The Woad to Wuin

by Peter David

  Another arrow sailed past, between us, driving me several steps back. I pivoted, overbalancing slightly but then regaining it quickly. A lifetime of favoring one leg enables one to learn quick adaptation. I looked furiously in Beliquose’s direction.

  “IT’S YOUR LAST CHANCE, POE!” he called out. I saw that a bowman next to him, probably his best archer, had a longbow ready with another arrow.

  I didn’t like Sharee. But I liked being targeted even less, and Beliquose’s manner had long gone past simple annoyance.

  There was one thing of which I was certain: Something was special about this gem. Maybe it was what Sharee had claimed, maybe it was something else. The only thing that wasn’t a “maybe” was that I had it and they didn’t, and they wanted it.

  I stuck my arm out to the side, holding the gem high, and held it straight out over the crashing surf of the ocean. “It’s not my last chance, you great sack of entrails! It’s yours!” I shouted, and even though he likely couldn’t understand a word I was saying, the gesture and intent was all too clear. If his archer shot me, or shot at me, I was going to drop the gem into the surf. Simple as that. And with the way the tides were surging about, unless he was part fish, there was no way he was ever going to find it.

  A moment stretched into eternity then, and I met his gaze straight on and he knew me then as an enemy with whom no reasoning could be made. He touched the archer on the shoulder, and the bowman lowered his weapon

  Quickly I crouched and grabbed Sharee by the wrist. Waves leaped up at that moment, dousing my head, soaking me so thoroughly that I almost lost my grip upon her. But by chance—good or bad chance, I leave to you to decide—I managed to keep a hold on her and haul her up alongside me. She did not thank me. No great surprise there.

  “Now back up,” I said. “Slowly.”

  “Run.”

  I looked at her in confusion, feeling a by-now-familiar swell of frustration. “Why the hell can’t I give you so much as one directive without—”

  “Apropos, look at the water!”

  I did as she bade and instantly saw the problem. The tide had swept up with terrifying swiftness. The water was lapping at our feet and within minutes would be upon us, trying to pull us in. The waves were coming up higher and higher.

  I heard a howl of anguished fury. It was Bicce, the hellhound of Beliquose’s, venting her frustration over the situation from a distance. Beliquose was holding her steady, keeping a firm hand upon her shoulder.

  And then, as it turned out, the hand wasn’t firm enough, for Bicce suddenly tore free of his grasp. “BAD BICCE, BAD!” shouted Beliquose and grabbed for her, but she vaulted out of his reach and sprinted toward us. She apparently didn’t give a damn whether I took the gem and dropped it in the ocean or shoved it up my ass. She was still smarting from our previous encounter and was looking to even the score by tearing me to shreds. I could see as she bounded closer to us that the left side of her face was covered with a makeshift patch. She’d lost an eye, thanks to me. Certainly that had endeared me to her no end.

  Abruptly Sharee’s suggestion didn’t seem to be such a terrible one at that.

  “Run!” I echoed, and suddenly we were fleeing along the Middle Finger, Bicce in pursuit and closing the gap. The difficulty of what we were endeavoring was nearly overwhelming. We had to maintain our balance, navigate the rocks which were terribly wet, and every so often we would stagger to a halt and just try to hold our positions as massive waves slammed down upon us. In those instances we would drop to the ground and hold on, allowing the waves to wash over us. Within seconds we were utterly sodden, and naturally when you’re being pursued by a slavering harridan of a creature, that’s precisely the time that you want to be weighed down by sopping clothes.

  Clouds had wholly covered the skies, the world darkening around us. Returning was no longer an option; sections of the Finger had already been completely submerged. Every passing moment, as we ran for our lives, I fancied that I could feel Bicce upon me, bearing me down to the rocks, knocking us both under and sending us to a mutual watery grave.

  I chanced a look behind us, hoping that she was at least forty, fifty feet behind.

  She was five feet away.

