by Megan Cutler
She had been indirectly responsible for too much suffering already. She refused to be directly responsible for more.
“There has to be a way to carry everyone across the river. And I refuse to get on any raft until this problem is solved.” Before Eselt had a chance to protest, she turned on her heel and stalked away from the circle. If Eselt pressed, the others would all give in, just as they had back in the city. If she denied him the opportunity to argue, he'd be forced to relent.
Luckily, Wardel already had a solution. He might have tried to mention it before, but Eselt had dismissed it in his stubborn rush for speed. If they divided the raft into three smaller craft, they could bolster each structure and still have space to carry everyone. It would be no more cramped than their last river voyage.
Arimand offered to guide one of the rafts. Eselt announced he would command the second, and Wardel reluctantly agreed to steer the third. Kaylie elected to ride with Arimand, and Dwenba pledged to go with her. The vein in Eselt's neck looked fit to burst, but he didn't protest, instead ordering the clan to fetch those still catatonic by the river's edge.
Together, Kaylie and Dwenba boarded the first raft, planting themselves near the middle. Kaylie pulled her knees to her chest, trying to take up as little room as possible. The rickety craft rocked and swayed as others stepped across the threshold. Nausea cramped Kaylie's empty stomach, and she pressed her forehead to her knees to quell it.
By the time they departed, water saturated the wood of their raft. As it seeped through Kaylie's thin clothing, sorrow overwhelmed her nausea. Had this been the source of her crushing hopelessness all along? Would it be stronger on the other side of the crossing?
Through her sobs, Kaylie fought to keep one spark of hope alive. They had chosen the most steadfast among them to steer the rafts; Arimand with his determination, Eselt with his stubborn refusal to quit and Wardel with his quiet confidence. These three men would carry them safely across the river, serving as strength and an anchor for them all.
The most perilous leg of their journey lay ahead. The pits of Hell's fourth ring held the tyrant kings, criminal masterminds, habitual murderers and corrupt priests that wreaked untold havoc on the mortal realm. Ironically, the King of Hell probably favored them while they lived. What perverse pleasure did he derive from tormenting those who served him best? Surely the punishments of the pits were beyond her imagination.
It was to this ring her protectors, her friends, would be resigned after her departure. Arimand said the trapped lands above the pits were empty, but how long could her friends hope to hide? Would Hell's ruler hunt them mercilessly when he detected her departure? Enhanced by the waters of the Cocytus, the knowledge that she could do nothing to lessen their sentence devastated her. Worst of all, her beloved Arimand would be among them. How would the King of Hell punish him for his tenacity? Was there a fate worse than the fourth ring?
While the river's magic threatened to destroy her, Arimand guided their raft with a series of hard, smooth strokes. The craft bucked and swayed as it inched across the Cocytus, buffeted by currents hidden beneath the river's deceptively placid surface. They had expected the churning of the Phlegethon to push them away from its fire as it cut through the Cocytus. Instead, the current drew them toward the flames, despite the distance they traveled before mounting their crafts.
Back and shoulders tense, Arimand strained to hold a steady course. Beside and slightly behind them, Eselt's raft wove back and forth, trying to escape the Phlegethon's pull. Kaylie couldn't see Wardel's craft, but guessed he fought the same battle. Tears dripping from her chin, she marveled at the iron will required to steer the rafts with the waters of lamentation lapping at their ankles.
Three quarters of the river still lay ahead when Arimand gasped, “Paddles! Row men, with anything you can find!”
Those able to stir themselves from their stupor added spear shafts to the effort, bracing against the riverbed where they could find purchase. A few brave souls used their arms to generate momentum, while others anchored them to the raft.
Several times they veered off course. Arimand shouted directions to his helpers and they hurried to adjust. The raft pitched forward, then rocked sharply in the opposite direction as weight shifted. Icy water splashed across the deck, numbing the hands, feet and knees of its occupants. Low moans undercut Arimand's instructions.
