Written in Blood

by Span, Ryan A.

  “For tonight.” She smiled. “Before you go, to satisfy my curiosity, are there any highborn ladies in the Kingdom whom you haven't taken to bed?”

  It was a terrible tease. Despite my preoccupation, I decided to meet her tit for tat. “Of course, Milady. I vowed to save myself for the pretty ones.”

  She laughed her rich, wonderful laugh, and I returned to my bed for a bemused and restless night.

  Morning brought us to the Kingdom's greatest natural wonder, and ‒ in autumn and winter ‒ its most impenetrable landmark. The sight of the Six Rivers delta was almost a relief. Almost, because the five farns we had left to cross were already well beyond their banks.

  I could hear the babble of water from miles away. Inches of it covered the riverlands, like an extension of the Aranic Ocean. It was a muddy wading pool that extended almost to the horizon. Before long, inches of depth would become feet.

  “That settles it,” said Faro. “There's no way we can get across.”

  One look at the woman told me nothing was remotely settled. I laughed and slapped the squire on the shoulder. “We've come too far to give up now, haven't we?”

  He looked at me as if I were insane, then followed my eyes to the woman's face. He whimpered, “I'm too young to die.”

  “There are worse ways to go than drowning,” interjected Sir Erroll. “Besides, it looks only a few inches deep. It's just a matter of finding the right ford.”

  Aemedd cleared his throat. “Of finding five right fords, all in a row. Any fool knows why the Rivers cannot be crossed in winter. Cannot, rather than ought not.”

  Clutching his shiny new compass in white-knuckled fingers, the knight smiled frostily. “We have the tools and the knowledge, do we not? Lead, Professor, and we'll follow across in your footsteps.”

  “I wouldn't dream of trying to usurp your well-considered authority, Sir. Carry on.”

  Barbs delivered, the scholar abandoned the conversation, and coughed his lungs out instead. I marvelled at his resilience. After the better part of a week riding hard and sleeping rough, he looked the same as when we started. One foot in the grave but holding on for all he was worth.

  “Sir Erroll,” the woman's voice rang out, “find us our fording point. Where we can't ford, we shall swim. Where we can't swim, we shall raft!”

  She was certain. So certain it gave me chills all the way down my spine.

  Girding ourselves for another battle with the elements, we rode on, cold, wet, and afraid.

  The horses were exhausted by the time we arrived at what Sir Erroll called a ford. By eye I couldn't tell the difference between it and the rest of the flood plain in front of us. The watery expanse rippled at the touch of a million raindrops, while streams of churning brown silt marked the course of the great rivers. Sharp gusts of wind prickled my cheeks. The sound rolling off the plain was like a cavalry regiment thundering past my ears, constant and endless.

  Sir Erroll pointed at a spot where the water was moving fastest. Only a foot or two below the surface was a kind of natural ramp or causeway of packed earth and pebble. It couldn't have been more than ten feet wide, snaking its way across the deep, fast-moving Eastfarn, but with luck it would get the job done.

  “Two hours' rest,” the woman announced. “Then we make our way across.”

  No one protested, not even Faro or Aemedd. Now that we were here, stretching the road out of our muscles, I felt a strange sense of purpose growing in my heart. I wanted to get to the other side of the delta. Every one of us seemed at least a little bit eager to finally resume our real mission. The endless rain had dampened our spirits, but not our resolve.

  The threat of hanging if we were caught was also an excellent motivator.

  We made a canopy out of some spare canvas and tent poles and sat under it, together, eating and drinking the best of what we'd brought. It was really rather nice. A break in the tension. We made casual small talk, and told jokes, and laughed. A few cups of wine did wonders for my mood. I started to feel almost warm again.

  When it came time to make preparations for the crossing, we did it with the kind of unity and teamwork that only the promise of death can inspire. It wouldn't last, but I liked it.

  We roped ourselves together single file, and a separate line for the animals. Trouble was already upon us there. The sight of so much water worked Aemedd's camel up into a frothing panic, but somehow, the scholar managed to quieten it before it threw him. The horses were skittish too, but they seemed to trust their riders as we edged forward into the water.

