by Simon Brown
“God’s death, no!” he cried. “Lynan!” But as he got closer he realized the dead man was too big for his prince.
Ager ran by him and knelt down next to the corpse. “A pilot,” he said grimly. He stood up and pointed at the retreating barge. “They still have him,” he added.
Joined by Jenrosa, they looked out over the river and watched the receding barge until all they could glimpse was the top of the sail, and soon that, too, disappeared from sight.
Chapter 22
Cold water splashed over Lynan’s face, and he woke with a start. The first thing he noticed was that the pain in his jaw was reduced to a dull and constant background ache; the terrible throbbing had eased, and when he realized it was night and the sky really was dark, he knew his sight had finally returned to normal. Prado stood over him like the remains of his last nightmare, a bronze ewer in one hand.
“Well, at least you’re still alive,” Prado said levelly, and then ignored him.
Lynan moved experimentally and found his arms and legs reluctantly but surely obeyed his orders. He stood up slowly, letting himself get used to the gentle swaying of the boat. It was not as bad as he remembered, but last time he had been at sea and this time the vessel was sailing over nothing more dangerous than the quiet waters of the Barda River. The boat was loaded with bales of what looked like flax and hay, and his captors’ horses were tethered to the single mast. Aesor was sitting in the bow and Bazik amidships with the horses. He himself was at the stern with Prado, and next to him was a man by the rudder. The stranger sported a nasty gash on the forehead. Lynan saw the blue stripe on one of the man’s sleeves, and realized this was the barge’s pilot.
He was a short, thin man with golden skin and hair as dark as the night; a Chett, Lynan dimly realized.
“Welcome, sleepy one,” the Chett said in a deep singsong voice, and offered a faint smile. His right foot rested on a pedal leading to the rudder oar, and his hands held sheets that led through a complex of pulleys to the sail.
“My name is Gudon,” he said. “What is yours? Ouch!”
“If you don’t want to be kicked again, cut the questions,” Prado ordered.
“A timely reminder to keep my mouth shut. Thank you, beneficent master.”
Lynan did not know if Gudon was being sarcastic or not; nor, by his expression, did Prado. Gudon stared out over the river, looking blameless.
“Where are we going?” Lynan asked Prado.
Prado ignored him, but asked Gudon: “How far from Daavis?”
“Two days to Daavis, master, with a good wind. With no wind, it will be four days or more. With a bad wind, at least seven. With a really bad wind—”
Prado cut him off. “Fine, whatever. Just make sure we’re there in two days, or I’ll finish splitting open your head and then I’ll throw you into the river.” He tapped the hilt of his sword for emphasis.
Gudon nodded eagerly. “Oh, yes. Do what I am told, make the wind obey me, and get you to Daavis in two days. Otherwise I get the point.”
“Watch them both carefully,” Prado ordered Bazik, and moved forward to talk with Aesor.
Gudon glanced down at Lynan. “You are not a villain, then?” Lynan shook his head. “And are you getting off at Daavis?”
“Enough talking,” Bazik snapped from amidships. He jabbed a finger at the pilot. “You tend to the steering, and you,” he said, jabbing the same finger at Lynan, “you just keep quiet.”
Lynan rested against the stern rail. He gingerly touched the side of his face and was surprised how thick the stitching and weal running from his right ear to his jaw felt. He wondered what he had done to deserve it, having only vague memories of his first conversation with Prado. Had it only been the night before? It seemed so distant in his memory now. He saw Prado cut into one of the bales of hay and spread it around for the horses to eat. Watching him, Lynan realized that for the first time in his life that he hated someone so much he would gladly kill him and not regret it afterward.
The wind changed direction from northerly to nor’easterly. Gudon expertly jiggled the sheets so the barge’s sail would stay full, but the hull slipped sideways for a moment before righting itself. The horses neighed and stamped, and Bazik and Aesor rushed to help Prado calm then.
Lynan saw Gudon smile at him and he wondered if the barge’s slide had been entirely accidental. “Is your wound all right?” he whispered while his captors were distracted.