For long minutes, they teetered on the edge of the current. Finally, their craft broke free, bobbing several times before it settled in a steady position even when the crew lifted their poles. No one had the energy to cheer. Many settled for a sigh of relief.
Dwenba gasped and seized Kaylie's arm, tugging frantically to gain her attention. Blinking, Kaylie squinted in the direction her friend indicated.
Both the other rafts had fallen behind. Eselt and his rowers lost as much ground as they gained with each stroke, expending precious energy to remain still. Wardel's raft strayed dangerously close to the Phlegethon's flaming tendrils. With her companions quiet, the shouts and splashes of the other rafts reached Kaylie's ears.
“Arimand,” she croaked, swallowing against the lump in her throat. “We have to do something!”
Frowning, Arimand tilted his head to assess the situation. He had an uncanny knack for solving problems in seconds, a skill he probably gained on the battlefield. Cupping both hands around his mouth he howled, “Behind you!”
With the help of the others on their raft, Arimand waved and called to Eselt until they got the small man's attention. The clan leader paused to glance over his shoulder, and Kaylie caught his curse across the water. When he glanced back in their direction, Arimand snatched a coil of rope from their deck and hefted it over his head. Eselt nodded.
A moment later, the rowers on Eselt's raft lifted their poles and makeshift paddles and allowed the current to catch them. On his command, bracing poles lowered and muscles strained to hold them in place while Eselt tossed one end of a rope across the remaining gap.
On Wardel's raft, Thail caught it and secured the rope to something near the center of the craft.
“Back!” Eselt's muted command drifted to Kaylie's ears.
For awhile, it seemed both rafts would be caught in Phlegethon's flaming maw. It would only take one slip across the raft's slick surface or the snap of one steering pole to end their ordeal. Slowly, with painstaking effort, the men on Eselt's raft dragged Wardel's free of the Phlegethon's current. Both craft shuddered, safe from the flames but not yet out of danger.
“Poles ready,” Arimand barked, driving his against the riverbed to set them in motion. With surprising ease, they glided back into the current, bucking and swaying as Arimand fought to maintain control.
Unwilling to risk a collision, Arimand held their raft near the edge of the current, a fair distance from the other two. Dwenba tossed the rope to Eselt's raft, but it took three tries to span the gap from this distance. Kaylie clutched her friend's ankles to steady her until the rope was secure at both ends.
Coordinating the movement of three rafts was difficult and time consuming. Eselt and Wardel had to synchronize their strokes to make progress. Several times Arimand had to wrench their craft back and forth over the current's threshold to drag the other rafts out of danger.
By the time all three rafts escaped the current, most of the paddlers needed to rest. While the dilapidated crafts bobbed beside each other, Eselt and Wardel coordinated a proper binding of all three crafts. Wardel yelled instructions until he went hoarse, and it took some time to work out how much slack they should leave in the ropes.
The rest of the crossing was uneventful. Clan Vorilia huddled in miserable clusters while icy wind clawed their damp skin and clothing. Though the Phlegethon continued to light their way, they had passed beyond the reach of its heat. The Cocytus weighed their hearts and wet their cheeks, but the rowers drew them steadily onward.
They had no time to celebrate when they reached the far side of the river. After a thorough prodding, Ariman
d declared the shore unsafe. When Eselt tried to argue, he tossed two spears into the solid-looking earth. Within moments, the ground had swallowed them both. They spent the next several hours guiding their rafts downriver, seeking a safe landing.
Chapter Seventeen: The Trapped Lands
No one wanted to return to the Cocytus but, after two hours of survey, Arimand could find no safe paths leading from their campsite. His first attempt to guide them deeper into Hell's fourth ring took them only two dozen feet beyond the riverbank before they nearly lost Wardel to a hidden sinkhole. Arimand abandoned the second path without testing it and lost three spears to the third before suggesting they seek a better stretch of shore. Eselt was livid, but unwilling to risk his own life when Arimand tried to hand him one of the large poles he used to test for steady ground.
On this side, the river's power faded a few feet from its edge, affording everyone several hours of genuine rest. Kaylie almost felt refreshed. She only hoped her renewed vigor would sustain her when she returned to her raft.