  Then Faro made a comment about the lines, and I re-rigged everything so we could cut loose any of the horses if one couldn't be saved. I was annoyed I didn't think of it myself. Sensible travelling precautions were supposed to be my area of expertise.

  Our first faltering steps into the muddy, waterlogged ground damn near made my heart stop. Hooves scrabbled for purchase, weaving and jerking from side to side in the powerful current. Despite the easy-to-find fording point, the Eastfarn was the fastest of the Six, and a dangerous obstacle. If we'd been a day later, it might have been uncrossable. Even now I wasn't sure about our chances.

  Eventually my mare found her balance again and began to pick her way toward the ford. It wasn't as far as it looked. The denser ground restored her confidence, and mine. We plunged in deeper until the farn lapped at my ankles and tried to pull the boots off my feet.

  Swollen by rain and water from the Catsclaws, the far bank was at least thirty yards away. I kept a tight hold on my safety lines. Still, the farn was steady in its rushing speed, and by leaning into the current we managed to force our way through. Climbing up the bank was a relief beyond words.

  We ended up back in mud up to my mare's knees, standing in the middle of the flood plain. With two rivers down it seemed like we were already beating the odds.

  This far east, the Westfarn and Tallfarn were mere additions to the general flooding. They spilled their banks but mostly kept their natural winding course towards the Salt Sea. It caused treacherous eddies and whirlpools further west, but not here. Our current worry was the Sweetfarn. A perfectly placid stream in summer, deep and fresh and wonderful to swim in; now a killer with undertow that caught you by the knees and never let go.

  A lively discussion started up about how to attack the river, and was interrupted when silent Aemedd cleared his throat.

  “I don't mean to alarm anybody, but look to the rear.”

  We turned in the saddle and instantly saw what he meant. A spread-out line of grey was advancing out of the hills, hoods up, heavy cloaks dripping with rain. They looked like the grim reaper's own henchmen, ruthless and implacable.

  It considerably expedited our preparations for conquering the Sweetfarn. We moved with feverish energy, tying more safety lines, and then drafted Faro ‒ youngest and lightest ‒ to swim across. Once on the other side he could help the rest. Yazizi and the horses would come last.

  The squire accepted his duty with tired resignation. He stripped off all his weight of clothes, checked the ropes around his waist and his shoulder, took a deep breath, and threw himself in the river.

  On the first try he let his feet drop too low, and got caught in the infamous currents. Frightened cry, half a moment before his head vanished below the surface, and the safety lines went taut as the farn dragged him out to sea. We pulled for all we were worth. It took Sir Erroll, Yazizi, myself and two horses to haul him back to the bank, coughing up water, but alive.

  He was more impassioned the second time. He almost skimmed across the surface, swimming fast and hard. His feet kicked up great sprays of water. Watching him, ropes in hand, made my stomach clench into knots. Wondering if he would make it, if the lines would hold in case he didn't, if we could pull him out of the drink fast enough to save him again.

  My bated breath came out in a rush when he put his hands in the soft mud on the far side. He rolled himself out of the river and lay for a minute, half-submerged on his back, gasping for breath. The
n he came painfully to his feet and started to anchor the lines as best he could. There were no trees to speak of, but a small boulder made for a decent enough pivot. My good throwing arm pitched a few long stakes across, which Faro pushed deep into the soft ground. They wouldn't hold, but at this point we needed every edge we could get.

  Sir Erroll went next. Clothes and things bound across his back in an oilcloth bag, he made a long dive and subjugated the river with brute strength. His squire hauled on the ropes to help, teeth clenched in a rictus of strain. So the knight emerged alive on the far bank, and joined in the hauling.

  The woman took off her dress, but kept her bodice and underskirt for modesty's sake. I still saw more than enough skin to make me blush like a peeping Tom. I could only avert my eyes while she made the crossing, and wondered if she could be any more arresting naked than she was half-clothed.

  To my surprise, her delicate hands took up a line next to the knight and squire, her jaw set. It touched me a little bit. Even she was not above hard work and indignity, if it meant our lives.

