A Turn of Light

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Jenn raised her head in time to watch the young boy bounce past on Wainn’s old pony. Once persuaded to canter, the opinionated beast would go wherever he wanted, not his rider: at the moment, right through their vegetables and straight for the mill.

  The boy shouted something. Jenn went to stand beside Peggs. “What’s he saying?”

  “I can’t—”

  Suddenly clear, “—river! Man in the riv—” the next bounce garbled the words.

  “‘Man in the river?’ It’s Wisp!” Jenn hugged Peggs. “It has to be!”

  Her sister turned the hug into a pull. “Hurry!”

  They ran around the house. Across the main road, Old Wagler Jupp stood on his porch, leaning on his canes. Riss Nahamm, long hair caught up in a twist of rag—she’d been cleaning—came out the door behind him with a blanket in her arms. When she saw the sisters, she called, “Did you hear? There’s someone in the river!”

  “What’s the fuss?” Old Jupp complained.

  Riss pointed.

  Jenn and Peggs looked, too. All through the village, people emerged, some with rope, others with blankets, only to stop and stare toward the river. The river that should be ankle-deep.

  And now looked as it did at snowmelt, full and snarling at its banks.

  The ford was gone.

  “Poppa!” Peggs gasped. “The millstones!” Once the stones were set and the loft full of grain, all their father need do was throw open the floodgate and the water would rise in answer.

  “It can’t be,” Jenn protested. The stones were outside their case, the race closed and dry. Just as well. In this fearsome state, the river would tear the wheel from the mill.

  How didn’t matter. Not far past the mill, the river plunged from the valley through a narrow rock cut. No one could survive that drop. She tugged at Peggs’ arm. “We have to get to the falls!”

  The sisters ran together. As they took the path by the mill, Peggs veered away, shouting, “Go! You can find him. I’ll bring Poppa. And rope!”

  Jenn nodded. She tore past Horst’s home, barely flinching, then through the open gate in the hedgerow. Leaving the village behind, she pumped her arms and drove her legs faster. The road followed the river but water flowed with dreadful speed. Her only chance—Wisp’s only chance—was to reach the flat rocks above the waterfall first.

  And do what then?

  She concentrated on running.

  The man on the gray-muzzled gelding had seen his share of days. That didn’t, Bannan thought ruefully, empty hands away from his sides, make him less a threat. In fact, everything about the man who’d managed to ride up behind him proclaimed he was, from his sharp gaze to the well-kept weapons hanging from back and saddle. Callused fingertips kept tension on the bowstring, the notched and wicked arrow aimed uncomfortably low. This one knew how to incapacitate a foe while leaving him able to talk. Or scream.

  “You look like a bandit to me,” the man said evenly. “Where’s your horse? Your wagon?”

  “I rode ahead of the wagon. As I said, my horse threw me and ran this way.”

  “I’ve seen no horse.”

  Of course he hadn’t. Bannan intended to have a word with Scourge. A very stern word. If he got the chance. “I mean no harm. Just let me go back to the Northward and I’ll wait for my companion there.”

  “‘Companion.’” An eyebrow lifted on the lean, patrician face, the kind of face he’d expect to find protecting a baronial household in Vorkoun or Avyo, not the crossing of nothing and nowhere. “You admit you’re a scout.” The bowstring pulled back.

  “I admit I’m an idiot. I told you. I’m a settler.” Without proof, he wouldn’t believe the claim either. “My name’s Bannan. If you’d come with me to the main road—”

  “You are an idiot if you think I’ll follow you into an ambush.”

  The truth. Bannan grinned. “What do you suggest?”

  The taut string eased ever so slightly. “I suggest—easy!” This as the gelding widened its nostrils in alarm and shifted its weight.

  Bannan didn’t bother looking around. “Lower your bow,” he advised. “Quickly.” Scourge taking up the hunt was nothing to trifle with; this man and his horse wouldn’t stand a chance.

  The man giving him an incredulous look. “Why should I?”

  “On my honor, I mean you no harm, sir. I can’t speak for my hidden—” horse? “—companion. You’re in danger. Believe it.”

