Inferno! Volume 5, page 13
‘My lord…’ she started.
Her words beat through his fugue. Lydia was talking to him. His father, his invincible, wise, ever-present father, was dead. He was now the lord governor. The fate of Leucosia was his responsibility, and though his father had routed the xenos forces, at the expense of his own life, there were still thousands of genestealers left beyond the walls of the castle. He could do no less than his father; he would give his last breath for those he was now honour-bound to protect. He just did not know if it would be enough.
RIVER OF DEATH
Anna Stephens
British fantasy author Anna Stephens expertly weaves conflict and tragedy with this tense, fast-paced story of survival in the face of hopeless odds.
Many of the Mortal Realms’ greatest heroes are plucked from obscurity by tragic circumstance – Brida Devholm is one example of this. In her thrilling origin story, the young Brida scratches an existence as a rush-weaver in the great city of Demesnus in Ghyran. When an expedition on the River Quamus goes awry, Brida and her companions must fight the river’s Chaos-tainted life tooth-and-nail to avoid consumption by the foul servants of the Plague God.
This story is considered a prequel to Anna’s previous story ‘The Siege of Greenspire’, which appears in the anthology Oaths and Conquests.
‘Won’t his lordship get blisters on those soft hands of his?’ Sati asked with a sneer.
Brida groaned. ‘Don’t be like that, Sats, please,’ she begged. ‘Eron Rush is a good man.’
Sati curled her lip but relented when Cahn, her brother, kicked her ankle. A faint blush stained the young woman’s cheeks and, despite herself, Brida was glad. The twins were her oldest friends, but they both thought her marrying into one of Demesnus’ ruling families was a mistake, a betrayal of the poor weavers and fishers she’d grown up with.
The burden of their resentment bit at her. Brida rubbed her palm over her lips, feeling those calluses that Eron didn’t have snag against her skin. Calluses from wielding the rush-knife, from tying knots, from punting, from weaving. From scratching a living in a city once a centre of learning and power. The birthplace, if legend was true, of Saint Garradan – Gardus Steel Soul – himself!
But despite the care and wise governance of the Rush family, Demesnus was a shadow of its former glory. The city was famous for its weaving and basketry, yet the rushes that supplied their industry were failing, great swathes of them dying year after year, irrespective of their hardiness and ability to spread far and wide along the edges of the river. Some thought they had been harvested too heavily for too long, others that some new parasite or blight had found its way downriver.
Whatever was causing it, times had been especially lean this last year, and a small, selfish part of Brida acknowledged that marrying Eron Rush would put such concerns behind her. The thought shamed her; what about her friends? How would Sati and Cahn fare when they took over their parents’ business? How would Brida’s own family cope without her to cut rushes for them?
Cahn was laughing silently at her distraction, no doubt believing her daydreams had taken a different turn, and she felt a blush, hotter than Sati’s had been, warm her cheeks, both at the implication and her own cowardice at not correcting his opinion.
She checked the binding that attached her rush-knife – a sickle as long as her forearm – to its pole, which was longer than she was tall, and listened to the twins’ good-natured bickering as they waited for Eron to arrive. He’d do so in a flap, Brida knew with a secret smile: he hated being late, but he hated getting up early even more, and to get all the way to the eastern docks on the River Quamus for dawn was more than he could manage.
And then there he was, the mist cutting the brightness of the sun so it didn’t flare in the burnished red of his hair the way she liked. Instead it was dull with moisture, but his eyes were alive – apologetic and laughing both. He faltered a little at the sight of Sati and Cahn, then came resolutely forward with an engaging grin. Sati was at the pole and Brida shot her a warning glare. She wouldn’t put it past her friend to rock the punt as Eron clambered in.
She needn’t have worried. Eron sprang off the quay into the middle of the boat with ease, balancing against its movement with unconscious grace. It impressed the twins. It did something far more interesting to Brida’s stomach, but she swallowed against it and the resurgent blush.
‘I’m so sorry I’m late,’ he babbled, snaking an arm around her waist and kissing her cheek, the corner of her mouth. He let go before she could push him away and advanced on the twins, hand out. ‘I’m Eron. Brida’s told me so much about you.’ He patted the satchel slung over his shoulder. ‘I brought supplies so we can stay out all day. Pies, cheese, apples, salted pike. Even some beer.’
Cahn’s mouth dropped open. ‘Well,’ he managed, standing to shake Eron’s hand, ‘that’s a good start.’
Sati was more reluctant, her expression promising Eron all sorts of pain if he hurt her friend. Eron pressed his lips together and gave her a solemn nod, a silent oath. Sati’s eyes narrowed a little, but then she huffed and shook his hand too. Brida released her breath.
‘All right, daylight’s burning,’ she said briskly. ‘Let’s get moving. Sats, you’ve got the pole. Cahn and I will row until we reach the reed beds.’
