Жаклин Кэри - Godslayer

Lilias closed the door, and wept.

For days, their path had taken them westward on an arid course through the Northern Harrow, following an underground branch of the Spume River.

Thulu led the way, probing with his digging-stick and listening, listening to the lifeblood coursing through Uru-Alat’s veins, deep below the surface. Dani did not question his uncle’s guidance. All children of the Yarru-yami were taught to follow the deep veins of Uru-Alat, but the skill was honed by age and practice, and this was a task for which the Yarru elders had trained his uncle for many years.

Although it was a hardship, at least it was one to which the Yarru were suited. Dani and his uncle sipped sparingly from their waterskins, their bodies accustomed to eking the most from every precious drop. When ordinary folk would have faltered, the Yarru pressed onward with only a touch of discomfort.

They kept to low ground, to dry gorges and valleys. Away from the leaping rivers there was scant sign of any other living thing, save the tall spruce that dotted the mountainsides. It was a mercy, for it meant they saw no sign of Fjeltroll. Here and there, Uncle Thulu found a tiny spring, like an unexpected gift of Neheris, a sparkling trickle of water darkening a narrow cleft amid the rocks.

Where there were springs, there was small game; hare and ptarmigan. Using Yarru-style slings Thulu had made with strips of hide, both of them took turns shooting for the pot. It was harder to get a clean shot than it was in the open desert, but to his pleasure, Dani found his keen eye held him in good stead as a marksman.

After clambering amid the mountain peaks, it was almost easy going. Their feet, already hardened by the desert, grew accustomed to the harsh terrain. The nights were cool, but nowhere near as chill as they had been in the heights. After some debate, they gauged it safe to build a brisk fire, which dispelled the worst of the cold; for the rest, they shared their wool cloaks and huddled together, doubling their warmth.

On the morning of the seventh day, they heard a distant roar. Uncle Thulu, leaning on his freshly sharpened digging-stick, turned to Dani with a grin. “That’s it, lad. That’s our river!”

The trail wound through a torturous series of switchbacks, and it was an afternoon’s hard tramping before they reached the source, standing upon a promontory of rock and beholding what lay below.

When they did, Dani gazed at it with awe.

The Spume River burst out of the side of a mountain, plunging in a mighty cascade to the churning riverbed below. At close range, the sound of it was deafening. It was like a living thing, foam-crested and green-thewed, boiling around the boulders that dared disrupt its course. On the edge of the near bank, the barren limbs of a half-fallen spruce tree struggled desperately against the current.

“We’re going to follow that ?” Dani asked, agape.

“Aye, lad!” Uncle Thulu widened his nostrils and inhaled deeply. He shouted his reply. “Can’t you smell the taint of it? One way or another, it will lead us to Darkhaven!”

Opening his mouth to respond, Dani gazed past his uncle and paused. Forty yards downriver, hunkered on a ledge, a squat figure was watching them.

At a passing glance, it looked like a boulder, perched and stolid, the color of dull granite; then it flung out one massive arm to point at them, its barrel chest swelled and swelled, increasing vastly in girth, and its mouth gaped to reveal a cavernous gullet.

The roar of a Tordenstem Fjel split the gorge.

Dani’s blood ran cold.

It was a wordless roar, and it echoed between the walls of the gorge, drowning out the sound of the river, impossible though it seemed. Dani clapped both hands over his aching ears, his insides reverberating like a struck gong. His teeth, the very marrow of his bones, vibrated at the cacophonous howl.

“Fjeltroll!” he shouted unnecessarily.

Again the roar sounded, making his innards quiver. And, oh, worse, even worse! On the ridge above it, other heads popped up, silhouetted against the sky; inhuman heads, misshapen and hideous. There were at least a score of them. The sentry repeated its deafening howl and the Fjeltroll began to descend with horrible speed, jamming talons into narrow fissures and swarming down the cliffs.

“Dani!” He could see Uncle Thulu’s mouth shaping his name as he pointed toward the banks of the churning river. “This way!” Without waiting, Thulu plunged downward, slithering through a gap in the rocks.

“Don’t leave me!” Fighting panic, Dani scrambled after his uncle. It was hard to hold a thought while his insides churned, and he could scarce feel his fingertips. The paralyzing roar sounded again. Glancing behind him, Dani saw the Fjel drawing closer. They wore nothing over their coarse hide, and their leathery lips were drawn back to reveal long tusks. Small yellow eyes glinted with ruthless cunning under their bulging brows. “Uru-Alat,” he whispered, freezing.

“Come on !” Uncle Thulu shouted. At the bottom of the gorge, he had made his way to the fallen spruce and was wrenching at its uppermost branches, breaking them loose. “Dani, come on !”

Half-sliding, half-falling, the Water of Life banging against his chest in its clay flask, Dani made the descent. The plunging Spume boiled like a cauldron, then snarled and raged in its narrow bed, spitting geysers in his path. He stumbled across rocks slick with spray to his uncle’s side.

“Hold these.” Sparing a quick glance up the gorge, Thulu thrust a load of spruce branches into his arms. “No, like so. Good lad.”

“Are they … ?”Dani clenched his jaw to still his chattering teeth.

“Aye. Fast.” As calm as though he were braiding thukka-vine in the desert, Thulu wove a length of rabbit-hide rope amid the branches, deftly knotting and tightening. “We have to try the river, Dani. It’s our only chance.” He met Dani’s gaze. “Whatever happens, hold tight to the branches. They’ll keep you afloat.”

Dani nodded, understanding.

“Good lad.” With a single, quick motion, Thulu stooped and grabbed his digging-stick, shouldering past Dani. “Now go !”

The Fjeltroll were on them.

The path was narrow, and even the sure-footed Fjel could only attack two at a time. Uncle Thulu fought like a tiger at bay, wielding his stick in a blur. The unarmed Fjel hissed in fury, swiping with their terrible talons, unable to get within reach. The largest among them barked a guttural order, and two pair split away, clambering up the gorge in order to flank the older Yarru on his left. Dani, clutching his makeshift float, stared in horror. The one who had given the order grinned, a malicious intelligence in his yellow eyes.

“What are you waiting for?” Thulu shouted over his shoulder. “Go, Dani! Go !”

“No.” Deep within him, an unexpected wave of fury surged. Dani dropped the spruce bundle and reached for his sling. “Not without you!”

Busy fighting for his life, Uncle Thulu grunted.

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.