Blood River Down

by Lionel Fenn

  He lay back again.

  He listened as a wind slid down the mountainside and began muttering to itself in the gaps between the houses, over the peaks of the roofs, through the grass that sounded like a colony of serpents moving out for an evening's hunt; he watched as the roof of the house across the way began to fade into black; and he wondered just what it was he would have to do in order to make things normal again.

  "Shit," he said softly. Not because he was feeling pangs of homesickness or regret that he had been so ridiculously foolish as to begin this idiotic nonsense, but because, startlingly, he wasn't much homesick at all. He hadn't time to be, and now that he was letting his mind do a bit of freelance roaming, when he had the time, he wasn't. Not a lot, anyway. He was, if he were going to be truthful with himself, a little excited. It beat all to hell the frustrations of failure, and his inability to make a choice about his future, and his refusal to look inside instead of outside for the reasons why he couldn't function the way he wanted; and it was certainly different, on a scale he never imagined existed.

  That he was also considerably frightened and uncertain only made the episode all the more real.

  A pact with himself, then: he would work on two fronts as close to simultaneously as he could—he would continue his attempt to locate someone who could tell him what Glorian was after, and he would also try to find his way home.

  At sunrise, then... And he blinked in astonishment.

  The sun was already up, shadows retreating in the opposite direction, the night's chill full in the house and making him shiver. He had slept, and he had not dreamed, and it was time to stop lying about making plans when there was work to be done and a world to be explored.

  "God," he said for the sound of his voice, "you sound like a goddamned coach, for god's sake."

  He repacked in a hurry, used the back of the house in lieu of more sanitary facilities, and sat on the front wall again. The day promised to be warm, and from what he saw of the land that rose gently toward the mountain, he wasn't going to get much in the way of shade if he started out that way. On the other hand, there wasn't much he could do here, either. From a pocket in the pack, then, he pulled out a handful of the berries he'd had the foresight to gather on his way here and popped them into his mouth one by one, taking as long as he could over them, knowing he was stalling and for the moment not caring.

  After he was finished he slid off, shouldered the pack, and stared back the way he had come. When no one appeared in the short street to stop him, he grunted, turned, and began walking toward the slope.

  And had taken less than five steps off the cobbles onto the grass moat when he fell into another pit.

  "God damn!" he said, pushing at the dirt wall and rolling his eyes. "You're gonna be dead in an hour at this rate, dummy."

  He climbed out, rolled over to stand, and dropped again.

  Maybe, he thought, I'll just stay here. I'll eat bugs and roots and drink rain water and weave my clothes from bits of grass the winds bring down and maybe dig another room with my bare hands, a den for a quiet night when I don't want company.

  "Damn!"

  He crawled, tested, fell in one more time before the moat ended. There was no path now, only a broad stretch of field whose grass was higher, coarser, and relieved now and again by high, isolated bushes like those that had made up the hedgerows on the other side of the hamlet. The going was more difficult as the ground climbed and grew more uneven, but he was able to avoid sprained ankles and unseemly tumbles by keeping his eyes down most of the time. It made for more plodding than strolling, and to prevent himself from slowing time down by counting the seconds, he passed the time by counting his steps instead, ignoring the heat of the sun on his back and the aches in his limbs, which seemed to fade once he had put an hour and two miles behind him. The thought that he might actually be getting used to this was pleasant to contemplate; the thought that he might have to do this for the rest of his life was considerably less alluring.

  But since he had no choice, he moved on, pacing himself as the land rose more steeply, pulling at his legs and adding weight to the pack.

  And when he was high enough so that he could look back, and down, he shook his head slowly.

  The view across the valley was as beautiful as he'd ever seen, as perfect as a place could get if one didn't mind not having any conveniences at all. And he supposed that, if it came to it and he were forced into it, he could probably live down there until he died of natural causes, or until he was utterly and unendurably bored to death.