  I froze in my tracks, whirled to face her, grabbing for my sword which was strapped to my back. But my movements felt leaden; it was as if I were sleepwalking. Sharee cried out a warning, which was pretty damned useless, because I was looking right at the creature, for pity’s sake. Far, far in the distance, Beliquose was madly waving his arms, probably commanding Bicce to come back, but even his extraordinary voice couldn’t carry the distance.

  Bicce let out one hell of a roar, which sounded as if it originated from somewhere around her ankles. If the purpose of that bloodcurdling war cry was to paralyze an opponent with fear, I can assure you that it worked. I stood there, utterly frozen, and Bicce leaped through the air at me, covering the distance with ease, and I could almost feel her teeth sinking into me.

  That was when the wave hit her.

  One moment she was in midair, and then she was gone, the gargantuan wave caressing her like a monstrous lover’s hand. It enveloped her so completely that I didn’t even see her go in. I just heard her startled yelp, and the splash of her body going into the water was lost in the surging of the water.

  The waves leaped up again, crashing against the rocks, and I looked from one side to the other, and as the gods bear witness to my words, I tell you that there were faces in the water. They were bizarre mixtures of seaweed and brine and dark, swollen crests of water, and part of me was convinced that I had to be imagining it. It was not as if the faces were hanging there and staring at me. They were visible to me only for an eyeblink, if that. There and gone again, leaving my mind’s eye wondering if the impression that it had received upon seeing the infuriated sea around us was simply an imagining conjured by my own franticness, or whether there was something or somethings actually there, sizing me up for who-knew-what?

  I had no idea whether Sharee saw it as well. All I knew was that she was pulling at my sleeve, and I followed her, desperately using my staff to maintain my balance. The rise in the Finger was just ahead, and although our position would still be precarious, it was marginally better than where we were.

  Then something knocked me off my feet.

  I barely managed to hold on to my staff, my sword never having left my scabbard since Bicce had been brushed away by the whims of the sea before I could wield the weapon. I had not heard anything, and the pain hadn’t registered yet. All there was was the impact, and at first I thought it was another wave, or a stone of some sort, and then I was flat on the ground and that was when the pain began to hit. I twisted myself around, trying to see what had happened. The sight that met my eyes forced impulses of crying in terror or laughing in disbelief to war within me, and ultimately the crying won out, although there was a choked sob or two of incredulity.

  The shaft of an arrow was quivering out of my ass. To be specific, it was lodged securely in my right buttock.

  Another arrow flew then, and a third and fourth. Beliquose’s attempts to advance were frustrated by the crashing seas, but his archers were endeavoring to take some final vengeance upon us. Or perhaps they hoped that, if they managed to immobilize us, they could wait until the tides and ferocity of the seas subsided and then come after us on foot.

  I suppose I would have been within my rights to chuck the gem into the water at that point. But I assessed the situation with surprising calm, all things considered. At the moment, I had a gem in my hand and an arrow in my backside. If I tossed the gem, then all I would have was an arrow in my backside. Hardly seemed worth the sacrifice somehow, considering the arrow was a constant while the more promising variable wouldn’t do anyone any good—particularly me—if it was at the bottom of the briny.

  The wind was taking most of the arrows before they could draw within range, it seemed to me. So my little onboard visitor had just been fortunate enough to beat t
he odds. Yes, somehow that was my luck in microcosm.

  And that was when I heard Sharee cry out, her shout lifting over the waves. I had forgotten about her for a moment, caught up in my own pain and misery, and saw that Sharee had likewise taken an arrow. She, however, had been spared the indignity that had been visited upon me. In her case, she now had an arrow projecting from her upper left thigh.

  She was down on one knee, the water cascading about her with such intensity that I thought sure it was going to take her as it had Bicce. But she managed to hold her position with remarkably bullheaded determination, and bracing herself she broke off the arrow just above where it entered her leg. That one outcry I had heard from her had been the only one. Obviously she wasn’t going to let another burst of pain take charge of her.