  Something flickered across those intent eyes. The bow lowered, string loosening. The man let the arrow tumble to the ground, then held his hands away from his body.

  A shadow between two pines elongated into a leg, then a head carried low, like a snake ready to strike. A long body followed. Hooves met the road with no sound at all. Lips pulled from teeth that belonged to no horse.

  Scourge growled.

  The gelding rolled his eyes and trembled, but didn’t break. More proof, if Bannan needed it, that this was no ordinary settler. This man had trained in an elite soldiery.

  “Looks like we found my horse,” Bannan commented. He didn’t dare move; by his wide-eyed stare, the former soldier didn’t either. Scourge wove closer. “You wouldn’t happen to know any border guard passwords, would you?” the truthseer continued with deliberate calm. “Doesn’t matter how old.”

  The man didn’t hesitate. “Ordo’s Precious Arse.”

  Bannan chuckled. That would do.

  With a disappointed huff, Scourge became a big ugly horse again. He made a show of lipping a leaf from the dirt. The poor gelding wasn’t convinced. His rider patted his neck, then nodded at Scourge. “I didn’t know you folk used the Northward. You should have said you were a tinker.”

  Something about Scourge was familiar to this man? “I’m not,” Bannan said easily, his mind racing. “Just looking to farm. My horse was a runaway; wound up on the family pasture. Ugly as he was, no one else wanted him.” A rude snort from the animal thus disparaged. “I’ve an ox too,” he added. “The best in Endshere, according to the trader.”

  “Lanky fellow, one eye?” At Bannan’s nod, the man unstrung his bow and almost smiled. “You’re lucky to have made it this far. The name’s Horst. Excuse the welcome. Bandits occasionally try the road to Marrowdell.”

  “We were warned in Endshere.” Scourge arched his neck; Bannan ignored him. “‘Marrowdell.’ A village?”

  Horst tilted his head down the road. “Valley and village both.”

  Bannan waited politely for him to extol his home’s virtues. New settlers must be rare; he and Tir had been enticed with all manner of unlikely claims between Weken and Endshere. Water like wine. Turnips the size of melons. Beds filled with eiderdown. And daughters. To hear some of the threadbare farmers brag in their cups, simply following them home would guarantee a life of bliss. They lied, possibly to themselves as well. Most likely, the guarantee was life as a laborer for someone else. He’d keep going till he found a place where he could farm for himself, thank you.

  Marrowdell. Now he remembered the name. Tir had heard it in the Endshere tavern. Something about people who kept to themselves and had little to do with the outside world.

  Both suited him.

  Horst, however, didn’t say another word. Instead, he sat his horse, patently waiting to watch Bannan leave.

  Curious.

  “Is there an inn—” Bannan stopped as Scourge lifted his head and stared toward the valley, ears pricked. The gelding followed suit.

  An instant later, he heard the drum of hooves. A high-pitched hoarse shout followed. “Man—man in the river!”

  “Heart’s Blood,” Horst cursed, wheeling his horse around and digging in his heels. The gelding burst into action, doubtless happy to be leaving Scourge.

  Scourge, as always, had his own notions. He walked to Bannan and stood waiting. After a moment, his head bent around as if to ask what was taking his rider so long.

  “We are not following them,” Bannan said firmly as he stepped into the stirrup and swung
his leg over. “Tir’s waiting.” The Northward was straight ahead. He dug in his heels.

  With an amused rumble, Scourge wheeled to pursue the gelding.

  “Idiot beast!”

  Jenn took the footpath from the road as quickly as she dared, hands up to keep branches from whipping her face, trying not to slip on the mossy rocks. It wasn’t used this time of year, fishing being best in spring. The waterfall thundered in her ears, vibrated through her feet.

  She burst into the open and grabbed a sapling to stop herself from falling forward. Directly below was the trout pool, relatively calm and shallow. Massive flat rocks lay beneath its surface, fitted like a giant’s puzzle. On the opposite side, fierce rapids slammed against jagged stone, eating away the wall. Roots hung exposed, bleached and dead. Trees clung to the upper edge; most leaned inward, doomed.