  Then he turned around to look at the mountain, to see if he could find any sign at all of the road he thought he'd spotted the day before.

  He didn't see the road.

  What he saw was the giant goat.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Gideon took a startled step back, and his right foot sank into a shallow depression that buckled his knee. He fell, and the weight of his pack toppled him over. He was too astonished to yell, and too busy trying to find his footing again to notice that the animal had moved closer to him. When he finally stood again, he wondered what sort of food the thing ate—with luck, it would be grass.

  It didn't move again.

  Gideon backed off another pace but didn't attempt to run. There was no threat in the creature's stance, and he had a feeling there was only curiosity.

  It also wasn't precisely a goat.

  It stood a good three times taller than a goat—about the size of a healthy horse on legs somewhat longer and thicker than normal—and though it had the long filmy hair and bearded muzzle of a caprine, its horns were those of a mountain ram's—thickly spiraled, curled back aside each large ear, and as solid-looking as the rock from which the houses below were made; the elongated tips also seemed to have a disconcerting habit of pointing directly at his chest. Its head was the same shape as a billy, but its eyes were much larger and nearly entirely white, and when it shifted sideways as though to find a better perspective on what it was staring at, he saw a tail half as long as the thing itself.

  The hair was a soft and downy white at the body and shaded to black at the tips; the tail was all black, and there the hair was short, barely stirring as it switched back and forth. The hooves were hidden in the grass, but he suspected they were cloven and, aside from the horns, a potent weapon against whatever preyed upon it in the mountains.

  Assuming, he thought, there was anything large and dumb enough to try it.

  All in all, then, a harmless-seeming creature, though he did not like the pointed, horse-like teeth that were bared when it lowered its thick neck to pull at a clump of grass.

  Gideon cleared his throat.

  The animal raised its head expectantly.

  Gideon smiled, reached out carefully, and pulled a handful of grass out by its roots; a gentle clearing of his throat, and he held the offering out, hoping the beast wouldn't notice how much his arm trembled. A test for negotiation; his feet were killing him, his legs were preparing a wildcat strike, and the idea of going over the mountain by shank's mare was almost as unappealing as listening to the war cry of the ekklers. And if he was careful, the most he would lose would be a fingertip or two.

  "Hey, fella," he said.

  The goat-thing snorted, raised its head higher, and sniffed the air.

  "It's okay," Gideon told it, taking a step forward. "Hey, I'm not going to hurt you, believe me."

  The head lowered and it snorted again, and when Gideon moved still nearer it closed the gap in a single stride and wrapped its thick upper lip around the grass. Gideon held it for a moment, then released it.

  "Not bad, huh?"

  The creature backed off, shifted its head from side to side, and lowered it until its lips were touching the ground. Then it straightened and watched.

  "Well, look," Gideon said, grabbing another clump and holding it out, "you and I could stand here all day eating like fools and gaining a lot of weight and stuff like that, but I think we ought to make a deal, don't you? Ma
ybe, but only if you want to, you could give me a lift over there. You know, through that notch up there? I'd be grateful. God, would I be grateful."

  The goat-thing bobbed its head as if it were nodding and took the second offering. This time Gideon reached out his free hand and touched the animal's neck. It shivered but didn't move, and he was astonished at the silken texture of its hair. He patted it, and it purred. Gideon blinked and patted again, and it purred again. He rubbed its nose, scratched between its horns, between its eyes, and moved to its side and stroked the length of its back.

  And it purred.

  Brother, he thought, and suddenly realized that this must be one of the lorras Glorian had told him they were going to get at the village before they moved on. Interesting, he thought; a beast of burden or just a riding animal, and he guessed without proof that it wasn't used for food. After all, how could you eat something that purred so wonderfully and could, at the same time, puncture both your lungs with one swipe of its horns?

  He was trying to figure out a way to get onto its back without having it think he was attacking when something nudged him hard on the hip. He whirled. Another lorra, this one somewhat smaller and shaded dark pink to russet and apparently just as lazy in foraging for its own meals.

