Waterborn

'All but this one; he did not fly. He stood here on the edge and waited for us. He was frightened, but less frightened of us than the edge.'

'The others?'

Karak cocked his head, pointed to the base of a tree. A broken rope was tied to it.

'He stretched that rope between these trees; we did not see it, for his sword was blazing. Two wolves and a huntsman we lost, for they tripped on the rope and tumbled over the edge.'

'I'm proud of him. I wish he had killed more. But what of my other friends?'

'They flew over the edge when we approached.'

'They jumped, you mean.'

'That isn't as pretty.'

'Are they dead? All dead?' It seemed incredible that anyone could survive such a fall.

Karak shrugged, a slight movement. 'I don't know. Shall we see?'

'What do you mean?'

'I can take you to the bottom of the gorge; no farther. Even I fear the Brother.'

'You? Who swallowed the sun?' Perkar asked sarcastically.

'The Changeling can swallow much more than that,' Karak replied softly.

Karak drew the cloak more tightly about himself, as if he were cold, and shivered in the way of gods. In an instant he was a Raven again, huge, his gleaming beak a reminder of Apad's fate. Perkar considered trying to avenge his friend, but it was a thin thought, an obligatory one that sank away into his confusion and weariness. After all, he had already died for honor once, more or less, and killed for it, too. If Karak wanted to help him, no matter how whimsical his reason, Perkar would be a fool to spurn him.

Karak flapped into the air, took a hold on Perkar's shoulders in precisely the way he had taken on Apad, before pecking into his brains.

'Best that you grip my legs,' Karak said, 'else I will have to dig into your shoulders too hard with my claws.'

Perkar acknowledged with a nod, reached around the scaly bird legs, wrapping his arms so that both his hands and the crook of his elbow held him there. Nevertheless, when the Crow God flapped again and they took to the air, his claws bit uncomfortably into Perkar's flesh.

They floated lazily down into the gorge, Karak's wings pop-ping and snapping in the air. The Raven hugged close to the sheer stone, intent, it seemed, on not flying over the surface of the River. He deposited Perkar on a narrow shingle of gravel and fallen stone.

'I don't see your friends,' he said. 'But perhaps they are here. I can see nothing, this close to the River.'

Indeed, Karak seemed somehow paler, his feathers less lustrous. As Perkar watched, a few actually faded to a dull gray.

'You see? This is what you wanted to battle, Perkar. Even asleep, he already begins to eat at me.' The Crow hesitated and cocked his head to the side. 'But a battle is coming, Perkar,' he hissed softly. 'A war of gods and men. You would be wise to choose the right side.'

'A war?' Perkar grunted. 'I'll have no more of that.'

'You have no choice, pretty thing.' Karak stretched his wings and beat once more at the air. His flight seemed labored, but the higher he flew, the more dextrous he became.

Perkar frowned at his retreating form. 'Thank you,' he called out. 'But how did you know my plan to fight the Changeling?'

Karak uttered a short, harsh laugh. 'With which of these did the Forest Lord arm himself against his Brother?' he called, in the mocking voice of the Lemeyi.

For an instant, Perkar's dulled brain did not understand, then fury stabbed through the fog.

'You!' he shrieked. 'That was you.'

'Indeed,' came the diminishing voice of the Raven. 'And you have everything you desired. Your enemy at hand and a weapon to kill him with. Good luck to you, Perkar. I will send you one last gift…'

And, despite Perkar's curses and imprecations, he was gone and did not return.

 

 

Perkar sat on the shingle until the sun westered and the long shadow of the gorge consumed him. Then, not knowing what else to do, he rose stiffly to his feet and began to walk along the narrow shore, downstream. He passed the sandbar, where the corpse of the horse lay, bloated and covered with flies. He recognized it, of course; the Kapaka's horse. Reluctantly Perkar waded out to it, sinking up to his waist. The water felt like any water he had ever been in, save for a faint cold tingling that might have been the result of his exhaustion. Two days' sleep, it seemed, were not enough to heal such grievous wounds as his without cost.

The horse stank terribly, but Perkar managed to free the packs that still remained upon it. He found full waterskins (he did not trust the River) and some food, the latter miraculously still dry in its resin-impregnated sack. These he took, along with a single bar of incense and a flask of woti, presumably one of the gifts the Kapaka had been saving for the Forest Lord. He trembled as he took them, remembering the dream he had shattered, the misfortune he had brought to his people, grandchildren who would not see their grandfather again. The Kapaka was dead at heart before the hunt came after them, dead the moment the Forest Lord revoked his offer of new lands.

My king is dead, he realized, and his knees buckled, betrayed him into the cold River water. This was what it had all come to. A strange, new kind of panic came over him, a lucid surge of horror. Since Apad had killed the guardian, everything had seemed a terrible dream, the sort one could never run fast enough in. Now the running was done, the nightmare over, and he awoke to find it all true, morning without light or comfort.

He had not merely led his friends to their deaths, not merely thwarted his king's wishes; he had destroyed the Kapaka, killed him.

For the first time since leaving his father's valley, he felt the eyes of his people fasten on him, accusing. He had felt them before, but then they looked upon him with amusement, with disdain at worst, seeing a 'man' without a wife, without lands, without Piraku.

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.'