  The plume of the falls filled the air to Jenn’s left. She needed no reminder how close the deadly drop was.

  Where was Wisp?

  The safest way to the river was simply to sit on the moss and slide. Despite her hurry, Jenn used whatever she could reach with her hands to slow her descent.

  At the bottom, thorn bushes and round slime-coated stones became the challenge. Cloth and skin caught and tore. She teetered her way through the shallows until she felt flat rock underfoot.

  The current tugged at the bottom of her skirt. Quickly, Jenn tucked it up, securing the ends through the waist. She eased forward, step by careful step. The water should have been warm. It was numbingly cold and reeked of wet ash.

  A massive log that should have floated to an easy stop against the riverbank behind the Treffs, heralded by ducks, careened through the rapids and splintered as it flipped end over end.

  Barely midcalf and Jenn could feel the power of the unseasonable current, trying to knock her down and wash her over the falls with the log. She stopped, afraid to go deeper.

  Where was Wisp?

  She searched the tumble of water coming toward her. Half the river was in deep shadow; the rest glared with sunlight. Her foot slipped and she caught herself in time, heart pounding in her throat. Where was Wisp? Others asked her to find things all the time. Well, now she had to find him. She would!

  A confusion of branches spun from the shadows against the opposite bank, caught by an eddy. There! A pale arm showed, then disappeared. Showed again, found a hold. A head. A bare back. The mass tipped with every movement, tipped and shed parts. Instead of lodging, it slipped inexorably closer to the rapids with each slow turn.

  “Wisp!!!” She was on the wrong side. She couldn’t reach him. A rope. Where was her father? Anyone?

  “Help!!!” Jenn shouted. “Someone! Help!”

  It was no use. The river drowned her voice, kept her powerless.

  “Wisp!”

  “Who’s in the river, Cheffy?” Horst demanded, leaning from his saddle to grasp the pony’s halter and pull him to a stop.

  The pony looked grateful, Bannan thought, amused.

  The freckle-faced boy on its back gasped for breath. “A . . . man. With . . . no clothes!” This with relish. He noticed Bannan and his eyes went wide. “Who . . . are you?”

  An excited child. A naked swimmer.

  Doubtless some prank or drunken escapade. Having committed sufficient of both, Bannan was disappointed. This road had pulled him, had promised something new.

  A lie. This Marrowdell was no different.

  “Someone who’ll leave you to your business,” he told the boy. They’d try another road, farther north. Another place.

  Horst gave him a curt nod of dismissal, his attention on the boy. “Where did you see this man?”

  Bannan kneed Scourge to turn him back to the Northward Road.

  Scourge didn’t budge.

  “Not again,” he said under his breath. He started to dismount, intending to use the rein as a halter, and almost landed on the road again as Scourge chose that moment to leap forward.

  The gelding and pony shied out of the way. Bannan grabbed a fistful of mane and hauled himself upright in the saddle, waving mute apology.

  The horse, meanwhile, galloped toward Marrowdell as if determined to prove his rider had no control whatsoever.

  Which was, at that moment, true.

  “Idiot beast!” he shouted. Scourge didn’t slow his headlong rush. “Ancestors Mad and Besotted, I should have left you in Vorkoun’s stables!” Which would have been a thorough disaster once Scourge ran out of mice, but the notion did entertain.

  A sudden shift in balance. Warned, Bannan flattened himself over the horse’s neck as Scourge plunged into the thick forest beside the road. As he clung with all his strength, somehow the mighty body beneath him found gaps between tree trunks. Whatever Scourge sought, he wasted no effort on stealth. His breath came in loud urgent bursts, like one of the cursed engines of the Eldad climbing a hill.

  While they ran down one. Bannan had ridden treacherous terrain, but this? The slope was too steep even for Scourge, who began to bound from side to side like some fool oversized goat, finding footholds in midair, as far as Bannan could tell.

  Worse, the air filled with a roar that could be only one thing. A waterfall. A big one. Right below where his insane horse was more falling than running.

  If he’d been on any other mount, he’d have thrown himself clear and counted himself lucky not to break both legs.