“Oh, yes, master. I’ve applied my haethu potion to it, and all will be well.”
“Haethu potion?”
“A wonderful thing. It heals small wounds, adds spice to sauces, flavor to water, and if you slip it in a girl’s drink, she will fall in love with you and become more fertile than all the seas in the world.”
“Where are you from, Gudon?”
“From the river, little master. Always.”
“But you are a Chett.”
“Truth. But I was a traveler in my youth, and journeyed far from the Oceans of Grass. When I first saw this noble water you call the Barda, I was born again. So I say to you, I come from the river.”
“What tribe are you from?”
“The tribe of the pike and the trout, the silver belly and the fly-catcher, the yellowtail and the carp.”
Lynan pursed his lips. “You come from the river.”
“Truth,” Gudon said, still smiling. “And where do you come from?”
Lynan sighed. “It might as well be the river,” he said despondently.
“Then we are brothers, you and I,” Gudon said. “And to prove it, we will both wear scars on the face.”
“Thanks to Jes Prado.”
“Thanks to destiny.”
“How far, really, to Daavis?”
“Are you so eager to get there?”
“No.”
“Then maybe forever,” Gudon said mysteriously. Before Lynan could ask what he meant, the pilot nodded toward Bazik, coming to the stern now that the horses were settled. “Watch the river, little master, and watch the banks that glide by like dreams. There are worse ways to spend your time.”
His heart eased somehow by his strange conversation, Lynan was able to ignore Bazik’s glowering presence. He took the pilot’s advice and stared out over the river, its wide curves a glistening road under the moonlight. Lynan wondered if it was a road with an end, or if was just one more way to the next disaster in his life. He remembered Kumul’s voice a few hours before, calling after him as the barge pulled away from its anchorage, and he hoped his friends were all safe. He had not known before the strength of his feelings for them. A part of him wished they would stop following him, afraid for their safety, but another part—the stronger part, he realized guiltily—desperately wanted them to find him and free him from Prado’s grasp.
As the night wore on, Prado ordered Bazik to get some rest and kept watch at the stern himself. Lynan squatted down against the hull and tried to sleep, but without success. His jaw still troubled him enough to keep him awake, and his apprehension grew as the hours passed and the barge made its slow but steady progress upriver toward Daavis. His only consolation was that he was being taken farther from Kendra, and closer to the Oceans of Grass. If he could manage to escape, he might yet find sanctuary of a kind among the free Chett tribes that wandered the plains astride their tough ponies, moving their great herds of cattle from one feeding ground to the next.
Soon after midnight, Bazik relieved Aesor on the bow, and an hour before dawn Aesor relieved Prado at the stern. Aesor was still tired, and as Gudon started singing in a low voice, he angrily told the pilot to shut up.
“But your master has instructed me to reach Daavis in two days. I must sing to the wind to keep it true and steady.”
Aesor grumbled something, but said nothing more as Gudon resumed his singing. It was more like a lullaby than anything else, and Lynan found himself finally drifting off to sleep. Then Gudon’s foot tapped him softly in the ribs.
“What is it?”
>
“Our guardian has joined his dreams again,” Gudon said, nodding at Aesor slumped against the bales. “The other one will not hear us talk if we speak as quietly as the river.”
“You weren’t singing to the wind, were you?”
“Oh, yes. But some songs are meant to slow down the wind. I need to warn you, little master.”
“Warn me?”
“Do you wish to leave the company of these villains?”
“Very much.”
“I have a plan, but it will be dangerous for both of us.”
“Dangerous? How dangerous?”
Gudon shrugged. “Can you swim?”
“Yes, but not quickly.”
Gudon frowned. “Do you think, if you had reason to swim quickly, you could learn?”
“What reason?”
“I am thinking it is best you do not know yet.”
“When must I learn?”
“Soon. Before the sun is fully up. Before the beneficent master is awake to stop us.”
“Us?”
