Warautumn

by Tom Deitz

  Div grinned back. “Fine with me, besides which, I control the medicine kit, and it’s going to take a lot more than river water to wash all that itch-juice away.”

  Kylin chose that moment to poke his head out of his tent: victim, it seemed, of very sound slumber indeed—or possibly of too much drink the previous night, given his tendency to overindulge in spirits. He cocked his head, listening. Counting breaths, Merryn decided. “Where is everybody?” the harper asked eventually, followed by a truly impressive yawn.

  “The sane ones are here,” Merryn snorted. “The rest—Listen hard and you’ll hear them being silly down by the river. I’d suggest you join them. I don’t want to see another man until noon.”

  Kylin took a deep breath and ducked his head underwater, then rose again in place: there where he was just managing to keep his feet in the deepest part of the river in which standing remained an option. Behind him, the stream widened into a pool twenty spans across and deep enough for honest swimming, its farther shore consisting of a long, steep bank of ivy-covered stone thrice as high as a man and running, nearly level—so his companions told him—as far as they could see to north and south. A narrow beach twenty spans to the north on the nearer side offered the only real access through a fine growth of laurel that otherwise grew down to the water’s edge. Their clothes blotched the strand now: blots of faded color against a duller brown. Newly scoured with soldier-soap mixed with river sand, the rest of the wrestling party was paddling about behind him, indulging in what Rann said might well be their last good chance for a casual bath in what could easily be eights.

  Kylin didn’t like to swim, but he did like being clean—and good, simple camaraderie—for which reason he was lingering there, as he often did, on the edge between two worlds.

  Which was why he heard it.

  Something …

  A heavy, cautious tread and a hiss of breath, where there ought to have been nothing but the whispery silence of forest. And along with those sounds came a sudden rustle of small animals disturbed and fleeing through the leaf mold, followed by a succession of tiny splashes as what he presumed was a phalanx of frogs leapt into the water.

  “Something’s wrong,” he announced. And by that time his gaze had turned toward the forest trail by which they had reached this place. A blur of light was all he could make out, of course: sky above the darker mass of land. Yet even that much was comforting—usually, but certainly not now.

  Riff, who happened to be closest, heard him when the others—apparently—did not and promptly swam nearer, breasting the water with long, clean strokes. “What?” he gasped, when he reached speaking range.

  “Too much noise and then too quiet—all at once,” Kylin muttered, suddenly feeling as vulnerable as he ever had in his life.

  “I’ll trust you on that,” Riff replied as he found footing and waded a span beyond Kylin. “No, you’re right. Can you tell—?”

  “Quiet,” Kylin hissed, turning his head in a steady arc from right to left, then pausing just when he could twist no more without moving his whole body. “Footsteps,” he whispered, as a chill raced down his bare skin. “Heavy tread. Geens—I think. At least one; possibly more.”

  “Oh Eight,” Riff groaned. “And us bare naked without a weapon in sight.”

  “Can geens swim?”

  “When they have to. They don’t like the cold, though—and this water is pretty damned chilly. But more to the point,” Riff continued, “their advantage lies in speed as much as size—and water ought to slow them down. They can’t use their talons to slash if they’re using them to swim, and—”

  “Hold,” Kylin cautioned. “They’re coming closer.”

  “We have to back up,” Riff rasped in his ear. “We have to warn the others. They probably couldn’t hear you because of the sound of the rapids farther down.”

  “And then?”

  “We look for another way out and try to get back to camp.”

  “If the geens haven’t been there already.”

  “They haven’t. Any attack would have brought out the Lightning Sword, and we’d have known if that was being used.”

  “Is there another way out?” Kylin dared, even as he began easing backward, careful of his footing.

  “Maybe. There’s a fairly heavy growth of vines on the bank behind us. Maybe we can climb out there. I—”

  He said no more for the footsteps had intensified, and this time Kylin knew, by the way Riff’s breath caught, that he had heard them, too.

  “I don’t suppose there’s any way we could reach our weapons?”