They drifted for hours while Arimand prodded the shoreline with his rowing pole, shook his head, and directed them onward. How did he identify the safe areas? He must be looking for some quality beyond solidity, since the first dead end had seemed sturdy enough at the start. Everything looked the same to her, an unbroken swath of muddy, saturated swampland. Stunted, half-dead trees rose from the brackish water, twisted limbs seeking absent sunlight. Even the gnarled trunks seemed contorted, riddled with gaps and holes, covered in creeping black vines. Often, solid-looking patches of ground melted beneath Arimand's stick.
The river had battered Kaylies defenses by the time Arimand located a new landing. If they lingered any longer on the water, she feared losing herself to the hopeless fog again.
“Careful,” Arimand warned as the clan disembarked, “one wrong step will draw this expedition to a hasty end. Even the most secure-looking stretch of ground can lead to the pits below.”
For once, Eselt didn't argue. He and Wardel repeated the warning to those on their rafts as they emptied.
Arimand skirted the edges of the safe area, marking the boundaries beyond which they dared not venture. With the Phlegethon a smudge on the horizon, their only light came from torches, one carried on each raft.
Kaylie spent several minutes squinting into the darkness, wondering how many times they would have to backtrack before they were able to move forward. They had no food, and the little water they carried came from the Cocytus. Most of their clothing was torn and singed, poor protection from the swamp's slimy muck.
“Torches will have to be our priority,” Eselt announced when he took stock of their position. “We can't feel our way through this place in the dark.”
“We wouldn't get far,” Arimand agreed. “We should build a fire and dry the rafts. There are trees here, but harvesting them will be difficult and dangerous.”
When Eselt agreed, Arimand led a small group of volunteers deeper into the swamp to chop what trees they could reach. Wardel and Eselt guided the unmaking of the rafts, stacking the wood in small piles. Kaylie and Dwenba gathered the ropes as they were unwound.
Thail sat on the river's edge, rocking back and forth, muttering to himself about monsters, demons and doom. He screamed every time someone other than Wardel approached, so the rest left him alone. Kaylie couldn't help noticing that his eyes were riveted on the direction Arimand had departed. What made the stranger so despise their guide? He didn't exactly settle after Arimand's return, but his murmurs grew less dark.
They had no way to mark the passage of time without counting seconds. Despite the dense plant growth in Hell's fourth ring, the sun showed no signs of rising. Instead, the clan established their own system, working as long as they could and resting only long enough to regain their strength.
For two of these makeshift days, they focused on preparing for the next stage of their journey. They must always have torches to light the way. They must have enough wood to keep them lit. Arimand needed staves to test their path.
Twice, men wandered too far from the camp boundaries and failed to return. They sent no search parties. Even when they had no work to tend, the clan spoke little. The jovial spirit they carried from Dech had long since evaporated. They were close to the end now, and everyone knew what waited.
When they departed, Arimand took the lead. The clan plodded single-file through the swampland, mirroring his steps as closely as possible. The further they moved from the Cocytus, the more their minds cleared, but their exhaustion remained ever-present, unrelenting, and there were precious few places to make camp.
Their progress was slow. Arimand often halted without warning, forcing the group behind him to compensate. Boots scraped heels and heels stomped toes as the clan struggled to remain on the safe path. Arimand never committed his weight to a step before confirming the path would hold. When danger lay ahead, it took several minutes to locate a new direction. Sometimes they backtracked. Always they traveled twice the length of the distance they covered.
Every day, Kaylie's dread grew. She watched Dwenba nervously wringing her hands during every pause and wondered what kind of eternity her friend faced in this desolate, dying land. Would the clan hide in the swamp after she left? Could they avoid the pits if they remained in one place, resigning themselves to the hunger and thirst of eternal starvation?
And what about Arimand? He deserved better. How selfish would it be to step through the portal now? But how arrogant if she stayed behind, wasting the efforts and sacrifices which brought her this far? She would have liked to talk to him about it, but Eselt had been particularly intrusive since their arrival in the swamp, barely allowing her and Arimand two minutes alone.
