It was a clean rage, clearing Dani’s head and making the blood sing in his ears. Somehow, although fear was still present, it seemed distant and unimportant. He reached into his pouch and withdrew a smooth stone, fitting it into the sling. He spun it, taking careful aim at the nearest Fjeltroll approaching on the left. Uru-Alat, but they were hideous! With a grimace, the Fjel pointed at the flask on his chest with one grimy talon, saying something in its harsh tongue. Dani let fly with the sling.
His aim was true. Clasping one hand over its right eye, the Fjeltroll roared and staggered. Grabbing a handful of stones, Dani flung a barrage in quick succession, driving the Fjel several paces backward. The others regrouped, watching. “Leave us alone!” he shouted at them.
It was a brief respite. Lowering their heads, the uninjured Fjel renewed their approach, grimacing as Dani’s slingflung rocks bounced from their tough hides, from the dense ridge of bone on their brows. In a few seconds, they would reach him.
On his right, he heard rather than saw it; Thulu’s sharp exclamation of pain, then a grunt of effort and a heavy thud. A Fjel voice roared in agony. An arm clamped hard about Dani’s waist, wrenching him off-balance. “Now, lad!”
And then he was falling.
The river smacked him like a mighty fist. It was like a living thing; a malevolent one that sought his life at every avenue, seeking to extinguish the spark of vital fire that made his heart beat and his lungs draw breath. Water filled his eyes and ears and nose and mouth, more water then he had known in a lifetime. Dani flailed and the river rolled him over like a piece of debris, driving him into its depths.
If not for his uncle, he would surely have drowned. It was Thulu’s strong arm around his waist that hauled him up until his head broke water and he gasped for air. With his other arm, Uncle Thulu held tight to the spruce-branch float, his fingers wedged under the hide ropes. “Hold on!” he shouted above the river’s din. “Hold on to the branches!”
Dani did.
It was barely large enough to let them keep their heads above water. The river spun them and Dani saw the Fjel on the banks, arguing amongst themselves. One lay fallen and motionless, Uncle Thulu’s digging-stick jutting from its torso. On the ledge above the gorge, the lone sentry howled in fury, receding quickly from view.
The biggest Fjel, the one who had given the orders, gave pursuit.
“Uru-Alat!” Clinging to the float, Dani watched the Fjel race along the narrow path, using all four limbs, scrambling and hurdling. His heart sank. Its mouth was open and panting hard, but it was outpacing the very current. “Can they swim?”
“I don’t know.” His uncle grimaced. Glancing at him, Dani saw trails of blood winding through the foam that churned around his submerged chest.
“You’re injured!”
“A scratch.” Thulu pointed with his chin toward a bend in the river. “Here he comes. Kick with your legs, Dani! I don’t think he can swim. If we can swing wide left, maybe the current will carry us past him.”
There where the bend created a shallow apron of shoreline and the current slowed a fraction, the Fjel was fording the river, wading with dogged persistence to intercept their course. Water parted to surge around the mighty thews of its thighs, around its waist. The force of it would have swept anything else off its feet.
Not the Fjel.
Step by step, it continued its steady advance.
Dani kicked frantically, felt the float’s course shift. His uncle grunted, beating at the river with one arm. The trails of red in the foam surrounding him spread and widened. Almost …
Neck-deep in the river, the Fjel raised one dripping arm and reached out with a taloned hand to catch a branch of their float, halting its progress. It had to tilt its chin to keep its mouth clear of the river’s surface. It was close enough that Dani was staring into its slitted yellow eyes, mere inches away.
It said something in the Fjel tongue.
“Go away!” Dani kicked at it.
The Fjel grinned and said something else, reaching with its other hand for the clay flask that hung about his neck. Water surged all around them on every side. Its taloned hand closed around the flask …
… and dropped, sinking below the surface of the river as though it held a boulder in its grasp. The Fjel sank, its head vanishing beneath the river. Its grip was torn loose from the float, and the current restaked its claim. Dani choked, feeling the thong tighten around his neck and burn his skin; then that, too, eased as the Fjel let go.
The float rotated lazily as it cleared the bend, its passengers clinging for dear life. Behind them, a column of bubbles broke the surface. The big Fjel rose, dripping and staring after them.
Too late.
They had rounded the bend.
Struggling to stay afloat, Dani watched it until it was out of sight and wondered what the Fjel had said. And then the river’s course took a steep drop and it turned once more to a white-water torrent, and he obeyed his uncle’s desperate, shouted orders and clung to the float and thought of water and how to stay alive in it and nothing else, until the raging current flung them hard against a boulder.
Something broke with an inaudible snap, and Dani felt an acute pain in his shoulder and a dull one in his head. As the world went slowly black in his vision, he worked one hand free to fumble at the clay vial around his throat. It was intact.
It was his last conscious thought.
The roar of the Tordenstem Fjel echoed through Defile’s Maw, scattering the ravens into a circling black cloud, setting the shrouded webs of Weavers’ Gulch to trembling, welcoming them back to Darkhaven.
Speros glanced at the figures crouching on the heights, remembering all too well his ungentle reception at their hands. He ran his tongue over his teeth, probing the gap where a front one was missing.
“Last chance, Midlander.” General Tanaros drew rein beside him, an unfathomable expression in his dark eyes. “I mean it. Turn around now, and ride away without looking back. You can keep the horse.”
Speros shook his head. “No.”
“You know what’s coming?”
“Aye, Lord General.” He kept his gaze steady. “War.”
Tanaros sighed. “If you had an ounce of sense, you’d take my advice and go.”
“Where, sir?” Speros shook his head again. “There’s no place for me out there. Should I join Haomane’s Allies and ride against you? I would sooner cut off my right arm.” Alarm squeezed his chest. “Do you seek to be rid of me? Is it because of what happened with the Yarru? I promised, I’ll not fail you again. And I did help, after all; you’d not have gotten the Well sealed without my aid.”
“Aye.” The General’s strong hand rested on his shoulder. “You’re a good lad, Speros. I do you no kindness in accepting your loyalty.”
“Did I ask for kindness?” Anger mixed with the alarm. “Sir?”
“No.” The General lifted his gaze, watching the ravens circle overhead. An errant lock of hair fell over his brow. Behind his austere features was a shadow of sorrow. “Perhaps it is a piece of wisdom that you do not.”
Something in Speros’ heart ached. The General feared for him. His family had reckoned him shiftless, an idler whose goals would never amount to aught. They had never showed as much concern for his well-being as the General did. They cared nothing for the ideas that fired his imagination. He had met their expectations accordingly and paid the price for it.
General Tanaros was different. He had believed in Speros, taken a chance on him. He knew, in a wordless way, that he would do anything to see General Tanaros smile, to see his expression lighten with approval.