  Riff shook his head. “The geens would be on us before we were out of the water. And we’re fools to have left them there.”

  More sounds, then: a soft thud, thud, thud that suddenly intensified into the dreadful steady patter of running geens.

  “Now,” Riff snapped. “No, relax, I’ll help you—” as Kylin felt a strong arm slide around his chest and sweep him backward into deeper water. In spite of that, his head went under briefly, and when he broke surface again it was to hear Riff shouting at the top of his lungs, “Geens! Geens! Geens! Get to the other side and grab those vines.”

  It was the worst experience of Kylin’s life: being utterly helpless in the face of one of nature’s most painfully lethal threats. For he could truly think of no worse fate than being eviscerated alive, while simultaneously having the flesh ripped from his bones and, quite possibly, drowning. They were in open water now, the bottom having long since dropped away, and Riff was swimming strongly toward what Kylin knew, by their cries, was the rest of the party. As for the geens—Well, it was all poor Riff could do to keep them both afloat without him trying to provide complex descriptions.

  The others clearly knew about the threat, however, to judge by the shouts now mingling with a sharp intensification of splashes, as their comrades headed for the possible safety of the bank and the vines there. He doubted that this was a good time to inquire whether geens could climb.

  And then he sensed solidity near him, and Riff was steering his hand to a hold on something hard and dry that he recognized as a good-sized vine. “Hold that and don’t let go,” Riff said tersely, his voice the only clarity amid a cacophony of splashes and shouts. Kylin found no call to argue.

  For once, Riff envied Kylin his blindness.

  Dying was one thing, but to see that death approaching and be unable to do anything about it—Well, that was another thing entirely.

  At least he would not die alone.

  Or without a fight, he told himself, as that timeless moment of personal fear dissolved into the chaos around him. He had done his duty: taken care of the weakest of their number for the nonce. Now it was time to address his own survival.

  Which—to his amazement—they were all doing quietly. Or perhaps they, too, had seen their own deaths approaching and were pondering them in silence.

  The geens were in plain sight now. A fourfold pack of them had just stepped out of the cover of the woods, apparently from the north. (Some comfort there: The camp was to the west, and the way the wind was blowing, they might have missed the scents of men and horses.) They were moving warily, too, their heads held low to the ground, but there was an air of unconcern about them as well.

  “Probably come for a drink,” Myx advised to Riff’s other side. “Maybe they won’t notice us.”

  “What about our clothes?” Lykkon challenged from farther up. “They have to smell like—”

  “They’ll smell horse first if the wind shifts,” Myx gave back. “And that’ll lead them straight back to camp.”

  “And give us a chance to retrieve our weapons, right?” Bingg added nervously.

  “Have they seen us, do you reckon?” That from Rann.

  “Hard to say,” Myx retorted. “As much noise as we were making, they’d be hard-pressed not to know something was over here.”

  “Thank The Eight for these vines,” Riff panted, shifting his grip on the one he held, even as he notic
ed that the river had undercut the bank there and was trying, none too gently, to drag his feet beneath some hidden overhang. “We can climb out—eventually.”

  “I’m not worried about eventually,” Avall grumbled. “I’m worried about now.”

  Unfortunately, at that very moment the vine to which Bingg was clinging, and had indeed started to climb, broke, precipitating vine and boy alike into the water with a loud splash.

  Four geen heads shot up immediately. One scaled head stared straight toward them.

  An instant later, eight taloned legs attached to four lithe bodies stepped, as though possessed of one mind, into the river.

  And a moment after that, the first of them was swimming—straight toward the bathers, its tail describing zigzag arcs in the water.

  The bathers, however, wasted no time. Unable to swim north because of the current, or south because of the rapids, they had no choice but to climb—which they did—awkwardly, but with reasonable dexterity (though Lykkon had to help his brother find a stronger purchase, and Riff found himself seeking handholds for Kylin as well as himself). Which might give them respite, but only for a moment.

