“Or try swimming out of trouble,” Jebel snorted, glancing down at the dagger-tipped foam of the as- Sudat.
Tel Hesani gathered his courage and took a deep breath. “Have you any rope?”
“No.”
“Then we can’t tie ourselves together. It’s each for himself. If one of us slips, the other won’t be able to help him.”
Jebel gulped, then said, “I hope the gods are with you.”
“And I hope God looks favorably on you,” Tel Hesani smiled shakily, then stepped onto the bridge, Jebel close behind.
The wind tore at them immediately, as if it had been waiting all winter for this chance. Jebel risked one look back — the small band of Um Biyara had cleared the hill and were stumbling towards the river — then focused on his footing.
They edged along slowly, doubled over, ready to grab for a handhold if their feet slipped. The rock was caked in a layer of ice — most snowflakes were blown off it immediately — so it was treacherous underfoot. Jebel tuned out the howl of the wind, the blinding flecks of snow, and even Tel Hesani, training all of his senses onto the bridge, taking it one slow, sliding step at a time.
Jebel quickly lost count of the number of near misses, when the wind threatened to hurl him over the edge into the abyss or when a foot slipped and he crashed to one knee, steadying himself with his hands, a second away from oblivion. When he got to the middle of the bridge, the narrowest point, he paused, even though he knew it was crazy, and challenged the wind to do its worst. It howled angrily, as if infuriated, and beat at him even harder than before (or so it seemed). But Jebel withstood the gale, hunched over, grinning like a maniac. After a few seconds he moved on, and now he felt secure. The wind had thrown all that it could at him, to no avail. He was going to survive!
Of course, anyone on Makhras could have told him that a boy who stops to pat himself on the back in the middle of an ordeal invites the wrath of all the gods of luck.
They were almost at the end, safety within sight, when a stray bat was hurled at Jebel’s head by the wind. Its claws caught in his hair, and it dug its fangs into his neck. Jebel instinctively grabbed the bat and ripped it away. The wind caught the beast and smashed it into the bridge, killing it instantly, but Jebel was in no position to take comfort from that.
He had lost his balance. Both feet slipped at the same time. The wind nudged him, almost playfully, and he toppled.
“
Tel Hesani heard Jebel’s cry. Ignoring his earlier declaration that it was each for himself, he whipped around and reached out, despite the probability that Jebel would drag him over. His fingers came within a feather’s width of Jebel’s. For a split second both thought that Tel Hesani would succeed and pull the boy to safety.
But Tel Hesani’s desperate gesture proved a futile one. His fingers fell short of Jebel’s, and before he could lunge again, Jebel was gone, flying backwards, lost to sight almost instantly.
The bellow of the river filled Jebel’s ears. He saw a thin sliver of light pierce the cover of the clouds. Debbat Alg’s face shot through his thoughts, accompanied as usual by that of the glum Bastina. Then there was a bone- juddering crash into a world of churning chaos — and everything went black.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Down… down… down into a void. It seemed like his fall would never end. Tumbling head over heels into a cold, wet, black and roaring hell.
Finally Jebel slowed until he was hanging in the freezing darkness. He instinctively opened his mouth to scream. Water gushed in and he choked. As he gagged and thrashed wildly, his body rose and bobbed to the surface.
Jebel broke free of the water’s hold and gasped a hasty breath. Then he was driven under again, only to pop up after another struggle. Spitting out water, he looked for the bridge and Tel Hesani, but he had been swept out of sight of them. Then he was submerged again, swallowing, drowning. The cold consumed him. He was moments away from the end.
The current forced him up. He gulped for air, jaw working like a fish’s. He threw out his arms, clutching for the stars, begging the gods for mercy. Then…
Silence. The roar of the river faded. The current dwindled. The chill left his bones. He trod water for a few bewildered seconds, blinking dumbly. Then his eyes fell on something, and excitement flared inside him — a boat!
Jebel tried to hail the people on the vessel, but all he could manage was a croak. Rather than wait for his voice to return, he swam swiftly, arm over arm, legs a blur behind him. He felt sure that when he stopped to look, the boat would be gone. But when, long seconds later, he paused to check, he was within several strokes of its stern.
There was a rope ladder hanging from the side. Jebel grabbed hold of it and pulled himself up, emerging from the water like a dripping rat, shivering, shaking, teeth clattering. But he was alive! Despite the odds, he had somehow miraculously survived.
“Hello?” Jebel called.
There was no answer, and for an awful few seconds he thought the boat was deserted, that it had broken free of its moorings and was headed towards an unmanned calamity. But then somebody stood up near the bow, a tall man in a golden robe, his back to Jebel.
“Sir!” Jebel cried, stumbling forward, raising a hand. “I fell into the river. I saw your boat and climbed aboard. I hope you don’t…”
He fell silent. The man hadn’t turned, but there was something familiar about him, the color of his robe, the straight black hair hanging down his back. Jebel felt that he knew the captain of this boat. And it wasn’t a good feeling.
“Greetings, Jebel Rum,” the man said in a low, dry voice. “I have been waiting for you.”
“Wuh-wuh-waiting?” Jebel stuttered. “I duh-don’t understand.”
“I have been busy tonight,” the man murmured. “Three in a fire. Two in a rock fall. Many killed by bats or the um Gathaah.”
“How do you know about the um Gathaah?” Jebel wheezed. “Who are you?”
The man turned slowly. He had an infant’s face, but it was made of clay, not flesh. Only the eyes and lips moved in that dreadful, eerie mask, but they belonged to no human. The eyes were those of a raven, while the lips were blue and icy, wisps of fog rising from them as he spoke.
“I am Rakhebt Wadak,” he said. And in case Jebel was in any doubt, he added emotionlessly, “The god of death.”
Jebel stood by the bow, gazing at the river. It was the as-Sudat, and yet it wasn’t. The water glowed a deep blue color, much like Rakhebt Wadak’s lips, and there was an extra layer over the raging current of the river, a gently flowing sheet. In the distance Jebel could see other boats, some like the one he was on, others radically different. All were traveling in the same direction, drifting along at the same sedate speed.
Jebel glanced at the imposing, clay-faced figure of Rakhebt Wadak. He had filled with terror when the god of death revealed his identity, but that soon passed. Jebel knew that when Rakhebt Wadak came to collect your spirit, you had to go with him. There was no point fearing death at that stage, as you were already lost to the lands of the living.
A gentle wind swept over the boat, and Jebel shivered — he was still in his wet clothes, and his hair was damp, which confused him. According to the stories, the dead went naked into the embrace of Rakhebt Wadak, who filled the holding cells below deck with their spirits. Since the rest of the details were true — the boat, the robe, the