  On Scourge? “This the best you can do?!” he shouted, all at once as mad as the beast. “Go!”

  An ear flicked back. Approval.

  More leaps, a twist that came close to throwing him, then they were in the river, Scourge splashing his way toward a figure in its midst.

  Not naked. Nor a man.

  The woman shouted, but he couldn’t hear over the waterfall. She realized at once and pointed desperately.

  He rose in the saddle to look. Yes. There. A man clung to a mass of flotsam against the other bank. Unconscious? No, he moved.

  Which meant a chance.

  The woman was in no safe place either. Bannan kicked free a stirrup and extended his hand. She took it in one of hers, pulling herself up and astride with reassuring strength. Farm maid, despite hair pinned like a grandmother’s. She settled behind him, arms around his waist.

  This time when he squeezed his legs, Scourge stepped forward with a will. The riverbed here was as level as city pavement, the powerful current like silk. The rapids ahead? Those were deadly. Narrow, though. If they could get close . . .

  Suddenly what had been silk rose and battered against them as the river tried to spit them out. Water covered Bannan’s boots and boiled against Scourge’s flanks, yet a short distance away the pool remained smooth and unruffled. The woman tightened her grip. Grimly, he urged the horse on, trusting Scourge to keep his feet. If he didn’t, well, the poor fellow would have company over the falls.

  Bannan felt the rumble through his hands and legs as Scourge growled. Guessing what was to come, if not why, he pressed his arm over the woman’s and gripped the saddle with his free hand.

  The horse reared on his hind legs, hung in midair an impossible moment, then pounded his front hooves down on the water in fury.

  Instead of a splash, the water flowed aside, meekly returning to its smooth self.

  “Take that!” Not that he had the least idea what had just happened. Regardless, Bannan grinned and slapped Scourge’s still-curved neck.

  They continued forward as far as they dared, Scourge stopping on his own at the limit of flat rock.

  Bannan shook his boots free of the stirrups. Understanding, the woman let go of his waist. If he looked straight down he’d see nothing but untrustworthy water, so he didn’t. He worked his way forward over the saddle. All he had was the rein, a woefully short ten feet, and the strength of his hands and arms.

  Scourge swung his head around, jaws agape.

  Once those jaws took hold of something, nothing could pry it loose. Usually, this involved a bloody trophy Bannan preferred his mount not
brandish in front of his men, Scourge’s true nature being difficult to explain at the best of times.

  Now, he gladly offered one end of the rein, relieved when Scourge snapped his teeth over it.

  Still hopeless, he warned himself. The rein wouldn’t reach. The man wouldn’t be able to grab it. The thin strap would slip through wet hands. The current would tear him away.

  Arms tightened around his waist as he sat back. She wasn’t giving up.

  Nor would he.

  It wasn’t long before the clump of branches and man turned lazily into the rapids. Caught instantly by the fast current, the clump bounced and snapped. The entire mass broke apart!

  Somehow, battered by water and stone, the man clung to a piece that stayed above water. The river pushed him away and Bannan tensed. The girl cried out, her hand outstretched. He couldn’t make out the words but, as if the man in the river could, he began to kick and struggle toward them.

  Closer . . . closer.

  Now or not at all!

  Bannan lunged forward, throwing his end of the rein as far as he could. Scourge stretched his neck and head, holding the other. The pitiful length of leather snapped out.

  And a hand snatched it from the air.

  Having sacrificed his grip on the branch, the man immediately sank beneath the river.

  But the rein stayed taut.

  Bannan leaned deep in the saddle; in answer, Scourge began to back away, step by step.

  Somehow, the rein stayed taut.

  What gave this man the strength to hang on? Fear could do that, Bannan told himself. Turn fingers to iron.

  Or was it exceptional will?

  The head came up, gasped for air. The current rolled him under again.

  The instant the man reached the safety of the shallows, Bannan felt the woman drop from behind him. Scourge stopped. She steadied herself against his shoulder and neck as she splashed forward, following the rein to its end. Once there, she pulled the man’s head and shoulders out of the water. When he sputtered and coughed, the woman looked up at Bannan and smiled.