Now they saw a monster. His father, his mother, his brother, his grandfather, his honored ancestors—even they saw him so, the man who had killed the king, and more. For in killing the Kapaka, he might have killed his people. If the Forest Lord was now their enemy…
They had been fools. He had been so much worse than a fool. No weapon could cut the Forest Lord, no host could stand before the hunt. If his people marched against Balati—for revenge, for territory—they would be swept away like autumn leaves before a whirlwind.
Because of me.
He thrashed about in the shallows, searching for the king's body, for anything. For something to save. But he knew, even as he thrust numb fingers against the rocky bottom, knew that the Changeling had taken his share, too, taken the Kapaka to make pebbles of his bones and fish of his flesh. Taken even that.
So Perkar continued on, stumbling, almost blind with remorse.
It was nearly dark when he saw the spark of flame ahead, and the only hope he had felt since meeting Karak quickened his pace. The wind shifted his way, and he smelled burning juniper. It seemed delicious to him, more desirable than any food. When he got closer, he could see a Human form huddled near the fire, eyes reflecting the flames as they watched him approach.
"Ngangata!" Perkar called. An arm raised weakly, waving.
"I think you did slow them down," Ngangata told him, his voice scratchy and weak. "For what it was worth. It is good that Apad died well." He seemed genuine.
"I should have died, too."
Ngangata did not respond to that. "The Huntress was dismounted," he said, after coughing a bit. "You must have killed her lion."
Perkar twitched his lip. "My sword did."
Ngangata nodded. "Well. We could have all had swords like that, and it would have made no difference. You and Apad did well. It was my mistake. I meant to bring us out farther upstream, where the river-wall is lower."
"Your fault?" Perkar declared incredulously. "Apad and Eruka and I broke the trust. We stole the weapons, killed their guardian. You have done nothing but try to salvage something from the tatters we left you. Nothing here is your fault, Ngangata. I only wish you had killed me, back in that cave where we fought."
Ngangata coughed raggedly. "That might have been best," he agreed. "Apad and Eruka would have never had the courage to enter the mountain by themselves."
"I know that. Why didn't you beat me when we fought? You could have, and I deserved it."
Ngangata looked dully up at Perkar. "Do you know how many times I have had to fight because of what I am? Seven days haven't gone by since childhood without some loudmouth challenging me. In my youth, I always fought to win, and I usually did." He gazed out across the River. "I believed that someday men would respect me, if not like me. But when I beat them, it was never said that I was fast, or strong, or brave. Always it was said I won because I was not Human, a beast. When men say things like that, they talk themselves into doing things they wouldn't ordinarily do."
"What do you mean?"
"Years ago, a man—never mind his name—I fought him, much as I fought you. But I beat him, in front of his friends. Later that night they all came for me, battered me senseless. I was lucky to survive."
Even in his present state, Perkar was shocked. "No warrior would ever do such a cowardly thing." He gasped. "Piraku…"
"Does not apply to one such as myself," Ngangata said dryly.
Perkar, ready to continue his protest, stopped. The Kapaka had said nearly the same thing. And if Perkar had been humiliated by Ngangata, what would Apad have said? He would have asserted precisely what Ngangata claimed—that the half Alwa had an unfair advantage over Humans.
"I see," Perkar said instead. "Yes, I can see that."
Ngangata waved his hand. "It's an old story," he said, dismissing the matter.
Darkness fell complete, though after a time the Pale Queen peeped over the canyon rim. Frogs sang in the River, and the two men huddled closer to the fire as mosquitoes tried to drain what was left of their blood.
"I'm glad you lived," Perkar said, after a time. "But the king… ?"
"The Kapaka is dead," Ngangata replied. "He hit the rocks and the River took him. I think he was dead even as we jumped; one of the Huntress' arrows pierced him."
"I found his horse," Perkar told him, feeling his throat tighten as he said it. "I've got some water and food."
"Good. We'll need those."
"The Kapaka…" Perkar gasped, choking back a groan, his odd panic suddenly intensified.
"Many died," Ngangata answered him. "We survived. That is a fact."
"He was not your king," Perkar hissed.
"No. He was much more than that to me," Ngangata shot back wearily.
Perkar stared at the glimmer in Ngangata's eyes and wondered what he meant, what lay there behind the black orbs.
"I'm sorry," he said finally. "I don't know you at all, Ngangata." He shifted, peered more closely at his companion. "What wounds do you have?"
Reluctantly the half man pulled his shift aside. A bloody bandage covered his ribs. "An arrow there," he said. "And my right leg is broken. Not bad for an encounter with the Huntress and a fall down a canyon."
A sudden inspiration struck Perkar. "Take this sword," he said. "It can heal you."
"No," said the voice in his ear. "Saving you bound our heartstrings together. I explained that. No one else can bear me unless those strings are severed, and that, of course, would kill you."
Ngangata saw the look of consternation cross his face.
"What is it?" he asked.
"My sword speaks to me," Perkar told him hesitantly. "It says it can heal only me."
Ngangata lifted his shoulders, attempting a shrug. "No matter," he said. "I will heal. My leg is splinted already, and the bleeding from the arrow has stopped."
Perkar doubted that last; he had seen the flecks of blood when Ngangata coughed. He did not mention this, however.
"Tomorrow I will hunt for us, or fish perhaps," Perkar told him. "When you can walk, we will strike off down-River."
"If you are hunting, we will certainly starve," Ngangata replied, but he smiled a bit.
"An insult!" Perkar returned, with a forced playfulness no more real than the love of a corpse. "Now we shall have to fight again." He tried to grin.
"This time I will kill you," Ngangata replied, in kind.
His smile was cruelly painful, and so Perkar relinquished it. "You were the best of us, Ngangata. We shall never fight again." He reached over and grasped the other man's hand. Ngangata returned the grip; it was still surprisingly strong. The strength seemed to leak out of it, though, and the pale man sank back onto his rough pallet of reeds, eyes closing gently. Perkar's heart caught in his throat.
"Ngangata!" he cried, reaching for the man's neck to seek his pulse.
"Let me sleep," Ngangata whispered. "I need some sleep."
Perkar sat with him, occasionally touching the body to make sure it was still warm. "I want you to live," he told the sleeping man.
The gorge walls kept the sun from waking Perkar until late morning. He rubbed his eyes and wondered where he was. The swiftly flowing River reminded him, and he turned anxiously to Ngangata. His companion was still asleep, but a brief touch was enough to assure him that Ngangata was still alive. He rose and stretched in the sunlight, feeling better than he had in some time. Surprisingly, his sleep had been untroubled by dreams. Perhaps the Changeling ate those, too.