Arimand stopped and Kaylie's momentum carried her into the man in front of her. He stumbled, flailed, and lost his balance, toppling into the brown-green swamp. It only took a moment for the mud to swallow him up to his waist. Desperately windmilling his arms, the displaced man closed his hand around Kaylie's ankle and yanked.
With a soft exclamation, she fell. Putrid water filled her mouth as her head dipped below the surface. She kicked, searching for solid ground. Thick sludge swallowed her feet.
Kaylie put all her strength into an upward surge, but the mud held her fast. Something slimy slithered across her ankles, tugging her down, feeding her legs to the muddy depths. She pumped her arms, fighting to keep her head above the surface, but she was quickly losing the battle.
As her arms flailed in growing desperation, they struck a body. Suddenly Arimand was beside her, wrapping one arm around her waist while the other disappeared into the muck. He drew a deep breath and dove.
The force against her legs gave way. Even as Arimand returned to the surface, he lifted her, pulling her free of the mud.
Eselt grasped both her arms, heaving as Arimand pushed, hauling her back to shore. As she lay on the safe path, gasping to catch her breath, Eselt and Wardel hauled Arimand free of the water using a rope tied around his waist. Tentacle-like vines clung to his legs. Thail hacked them to pieces, screaming like a madman, demanding they release their grip.
Kaylie coughed her throat raw while she spit the foul water out of her mouth. Moments later, her throat burned as her stomach purged the rest of it. When the sickness passed, she pulled her knees to her chest and pressed her forehead to them, shivering from cold and terror.
Dwenba rubbed her arms, whispering soft reassurance that the ordeal had passed.
Unaware of the rest of the clan's activities, Kaylie kept her chin tucked to her chest and her eyes closed, trying to forget her surroundings. Every time she considered how close she had come to witnessing the pits for herself, a violent shudder shook her entire body.
She thought she heard someone murmur, “Gone.” Moments later, she heard Eselt's distinctive growl declare, “Bastard. He almost made us lose Kaylie.” The words all seemed like distant nonsense too her, not worth the effort of untangling. Her racing heart and heavy breathing k
ept the meaning at bay.
Someone shuffled to a stop beside her and laid a hand on each of her shoulders. She glanced up into Arimand's face. He was still dripping wet, his hair plastered to the sides of his face, neck and back, though someone had helped him clear the slime away.
Kaylie wound her arms around his neck and pressed her face to his chest.
“We have to keep going,” he murmured, lips close to her ear. “Can you walk?”
Her heart dropped. He hadn't offered any reassurance. No indication the end of their path drew close. Not a word of optimism that the worst was behind them. She hadn't realized how much she'd come to rely on his certainty.
Kaylie swallowed hard. “I think so.”
“With all due respect, my lady,” Wardel said as Arimand helped her to her feet, “I humbly request that you remain with me for the duration of the journey. Sir Arimand must mind the path, but I will make certain no further harm befalls you.”
He was surprisingly eloquent, compared to the rest of Eselt's lieutenants. Kaylie bit the inside of her lip. Traveling with Wardel meant listening to more of Thail's empty rambling, but the look on Dwenba's face suggested she wouldn't tolerate any nonsense. She would no doubt cuff him if he got carried away.
Kaylie nodded. “Thank you, Wardel. I would appreciate your assistance.”
She glanced once more over her shoulder at the brown water, caked with congealing green goop, and shuddered. It was going to be hard not to relive that terrible drowning sensation every time she saw it.
For the rest of the day, she tried not to think. She mirrored Dwenba's movements, putting her feet into the indents the older woman left behind. Wardel monitored Arimand's sudden stops and starts, lightly grabbing Kaylie's shoulder to keep her from colliding with anyone else. It might have troubled her before, but she was grateful now for their diligence. Even Thail did his part, throwing up one arm every time Arimand stopped and lowering it again when the line began to move.