  My turn came and saw me vacillating on the river's edge. I shivered in the cold wind, up to my ankles in mud, damn near up to my knees in silty water, stripped to my skivvies and afraid. Then I glanced over my shoulder at the Rangers, mere minutes away from the Eastfarn ford. I jumped.

  Icy shock tore the breath out of my lungs. It was even worse than I expected, like a snowdrift dumped over my bare flesh. It pulled at me from all directions. Willpower alone got my numb legs a-kicking, and my white-knuckled hands pulled for dear life. Sharp currents dragged my head below the surface once, twice, but I kept climbing hand over hand until intensely warm fingers locked around my arms. They pulled me up and out, and I sat quaking on the other side. Somehow the others had made it look easy by comparison.

  With four of us on the ropes, it was time for the horses to come. Yazizi whispered a few gentle words into Zayara's ear, then sent her on ahead, as the lightest and most spirited. The palfrey's weight tore at my arms. She was stubborn, though, and refused to give in to the farn's embrace. She scampered up the shore and whinnied in displeasure as we rerigged her to help pull.

  One by one we got the other horses across, then our packs, all wrapped up in canvas. Then came Aemedd. Again and again he tried to urge his camel into the water, by shouts and sticks and kicking. It just snorted and lowed. Nothing could make it go. Finally Yazizi dragged the scholar off its back and cut the beast loose.

  We pulled Aemedd across despite his protests, and Yazizi followed, not a moment too soon. Behind her, the Rangers were across the ford and making good time. The great bows across their backs looked threatening even under wraps. I didn't think they could fire on us in this weather... At least I hoped not.

  We moved north, huddled in our cloaks. We couldn't even afford to change clothes. Still, I was starting to believe we had a chance. Only one of the Six lay between us and freedom. Not even Rangers could catch a group of cavalry over open ground.

  Behind us, the lost, lonely camel wailed at the sky. Without Aemedd to calm it, it began to panic, thrashing around the flood plain. Distant peals of thunder only added to its distress. The Rangers reached it while we prepared to wrestle the Northfarn. It took them bare seconds to rope the great beast by the neck and legs, and they held it in place while one of them opened its throat.

  “Halt, in the King's name!” their leader bellowed across the river. “Stand and be recognised!”

  My stomach flipped over backwards. It was Descard. As friendly as our recent interactions had been, I could only remember him standing over me with a large knife and all the emotion a tired butcher felt for a side of meat.

  The lips pressed into a thin smile, framed by locks of wet hair plastered to her cheeks. Even her iron will couldn't stop herself from shivering.”I guess w-we'll have to politely decline the Baron's request.”

  The dangers of the Northfarn were easy to see. While it wasn't the fastest of the Six, nor the deepest, it was the widest by far. The largest, longest river in the Kingdom. It cut like a scythe through the most heavily-wooded parts of the Catsclaws ‒ the Grenoke and Brunoke Valleys ‒ and when the mountain rains started to fall, so did the trees. Logs, living or dead, were simply torn from the ground by the rushing waters and carried along into the fathomless blue depths of the Aranic Ocean, only a few miles to our right.

  Bobbing trunks passed in front of me, some young and small, others old beyond measure, wizened or dead. Some were bare. Others had leaves and roots still attached. Every minute or two another one washed down the delta, or got stuck on a bank for minutes or hours before the farn dislodged it again.

  “Can we raft across?” asked Faro. By his tone, he didn't like the idea.

  “No time,” I pointed out. My hand itched for the hilt of a sword as I looked back. “We don't have enough rope to repeat our last trick, not on a river this big. We'll have to swim. Horses and all.”

  Aemedd coughed, and wheezed, “What if someone gets hit by a log? We might all go down together.”

  “We'll cut the lines. Every man for himself.”

  That did not sit well with the scholar. He might have argued if he'd had the energy, but the woman cut off any conversation with a chop of her hand.

  “That simply won't do, Master Byren. I will not risk our bronzes ending up at the bottom of the ocean.” She sniffed and let her mind work at the problem. “We'll go by twos, tied together. One stronger, one weaker. Sir Erroll, you take the Professor. Faro, the Harari. Byren is with me.”