  The first and largest geen had reached midstream now, and was swimming strongly. Focused as he was on his next—and hopefully higher purchase—Riff nevertheless could not resist twisting around now and then to check—and every time he did, he got a closer look at those fierce eyes and deadly teeth, and those terrible claws that now cut water as effectively as they could cut his flesh. And suddenly he had no doubts whatever that these geens, should they so choose, could climb. Weight might be against them; then again, weight was doing him no favors either, as the stone in which the vines were anchored was proving so porous and powdery half of his would-be holds ripped free as soon as he put more than minimal weight upon them.

  One just had—

  He grabbed for another as he felt his remaining hold start to rip free as well.

  A hand slipped, then a foot. Stone raked blood from his thigh and shin, and a toenail caught and tore. He scrabbled for a hold furiously, but Fate had claimed him by then, and he fell.

  Fortunately, he had sense enough to kick free of the vine, but all he could think of as he entered open air was what waited below.

  And then he was actually on top of it—and then below it as he dived for the bottom, thinking that perhaps geens could not hold their breaths.

  Too soon he found the bottom, but along with it, the current found him. It dragged at him relentlessly, but he fought it, intensely aware that he had left friends in peril, but also realizing that he—perhaps—might be in a unique position to help them. Maybe. If he could find something hard or sharp—a broken limb, perhaps—with which to make a spear.

  He felt about desperately, finding nothing but smooth, moss-covered stones and, now and then, a vine.

  Meanwhile, above him, he could feel as much as see the chief geen treading water as it—apparently—sought to climb up the wall where his friends—he hoped—were still scrambling for safety.

  No luck, and his lungs felt fit to burst. And then he had an idea. It was a long shot, but anything was a long shot now. Still … Maybe …

  A quick scrabble along the bottom located another length of vine, one that seemed rooted there. An experimental tug did not free it and that one test was all he dared. A fumble in the gloom showed him that the vine was in fact quite long. Maybe even long enough to—

  He acted as he thought. A quick surge upward brought him directly beneath the geen. Risking accidental evisceration, he snared one scaly leg, quickly looped the vine around it—and pulled with all his might.

  The geen had apparently already found some purchase on the bank, and he met resistance at first, but then the tension released and he reeled the vine in at once, even as he backed away to where his earlier flailings had told him was a section of fallen tree trunk.

  Maybe if he could loop the vine around that, he could secure the geen. Maybe, if he was lucky, it might even drown.

  Assuming he didn’t drown first, for he was in dire need of air himself.

  Something swished close to his face—a claw he assumed—and he flinched away.

  But something else swished by his shoulder, this time close enough to draw blood but also close enough for him to see that it was no claw but something white and narrow.

  And then he could see nothing but a cloud of blood in the water above him.

  He let go. He had to. At the same time, he thrust himself away from the geen and downstream.

  When he surfaced again, it was to see the geen struggling to keep its head above the water while yet another carefully aimed arrow thumped home in its throat. More blood followed, and that blood seemed to have awakened the innate bloodlust that characterized all geens, so that an instant later, the victim’s fellows were tearing at their erstwhile leader, even as more arrows picked them off one by one.

  Arrows that could only come from one source.

  Fighting the current, Riff struck out for the farther, and now friendlier, shore, and when he thought it was safe, turned to watch as the geens, one by one, succumbed to the careful bowmanship of Div, Strynn, and Merryn. As for his other companions, it was hard to tell for sure because of the greater distance to them and the water in his eyes, but he thought they all were safe.

  And then his feet touched sandy mud, and all at once he was splashing noisily up the shore toward the beach. Div drew a bead on him as he emerged from behind an outthrust clump of laurel, but her bow swung back around as quickly when she saw that he wore skin instead of scales, and sported neither talons, deadly teeth, nor tail.

  “Are they—?” he gasped.

  “I think so,” Div gritted. “If your friends will show sense and dive in below them, and then do like you did—underwater.”

