we make it over the mountains?" Karris asked.
From this new height-Gavin looked down, gulped, and immediately looked back to the horizon-he was certain that what they had seen was smoke. And for it to be visible from this far away, it could only be one of two things.
Let it be a forest fire. Please, Orholam.
"We can. But if we do, you're not going to meet the man who was supposed to get you into Garadul's army. And I can't get the condor back into the air without the sea. I'll have to float all the way down the river."
"Gavin, when I see that much smoke, I think red wight. A Torch could be burning down an entire city. You're heading out to stop a color wight near Ru? These people aren't worth any less than the people
of Ru. If it comes to it, there are a lot of drafters in Ru who could work together against the blue wight. These people have no one."
In his mind's eye, Gavin was comparing the land below him to the maps he knew of Tyrea. It was surprisingly easy, given that he was closer to the perspective most maps were drawn from than most people ever got. He looked at the mountains, the not-quite-pass through them, and the position of the rising smoke. A thought struck him with a greater force than mere intuition. He wasn't here on accident. It wasn't coincidence that he was gliding in the one place where he could see this fire, or that he had Karris with him. That was no forest fire. It wasn't a red wight either.
That fire was rising from Rekton. It had been a beautiful town before the war. It was the town where Gavin's "son" was. Gavin knew it, even though they were so far away there was no way to know it. If Orholam had actually existed, this was the kind of punishment he would devise for Gavin. Or test.
Whatever it was, it was a choice.
Five years left, and five great purposes still to accomplish. And one of those actually was mostly selfless: to free Garriston, which had been crushed because of him. Which was suffering still, because of him.
If Gavin went to Rekton, he'd have to face that crazy woman, Lina. He'd have to face her son Kip, and tell him that he wasn't his father: Sorry, you're still fatherless. I have no idea what your lying slut mother is talking about.
That would doubtless go over well. They would also be close to Rask Garadul's army, so Karris would open her orders, and everything would get messy fast.
All Gavin had to say was, "I've got my orders." Karris would understand. She'd always been dutiful. To a fault.
But you aren't Karris. This isn't her test.
He opened his mouth to say it, and it tasted like cowardice. He couldn't force the words past his gritted teeth.