“Truth. It is time for me to leave the river. I have a need to travel again.”
“You would do this for me? Why?”
“There are signs, little master. We are both wounded in the head. We are both prisoner. We both wish to avoid the fate the beneficent master has in mind for us, for I do not believe he will let me live after you reach Daavis. And the river is telling me it is time to go. I listen to its waters very carefully. I told you before, it is destiny.”
“Destiny hasn’t served me too well up to now.”
“Ah, but destiny serves no one. She has her own secrets, her own plans, and although we may sometimes read them, we may not change them.”
Lynan noticed the barge was edging closer to the shore.
“You are going to beach the barge?”
“I could, but then the others would just pursue us, and on horses they would catch us.”
Lynan remembered Gudon’s questions about his ability to swim. “We are going to dive overboard and swim to the shore?”
“Yes, but not yet. It is not dangerous enough. Otherwise, the others would then beach the barge and still be able to pursue us.”
“I’m not sure I like the sound of your plan.”
“It is a good plan, little master, with only small problems.”
“What small problems?”
Gudon pointed to the left bank about sixty paces away. “Those small problems.”
Lynan stood, and in the soft pink light glowing in the eastern sky he could make out drooping spear trees and tangle weeds.
“I see nothing dangerous.”
Aesor snorted and his eyes fluttered open.
“That is because you do not see properly,” Gudon answered quickly, pushing the rudder away from him and drawing back on the left sheet at the same time. The barge swung noticeably toward the spear trees.
Aesor snorted again and stumbled to his feet, blinking. His action woke Prado in turn, who stood up and stretched his arms above his head. He looked out over the river, turning in a circle. He saw how close the left bank was and gave an order for Gudon to veer away. Gudon ignored him.
“You heard the captain!” Aesor roared. “Bring us back to the middle of the river!”
Again Gudon ignored the command.
Aesor started drawing his sword. Gudon kicked hard at the rudder pedal and yanked back on the sheets. The boat lurched as its stern swung but and Aesor lost his footing. Lynan did not hesitate. He lashed out with his right foot, connecting with Aesor’s head. The man grunted and collapsed. Lynan reached for the sword and stood up in front of Gudon.
“I pray to God you know what you are doing, Pilot.”
“Just one god?” Gudon asked, keeping his eye on the spear trees on the bank. “You should be more generous, little master.”
By now Bazik had joined Prado, and together they advanced toward Lynan, their swords drawn.
“Come on, boy, don’t be a fool. You can’t take on both of us.”
“I can,” Lynan said with more confidence than he felt. In an open arena, with his own weapon and without a jaw that throbbed in pain, he was sure he could have taken on the two thugs. Right now, however, he was not sure he could take on an angry rat and win. He was relying on Gudon’s plan coming up with a real surprise in the next few seconds.
The barge drove into the overhanging branches of the spear tree. The ends of several of the branches disappeared beneath the surface of the river and offered more resistance before finally giving way to the barge’s momentum. They whipped up and over the gunwales, and Lynan saw large boles attached to each of them, with white stolons growing from them that seemed to wave like tendrils. Many of the boles flew up so rapidly they tore from the branches and arced over the barge. Prado and Bazik watched them pass and then splash into the water on the other side. Lynan saw several of them split open, releasing seething black masses that quickly disappeared beneath the surface.
Lynan quickly looked over his shoulder at Gudon. “They’re not—”
“Yes! Jaizru!” Gudon shouted before he could finish the question.
Lynan felt his blood run cold. He knew he had to find cover, but was paralyzed by fear. Gudon pushed him hard in the back and he fell to the deck, the pilot on top of him. He heard sounds like whole sheets of linen being ripped apart, then the soft thwacks of things landing on the deck, and on the bales and on the horses. And then the screams started, coming from the horses and, he thought, Bazik.