  I gulped in surprise. The knight's hackles went up instantly, but he wouldn't argue with her now. Was it a deliberate snub on her part? Some kind of revenge on me, or him, or both of us?

  Either way, Sir Erroll would probably make his displeasure known to me later.

  The work took my mind off, rerigging lines where I had to, cutting them through where I could. The squire and his master did likewise. We were all but ready to jump into the river when a cry from behind made us turn.

  It was a perfect tragedy playing out in the cold depths of the Sweetfarn. In an effort to catch us before we made it across, the Rangers had thrown caution to the wind, hauling themselves through the river on a single rope, trusting to their strength and experience to keep them safe. It worked well. Five or six of them already stood on our side of the farn. It would've been all of them, if their rope had held.

  Bad luck was all it was. Maybe the weight of men and the water's sheer sucking power, or some invisible damage to the rope, the age of the fibres, or an accidental nick by something sharp. The first cry went up when it began to fray. We were all watching when the line snapped.

  Four Rangers plunged into the middle of the river. Their clothes were light, but not light enough to let them swim against that current. They bobbed to the surface once, still kicking for their lives. None of them came up again. Their friends and comrades watched dumbstruck.

  When they managed to collect themselves, Descard waved the rest of his platoon away, back to the woods. It was too dangerous. He'd attempt to take us on alone, him and his handful. Despite their diminished numbers, I didn't think we stood much of a fighting chance.

  “Fortune smiles,” the woman said. “Go! Swim!”

  The Rangers' fate weighed on my mind as I tried to coax my mare into the deep water. After what the poor beast had already been through, tired and terrified, she didn't like this one bit. I understood. She balked when the farn came so high as to touch her neck. Then Yazizi came past us and, with a pat and a whisper, she quieted the skittish animal like magic. The great body bunched underneath me. One mighty leap, and she began to kick her way through the water.

  The woman was beside me and a few feet behind. Between that horse and that rider, there was plenty of spirit to go around. We battled our way through and peered constantly for signs of danger. Two fast-moving trees skimmed down the river toward us, and I had to turn the reins to avoid one. Faro couldn't avoid them both. The smaller of the two struck him
broadside-on, knocking him off his horse and sucking the poor beast under. The squire himself clung to his tether, swimming as hard as he could until Yazizi and her palfrey reeled him in.

  Other than that one flaw, our crossing seemed like a charmed thing.

  I dismounted on the far side, knee-deep in floodwater, and tugged on my mare's reins to help her take the bank. Hooves scrabbled uselessly at the slick mud. On the third attempt, she emerged dripping and snorting from the river. I almost didn't believe it. I was alive!

  The woman followed close behind me. She smiled and touched my cheek as a reward for my service. I mooned at her. For a minute I completely forgot what I was doing.

  I went downstream to help some of our stragglers. Their expressions told volumes when they found themselves standing on Northern soil. Shocked, and humbled, and glad. It could so easily have gone the other way, with all six of us floating lifeless out into the Aranic.

  Our pursuers didn't have the same luck. Clothes and kit weighed them down, and I saw one man ‒ haggard from days of running and lack of sleep ‒ go limp in the water. He stopped kicking for just a moment, and that was enough. He dropped out of sight, washed away.

  The nightmare didn't end there. Mere seconds later, a great tree came barreling down the stream, old as the mountains and long, long dead. The jagged remains of branches made it catch on the riverbed as it came, tumbling like mad.

  I knew it was going to hit them. I watched the scene unfold in all its horrible inevitability.

  They saw it, too. Descard's breathless voice gave the order to dive. In a testament to their iron discipline, they obeyed without question. Five heads gulped as much air as they could and ducked below the surface. Then the trunk bounced off something, perhaps a submerged boulder, and spun around in a broad, sweeping arc, raking its branches across the spot where the Rangers had been.

  There was an awful, sickening crunch. Two grey uniforms surfaced, face-down, and bobbed motionless in the great log's wake.