  And then she was on her feet, and so was I, limping after her as fast as my staff would take me. The roaring of the sea was thunderous. I felt as if there had never been a time when I had known dryness or quiet or safety. It was like the damned thing was alive, trying to torture us and torment us right into the arms of madness so that we would throw ourselves into the waves of our own volition just to escape the situation.

  Yet escape it we did. For the rise was just in front of us, and we clambered up it as quickly as we could. It was a high rise, but a steady incline rather than anything sharp, so it was extremely manageable. It was as if someone had lifted his middle finger in a slow, steady elevation which was easily accessible for us. More arrows came, but either they fell short or the wind easily knocked them away from us. I resisted the temptation to turn around and stick out my tongue in derision at Beliquose. After all, there was no telling when or if we would meet again, and I certainly did not need him saying, “Ah yes, Poe, the fellow whose trespasses I could have forgiven in their entirety … except for the tongue thing. Yes, for that, you must surely die.”

  The seas continued to rage, but the height gave us some measure of safety. The stony surface we trod at that point was barely wet save for some sea spray, indicating that this section never went beneath the seas’ surface and was not subject to the pulls and thrusts of the tides.

  “Gods, have we made it?” I muttered, gritting my teeth. The pain in my backside was throbbing and radiating from the point of entry. The prospect of never being able to sit again was not a pleasant one.

  “Not yet,” she said. Then she stopped, saw the arrow in my buttocks, saw the blood that was tricking down my backside probably at about the same time that I saw the blood welling from her own wound. “Wait,” she said.

  “No, you wait!” I shot back in alarm, but it was too late as she took firm hold of the arrow and snapped it off just under the point, as she had done with herself.

  “We’ll save the rest of it for later,” she told me.

  Obviously I was less than enthused. “Well that’s certainly a reason to go on living,” I told her. But she ignored me. Sometimes I think some of the happiest times of my life were those times Sharee was ignoring me.

  We staggered, we lurched, and several times one or the other of us almost went into the still-challenging waters. Fortunately there was no time at which both of us started to go in simultaneously, because each of us was the only thing keeping the other from going in and possibly—considering the intensity of the tides—going under.

  The roaring in my ears was so persistent and so intense that it took me some moments, or even perhaps minutes, to realize that the noise was subsiding. It was as if one half of my brain was saying to the other, Excuse me, have you noticed this bit over here?

  But Sharee most certainly noticed it, and she stopped and turned to face me. Her cloak was so sopping that the weight of it might well have dragged her into the seas if she had not watched her step. Not that my own cloak was in much better shape, but at least I had my walking staff to lean upon for some extra bracing. Sharee was on her own. I never thought I’d consider lameness to be an advantage. In truth, I never had to worry about my legs getting worn out. I only had one leg to exhaust, and if I was leaning on my walking staff, well, that never got tired.

  Sharee reached out a hand to me. There was nothing romantic in the gesture or demeanor. Her expression could not have been more “all business” than it was. I couldn’t tell whether she felt sorry for me, or really wanted me around for some reason. Well, either way would have been suspicious for me.

  Nevertheless, I took her hand. I was surprised at the strength in it. I suppose I shouldn’t have been. She had, after all, displayed considerable physical prowess when she had slammed me down in the cave and had her way with me all that time ago. But I had partly ascribed that to the bewitching aspects of the ring itself. Apparently that was not the case. Sharee was simply stronger than she looked.

  We made the rest of the way in silence. The waves were still fierce, but they were no longer vaulting into near geysers, although there was a consistent spray upon us. The massing clouds parted and streaks of light filtered through in dazzling array. I remembered how my mother had used to say that when light came down from on high in that sort of focused manner, it meant that the eyes of the gods were upon us, gazing down with interest upon our doings and no doubt finding great amusement in our antics. One would have wished they might have found a nice puppet show or something instead of choosing to indulge their tastes for merriment in inflicting hardship upon us. But go argue with gods.