  He shrugged. One to ride and one to change off on, and he picked up the grass.

  A third one shoved him from the back—white to black like the first and considerably larger—and a fourth all white.

  They were hungry, and they didn't want to wait their turn.

  "Now wait a minute," he said, surrounded. "Hold on, boys, this isn't going to work."

  The first one snorted as the purring became a soft rumbling, and Gideon noticed a slight discoloration in its eyes—they were, the more agitated it seemed to become, slowly turning a hard and flat black. Russet was tossing its head lower and lower, the better to aim the extended points of its horns; White was pawing at the ground.

  "Now damnit, knock it off," he said angrily, looking down at the grassless plot of ground he was standing on. "There isn't anything left, can't you see that?"

  Russet couldn't; it butted him lightly in the stomach, the points of the horns passing just barely to either side.

  Gideon considered yelling for help, then considered vaulting the animals and running like hell, then lost his already shortened temper when one of them nipped his right buttock and slapped Russet sharply on the muzzle with an open palm. It growled and backed off, shaking its head.

  "Well, well," he said, and slapped Grey and White the same, with the same results.

  When he turned defiantly to the larger one, however, his hand paused in midair. While he could look the others in the eye, this one was taller than he at the shoulder, and he had the feeling that a slap was going to turn him into a marshmallow on the end of a fork over a fire. Instead he only glowered, keeping the threatening hand high.

  Dumb as cows, he thought when it backed off a step; a real goat wouldn't put up with this crap for a minute.

  Then he unshouldered his pack and let it hang from his left hand. He was beginning to suspect that getting a ride on one of them was a hopeless task. The others might be bullied into it for a few minutes or so, but that monster, who was probably the bull of the herd, would have him full of holes before he could get a leg up.

  A nice idea, but fruitless.

  "Sorry, fellas," he said. "I guess I'll go it alone."

  They made way for him reluctantly, but a stroke here and a scratch there had two of them purring. The big one only watched him with head lowered and black eyes up; and Russet refused to give up—it lumbered easily at his side, every so often swinging its head around to nudge him and remind him it was still there. A dozen yards later there was only the two of them; a dozen more, and he looked back to see the other three grazing as though he hadn't existed.

  Without thinking, and still walking, Gideon pulled up another handful of grass and held it out. The lorra took it and snorted its pleasure.

  "Y'know, Red," he said, "this could be great if you'd only do me the favor of lending me your back."

  The lorra cocked its head at the sound of his voice.

  Gideon stopped, frowning in thought. No, he decided, it couldn't be. It was unnatural. It was fantastic. One just doesn't do things like this, not even in dreams.

  "I don't suppose," he said, "you'd mind kneeling down or something so I could climb on."

  Red did, lowering itself front legs first, then hind, and looking over its shoulder.

  "I'll be damned."

  Quickly, before the lorra changed its mind, or snapped out of it, or fell asleep, he put on the pack and swung one leg over the animal's back. The hair at the base of its neck was thick, and he buried his hands in it, almost closing his eyes at the softness, tugging at it lightly to be sure he wasn't going to fall off the moment the thing moved; then he took a deep breath.

  "I guess we can go now."

  Red swung its head back front and lifted, front, then back, so slowly Gideon was easily able to maintain his balance. Then it stood there, chomping the grass.

  Gideon waited.

  Nothing happened.

  Gideon rocked back and forth, side to side, and tugged at the hair wound between his fingers.

  Nothing happened.

  "Okay, giddyup."

  Red didn't move.

  Gideon tried some very gentle persuasion with his boots. "Let's go, Red. I don't think I have all day."

  Red spat at the ground and reached for more grass.

  "The notch up there, see?" He leaned over the lorra's neck and pointed. "I want to get up there. I want to see what's on the other side." He considered, then rapped Red on one horn with a knuckle and winced. It felt like stone and was as abrasive as sand.