“Now!” Gudon shouted in his ear, and stood up, dragging Lynan with him. Gudon pulled him to the port side. Lynan caught a glimpse of thin black strips of wriggling eels with wide, dark red fins. Most were gaping on the deck, but many had landed on warm flesh and were using their small mouths filled with needle-sharp teeth to rip and tear. Prado was dancing a macabre jig, trying to shake off one that had latched onto his sword arm. Bazik was writhing in his own blood on the deck, covered in four or five of the eels, one of them gorging in his eye socket. The horses were bucking and kicking, trying to break loose from their tethers around the mast.
“Jump!” Gudon ordered, and half-lifted him over the gunwale. The prince fell over and down. The cold, dark water punched him in the chest and face. He kicked furiously, broke the surface and sucked in lungs full of air. He saw Gudon’s face looking down at him.
“Swim for the bank!” Gudon shouted. “As fast as you can! Get out of the water!” Then Gudon disappeared.
Something bit at his hair. He screamed and splashed, swallowed water, spun in a circle. He caught a sight of the bank and swam toward it. Teeth punctured his boot and scratched his skin. He furiously shook his foot and lost his rhythm. Teeth bit into his knee—it felt as if he had been stabbed with a fork. He wanted to scream a second time, but managed to keep his mouth closed and start swimming for the bank again. He was bitten on the hand, under the armpit, on the groin. A low keening forced its way out between his teeth. He knew he could not take much more of this. His hand touched something beneath him and he jerked it away, but then his other hand touched something as well. It was soft, yielding, and he realized it was mud. He brought his feet down, took three strides and heaved out of the river.
A jaizru flapped by his face, its fin touching his cheek, and it landed on the grass about three paces in front of him, writhing as it asphyxiated. Another one smacked into his back. He ran, waving his hands about his head in panic. He slipped, got up and slipped again, and could do no more. He curled up into a ball and waited for the next attack, but after several seconds none came and he slowly looked up. He was at least twenty paces from the river, and the eels could not glide that far. A dozen of them were wriggling uselessly on the ground halfway between him and the bank, their white teeth glistening moistly in the dawn light.
Lynan started shaking uncontrollably. He tried standing, but his legs would not support him. He ended up sitting on the grass, and then he remembered Gudon. He could see the barge, rocking from side to side as t
he horses, which had now torn loose from their tethers, skittered and slid across the deck. They seemed to be covered in hundred of black streaks. Blood streamed down their flanks and heads. One went down, and then a second. He heard the pitiful whinnying of the dying beasts. He saw no sign of Gudon, or Prado and his men. After a while the barge settled and a dreadful silence settled over the river.
Two horses? he thought suddenly. But there were three…
He managed to get to his feet. He wiped his face with a hand and noticed it was bleeding. A savage, serrated cut jigsawed across his palm. He felt no pain, only a strange numbness. He checked his feet and legs, and saw that he was bleeding in at least four other places.
He walked to the bank, making sure to stay out of range of the flying eels, although the water was perfectly still now. He called out Gudon’s name, but there was no answer. He edged toward the clump of spear trees, crouching down to peer among the branches that hung above the river. There was no sign of his savior. He called out his name again, and this time heard a weak reply. He glanced around but saw no one.
“Gudon?” he cried out, louder this time.
Once more, a weak reply. He was sure it had come from his left. He hurriedly made his way along the bank. There was a small copse of thorn trees in the way, and as he circled around it, he heard a man’s voice coming from amid the thickets.
“Gudon?”
“Truth, little master, that was worse than I thought it would be.”
Lynan pulled away some of the branches, ignoring the cuts they made on his skin. The pilot was lying, bleeding from several bites. His eyes were fluttering. In one hand he held a leather bag which he was trying to draw to himself.
“I had no idea the spear tree held so many nests.”
Lynan knelt down beside him. Many of Gudon’s wounds were as slight as his own, but the damage around his right knee was horrific; he could see the white of bone.
Gudon tapped the bag. “Inside. My potion.”
Lynan lifted the bag and opened it. Inside was a small wooden bottle with a cork stop-wired into place.
“My haethu,” Gudon said weakly. “Pour a little on my knee.”