  At first we moved quickly, but then we started to slow down, the stress and strain of what we had endured taking its toll upon us. Eventually we came to a formation in the rocks that I can only describe as a sort of elevated crest, where the formation extended outward an additional few feet. Comfortable it certainly was not, but the marginal addition of space was enough for our purposes and we sank to the ground, hungry, tired, thirsty, and aching.

  “Lie flat,” Sharee said with authority, her first words spoken to me in several hours. The sun was moving on its course, orbiting our little world which—as everyone knew—was the center of the universe. I was too exhausted and in too much pain to argue with her, and did as she said.

  She clambered around me, undid my breeches, and started to slide them down to expose my bare backside. “I’m warning you,” I said weakly, “I don’t think my performance is going to be up to its usual standards.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. Your performance wasn’t that great on your best day.”

  I was going to argue the point, but I chose to let the remark pass. Considering where she was at that moment, and the position I was in, it seemed the politic move.

  I couldn’t exactly see what she was up to, but I assumed she was studying the wound carefully. She pulled on gloves then and placed her hands delicately on my posterior in what can only be described as the least sensual manner that any woman has ever touched me in that area. “The point doesn’t appear to be barbed, fortunately,” she said. “So take comfort in small favors. Now, I’m going to do this as gently as I can. On the count of three. Count with me—one …”

  Well, naturally she yanked it out on two. And even more naturally, she wasn’t gentle. I took it like a man … a man who tends to shriek loudly when confronted with pain. Fortunately, I was not embarrassed by my lack of fortitude. I had long gotten over any blushes for that failing in my personality. Indeed, there were so many failings in my personality that intolerance for pain seemed one of the more minor ones.

  She then proceeded to dress the wound, and I have to admit that in that instance her ministrations were indeed cautious and even tender. “It could have been worse,” she said.

  “How?”

  “You could have turned around just before the arrow hit you.”

  “Ah.” I shuddered, envisioning the arrow quivering in the depths of my groin. “Well … that’s one of the advantages of being a coward, I suppose. You’re far more likely to be struck in the backside.”

  “You’re not a coward, Apropos,” she said suddenly and with such certainty that she was almost ferocious in her con
viction. “There’s many things you are … but that’s not one of them.”

  “I’ll thank you not to tell me my mind,” I replied. “And what would you say I am, if not that?”

  “Confused,” she said.

  “Confused? I don’t understand.”

  “And thus is my point proven.”

  I blinked at the bizarre turn the conversation had taken, and then mentally shrugged.

  Once she was done, attention was turned to the remains of the arrow that was in her leg. I would like to tell you that I was as zealously fierce in yanking clear the arrow in her as she was in my circumstance. But I wasn’t. There is very little I will not stoop to if it will benefit me, but the bottom line was that—at that moment—Sharee was simply a helpless female, and I could not bring myself to take joy or cruel mirth from that situation, no matter how much I would have liked to.

  I tore away some of the cloth of her leggings from around the area of penetration, and then as gently as I could, worked the arrowhead out. As near as I could tell, the arrow was lodged in a muscle, and I was concerned that if I just ripped it out, I might do serious damage to her and impair her ability to ever walk normally again. That was the other thing going through my head, you see. Whatever animus I might have for Sharee—the woman had, after all, completely disrupted my rather comfortable existence—I knew all too well what it was like to go through life hampered in the simple act of walking. I would not have wished that condition on anyone, including my worst enemy.

  All right, maybe my worst enemy. And his lieutenants. And underlings. And immediate family. But no one else. All right, perhaps cousins, but only if they were utter cretins in their own right.

  Sharee, to her credit—and unlike me—did not cry out even as the point of the arrow came clear. I tossed it into the sea and studied her injury. I didn’t like it at all. The area around it was red and inflamed. I had seen wounds from arrows before. This looked far nastier. And I suddenly had the feeling, particularly judging from the dull ache radiating from my buttocks, that mine probably looked much the same.