  He tried wriggling again, various simple and complex permutations and combinations of body English, every word he ever heard a movie cowboy use, and still the lorra wouldn't move.

  He looked behind him at the valley, at the rest of the grazing herd, and pictured himself on this beautiful slope, sitting on top of a giant goat and talking to it as if it understood every word he said. He wouldn't have been a bit surprised if a couple of pigeons came along and decided to make him their summer home.

  "Red, please."

  And Red moved.

  —|—

  It took him a while to get used to the lorra's odd side-to-side gait, but whenever he felt himself growing slightly seasick, or thought his legs were going to fall off from clamping its sides too hard, or wondered if he would spend the rest of his life bowlegged, he considered the alternative and concentrated on not falling. And the moment he stopped concentrating, he managed it with ease.

  He was so pleased, it was almost a full five minutes before he noticed that they were moving parallel to what was indeed a road leading to the notch. It was cobbled in dark red stone and worn down its sides by the rush of water, down its center by what had to be the passage of more than a few giant goats' feet.

  He sighed and told Red to get on the road and maybe they could move a little faster.

  Red stayed on the grass.

  He suggested that Red could easily detour to the verge now and then to pick up a snack if his stomach demanded it so much, but the lorra stayed where it was.

  "For god's sake, Red, gimme a break."

  It stopped at a bush and deftly plucked off the berries with its upper lip without disturbing the blossoms. Gideon remembered those he had in his pack and, with a bit of awkward maneuvering, managed to get some for himself, ate them, and looked at the road now curving away from their line of march.

  "Jesus, Red, you're heading down again!"

  Red was, and appeared to have no intention of going anywhere else.

  "Red, for god's sake, will you please get on the goddamned road?"

  Red did.

  He looked at the back of the animal's rhythmically bobbing head and shook his own. This, he thought, was not to be believed. And remembered all too clearly h
is mother telling him, whenever he wanted this and demanded that, to give her the magic word and all would be handed to him—if not on a silver platter, then at least on a plastic tray that didn't contain his still beating heart because he was being rude. Please. Sis, he thought to a chuckling image of his dead sibling, you should be here. He was riding up the side of a mountain looking for a white duck, sitting on the back of a giant goat that did what it was told when you said please.

  It was enough to make him laugh, which he did, loudly and long and lifting a hand when Red looked back to signal that he was fine, and if he wasn't, whatever he was didn't feel all that bad.

  He laughed so hard his eyes filled with tears.

  And when he stopped laughing it was a while before the tears left him alone.

  —|—

  The notch was closer, but he knew by then he wouldn't reach it before sunset. Around him the grass had become more sparse and was pocked now with boulders large and small; above, he could see great patches of bare rock, sheer and gleaming and sparkling with mica that caught the sunlight and gave it back to him in blinding lances. There were no trees that he could see, and when Red ambled over to the side to take more food, he saw, too, that the berry shrubs were gone. The hamlet was so far below that he had to squint to make out the individual buildings. The rest of Red's herd was gone.

  "I think," he said when Red started moving again, "that we ought to look for some place to spend the night, okay? It doesn't have to be spectacular. I can hear water up ahead, maybe a place by the stream; what do you say?"

  His answer was a grating, prolonged shriek from behind and above him. He twisted and saw a bird coasting out from the side of the cliffs—a large bird, glossy black, and wheeling about in what he knew was going to be a dive.

  "Red," he said nervously.

  The lorra increased its speed; and the bird shrieked again.

  "Jesus, Red!"

  The lorra, however, did not break into a gallop and sweep them away to safety; it stopped and turned, so quickly that he was spilled from his seat. The pack fell from his shoulders and rolled down the slope; a snap gave way, and his clothes spilled onto the grass, were caught by a wind that gusted up from the valley, and were pinwheeled away. Gideon gave them only a brief despairing glance before he spun around on his knees in time to see the bird nearing the end of its dive.