Elfsorrow

They had heard the fast running water an hour before they reached it and had stood on the bank for a time, just gazing at the beauty unrolled in front of them. They'd slithered down a water run-off and were standing ankle deep in the flow. Across from them, some fifty yards away, a sheer cliff rose what had to be five hundred feet straight up.

Creviced and cracked, it was home to a mass of clinging vegetation. Birds by the thousand flew its length, gliding and spinning on the eddies in the air it created, and at a dozen places along its length that they could see before it swept away into a fine mist, water cascaded over its edge. The falls tumbled down glittering into the river, plumes of spray leaping at their bases, plunge pools gouged out of the rock by the erosion of ages.

Before them, the river ran quickly through the narrow strait. Further up, it had been faster, thundering through a defile and bouncing off the rock before settling down into the gentle but pacey flow. Yron couldn't see too far into the mist north and to his left but he was left hoping that the silt-laden water calmed further around the next bend. Either that or they were in for a bumpy ride.

'Good news or bad news?' he asked Ben-Foran.

'Bad,' said Ben.

'It's going to hurt.'

'And the good?'

'You won't have to paddle, and until it settles down no crocodiles. '

'Piranhas?'

'I'll let you know.' Yron grimaced. 'Now, we need to find something to hang on to. Shouldn't be too difficult.'

He waded upstream, through the relatively still waters at the edge of the river, looking for a pocket pool. After thirty yards or so, he found one, filled with silt scum and, as he expected, plenty of driftwood. Heaving out his axe, he hacked free the largest log and floated it back down to Ben-Foran, trapping it between his leg and the bank and guiding it with a hand.

Despite his confidence that there would be no crocodiles in such a fast-flowing stream, he kept an eye out ahead and behind, looking for telltale ripples and those bug eyes creeping above the surface. He shivered and blew out his cheeks at the thought of being stalked by something so merciless and efficient but forgot his fears when he saw Ben. The boy was white as a sheet, hugging his body and staring out into the river as if hypnotised.

'Ben?' The boy turned and tried to smile. It was a feeble effort. 'Are you all right?'

'Is it really necessary?' he asked. 'Can't we lose our scent just wading down the side?'

Yron laughed. 'Depends if you think you can outrun a panther or an arrow.'

'Surely they're well behind.'

'You have no idea, do you?' said Yron. 'In some quiet moment out there in the middle, I'll explain who these people are and why we should be as far from them as is humanly possible.'

Ben cast a frightened glance over his shoulder back up into the deep green mass of the rainforest.

'What are you worried about, Ben? Can't you swim or something? ' Yron's encouraging smile died on his lips as Ben raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. 'Oh, no. Out of all the people I could have escaped with, I've chosen the sinker.'

But to his own and Ben's surprise, he didn't lay into his second in command for his lack of training, he just laughed, the sound booming off the rock opposite and then lost in the roar of water.

'It isn't funny,' said Ben. 'I just don't like open water. Not to swim in.'

Yron crooked a finger and reluctantly Ben waded out the yard or so to him and the log.

'I'll let you into a secret,' said Yron. 'You won't need to swim.'

'No?' Ben's face brightened.

'No. When the croc grabs you, you don't get the chance.'

'It's not funny, Captain,' repeated Ben. He was breathing hard and chewing his top lip. Yron saw him shiver.

'Sorry, Ben, bad joke,' said Yron. 'But I was right about you not having to swim. All you've got to do is hang on for your very life. Reckon you can do that?'

'Do I get a choice?' Ben managed a weak smile.

Yron shook his head.

'Then I'll try,' he said.

'Good lad,' said Yron. 'You'll be fine. Now let's get out into the stream. Snap the lock over your scabbard. Don't want you losing your sword.'

With that, he pushed the log away and plunged after it, Ben scrambling after him. The boy grabbed on tight, changing his grip again and again. Yron felt the tug of the current as they edged out into the flow. Gods knew if they'd survive but one thing was sure. If they didn't put some distance between them and those chasing, they'd be dead in a day. Yron just prayed they didn't escape one lot just to fall into the hands of those spread through the rest of the forest.

'Oh well, only one way to find out.'

'Sir?'

'Nothing, lad. Just hang on, and keep your legs up as much as you can. This is going to be interesting.'

The main force of the current took them, the log gathered speed and they were dragged along in its wake, out of control and into the hands of the Gods. Yron wasn't a religious man by nature; to him religion was a matter of convenience and a support for the weak. But there are some times when you are so small and helpless that you need something to hang your life on, however briefly.

So while he watched the cliffs rush by, the water crash down from high above, and the bank they'd left begin to rise sheer as the river narrowed again and angled down, he began to pray.

He hoped the Gods, whoever they were, were listening. It was not the sort of news Blackthorne wanted. He was walking through the marketplace with Baron Gresse, talking to the fresh produce stallholders, who were seeing their profits shrink and their livelihoods threatened. He'd worked out a compensation scheme based on the prices he'd previously paid all suppliers for foodstuffs and was trying to ensure that those who sold what was grown or bred were not left high and dry. It was difficult to be fair and some felt aggrieved.

Still, it had been good having Gresse here to discuss the problems facing the country. He was into his late sixties now but had the vitality of a man two decades his junior. And with that mischievous twinkle in his eye and his disdain for the trappings of wealth, Gresse was a popular figure. He had stepped in to help his people much as Blackthorne had done.

Walking back to their horses and just about to ride out to an outlying hamlet on a cloudy and cool early afternoon, the two barons were hailed by a young squire racing through the marketplace on foot. He was barely in his teens, tall and thin as a rake and instantly recognisable. He skittered to a clumsy halt in front of them and bowed.

'My Lords, sorry to call you in such a manner.'

Blackthorne nodded. 'I take it this is an important message, young Berrin.'

'Yes, my Lord. Luke sent me personally, said you would want to know right away.'

'Well don't keep him guessing, young man,' said Gresse, a half smile on his face. 'Or me for that matter. At my age patience is in short supply.'

'Sorry, my Lord,' said Berrin, blushing bright red below his cropped brown hair. 'It's just that some of the mounted militia have intercepted a group of twenty riders heading for the town. They demand an audience with you, Baron Blackthorne.'

'Demand, eh? Who are they and where are they?' asked Blackthorne.

'Black Wings, my Lord, two miles north on the main trail. Selik is with them.'

Blackthorne cursed under his breath and swung into his saddle, his mood darkening. 'I will attend immediately. Tell Luke where I have gone.'

'Yes, my Lord.' Berrin ran off towards the castle.

'Coming, Gresse?' asked Blackthorne.

'I think I need to hear what you have to say to Selik. I wonder why he's chosen to come here. Surely he knows where you stand.'