  Riff needed no further prompting. And with so much noise from confused and dying geens, functional noise was suddenly no danger. “Dive if you can,” he shouted. “Do like I did. We’ll cover you.”

  At first they seemed not to hear, but then he saw Lykkon start, point, and then, when Riff had nodded again, leap into the water.

  The others followed, with Myx—bless him—taking charge of Kylin.

  A moment later, they were all standing dazed and shivering on the beach, scrambling into the clean (and hopefully irritant-free) clothing they had left there, while Merryn rained imprecations on them about carelessness.

  “If you and I hadn’t bonded last night,” she raged to Avall in particular. “If you hadn’t mingled enough of your blood with mine that I felt your fear come upon me and knew that something was amiss—”

  “I know,” Avall replied glumly as he reached for his drawers. “It was rash, and stupid, and I’m sorry.”

  “You can’t be that rash again,” Merryn retorted. “Now, get dressed, we need to start traveling as soon as you can.”

  “That’s no way to address your King,” Rann snapped.

  Merryn turned in her tracks and regarded him coolly. “King?” she drawled. “All I see is a half dozen foolish, very lucky, and nearly naked men.”

  By the time everyone was dry, dressed, and fed, and all their possessions packed and put away, it was early afternoon. At least the men didn’t insist on pissing on the embers of the fire, as Merryn had feared they might, giddy on juvenile masculinity as they all seemed to be. Still, she supposed they owed themselves some frivolity after their near brush with disaster—and found herself mildly jealous of the way Avall was so casually physical with his friends. She had once enjoyed the same kind of reckless sparring with him herself, and not that long ago. Had she changed, or had he?—for she could not imagine carrying on like that with either Div or Strynn.

  Well, maybe with Strynn. If they were drunk. And no one was around to provide commentary.

  Still, it felt strange to leave the pile of boulders, for all she had only rested there for five nights and Avall’s cadre barely one. The Wild could reclaim it now. Rain would wash away the ashes a
nd fill in the postholes; savaged foliage would grow back, and the odd scraps of food left about would be gone before nightfall, courtesy of insects and small animals.

  But it was part of history, she reckoned; one of those points at which history might well hinge, in fact; for she had no doubt whatever that they were walking into history at that very moment.

  It had been decided from respect for ritual as much as royal right, that Avall, Strynn, and Merryn should ride the horses as they set out, with the rest of the party walking—at least as far as the top of the ridge that housed the geens’ cave. They planned a short stop there, in order to overlook the lake and get their bearings—which basically meant identifying a target on the horizon as close as they could manage to due north. It would be rough reckoning at best, but that was all they had to go on for now, since it would have taken most of a day to retrieve Lykkon’s maps—which, in spite of their earlier frivolity (or perhaps because of it) was a day they no longer felt was theirs to squander. With time being of the essence, the straight route was the only reasonable alternative, though backtracking the way Merryn had come would have been more certain. Still, Lykkon seemed confident that he could manage even without his maps, by a combination of star observation and mathematics. She would have to trust him to it, she supposed. The Eight knew any math beyond that required for smithing (which was mostly geometry) was as mysterious to her as the sea.

  In any case, it was a fine afternoon, with the sky as blue as flawless glass and the landscape as beautiful as a dream, for all she knew that dreams often concealed dangers unsuspected. So it was that she found herself surveying the eaves of the forest anxiously, searching for other geens that might still be lurking around. But the woods were empty of any obvious threat, more proof of which came from the horses’ utter lack of concern for anything but ambling, and the birkit’s sudden urge—perhaps prompted by her human companions’ antics of the morning—to act very much like a cub.

  So it was that they traversed the meadow and entered the woods half a shot west of the trail that led to the cave where the geen den lay. Nor were they long in finding a place where the slope was gradual enough for easy going. And then, quite suddenly, they reached the summit. The ground fell away precipitously a dozen spans ahead, but a new trail—probably a game trail—kinked left there, paralleling the ridge crest for another quarter shot or so, aiming slightly uphill toward what looked to be an open space among the trees.