‘I’d like to do my share,’ Eron said, and sat down at the oar before she could protest. Cahn shrugged and took the other, leaving Brida with nothing to do but navigate and hope they’d all get along. It was disconcerting. It was wonderful. Mostly, it was terrifying.
The morning brightened as they moved upriver from Demesnus, Cahn making Eron work hard to match his rhythm. Her fiancé was soon sweating and his smile had become a rictus, but he didn’t complain and he didn’t slow. He was the outsider here, and it seemed he was determined not to embarrass himself.
They all fell silent as they passed a huge reed bed. The tall brown stems were soft, bending over under the weight of their own heads. Brida knew from frustrating experience they would fall apart if she tried to weave with them, and anything she did make would hold a strange, bitter scent unlike anything she’d ever smelt before. Many of the oldest weavers were worried by the unknown blight, muttering prayers to the Lady of Leaves for intervention. Demesnus had enjoyed peace and prosperity for many years, and Brida worried that that time was coming to an end.
‘Hey, Eron. Heard of the River-Watcher?’ Sati broke the silence and they all jumped.
Eron nodded, grave. ‘I have,’ he said solemnly. ‘The spirit of the Quamus. Some say he’s a sort of god. That in return for an offering he will ensure a fruitful harvest from the river.’
Sati’s eyes narrowed. ‘Wrong,’ she said. ‘He’s a spirit all right, and he demands offerings, but they’re to stop him upending your boat and dragging you to the bottom of the river. He eats the unwary, they say. The unlucky. Those whose offering isn’t proportionate to their status.’
Eron stopped rowing and they drifted slowly. Brida stood up, ready to intervene. ‘Then I suppose I should make an offering that’s appropriate, shouldn’t I?’ Eron asked. ‘What would you suggest?’
Sati pursed her lips and Brida groaned inwardly. Her friend’s impulsiveness had got them all into trouble more times than she cared to remember, and she had no idea what Sati might suggest to see how far she could push Eron, the rich man who’d stolen Brida away.
‘Your dignity,’ Sati said.
‘Sats,’ Brida warned, but Eron interrupted.
‘A mighty offering indeed for one so stiff-necked and unfamiliar with the real work done by the good people of Demesnus,’ he said, and before anyone could comment, he stood up and stripped off his coat. ‘River-Watcher, accept my dignity as your offering,’ he called, and belly-flopped into the water.
The boat rocked and Sati flailed to regain her balance, her mouth an ‘O’ of astonishment as she clung to the punt’s pole.
Cahn began to roar with laughter as Eron surfaced and paddled for the side, his mouth tight with pain from the impact and a string of weed clinging to one ear. He hauled him on board and gave the other man an approving slap on the back. ‘I’d say your dignity was well and truly offered, Eron,’ he said approvingly. ‘I’m glad too. If you’d offered the beer instead, well, we could never have been friends.’
Sati grunted, but couldn’t help smiling as Eron shuddered in feigned horror at the weed festooning him. ‘You’re all right, rich man,’ she said after a pause. ‘But best get back on that oar if we’re to get any work done today.’
‘As you command, Lady Sati,’ Eron said.
The twins laughed and Brida felt a knot of tension loosen in her chest. ‘You’re an idiot and I love you,’ she murmured, planting a kiss on his wet cheek.
‘And you’re beautiful,’ he murmured back through chattering teeth. ‘Now get out of my way, woman, and let me row like the man I am.’
They were half a mile from the healthy reed beds when the flat-bottomed punt rocked so hard that Cahn’s oar came up out of the water. Eron yelled in surprise, letting go of his oar to grab the bench and the punt’s side. Sati clung to the pole, pushed deep into the riverbed. Brida, in the square prow, disappeared into the water with a splash.
It was shockingly cold this far out on the wide, swift river, and her disbelief at being knocked overboard – Brida prided herself on her skill as a sailor – meant she just hung in the water for a second. She opened her eyes; they must have hit a submerged branch or something, because there weren’t any sandbanks on this part of the Quamus.
Nothing. Brida kicked for the surface, her troggoth-hide boots threatening to drag her down. Her head broke the surface and she gasped in a breath, looked for the punt. Three worried faces peered down at her.
‘Brida!’ Eron called.
She flailed a hand in acknowledgment. ‘I’m fine. Steady the boat.’ She had both hands on the side when something brushed past her legs – something big, muscular. A long, sinuous shape moved beneath her and the boat, grey and green. ‘Get me out,’ she said and the urgency in her voice had Cahn leaping to her side. He dragged her into the punt. ‘There’s something down there. It’s big,’ she stuttered, shuddering.
‘Get on the oars,’ Sati ordered and Eron slunk back to the bench. They weren’t fishers, weren’t equipped to deal with some of the river monsters inhabiting the Quamus. Rush-knives were one thing, but it was more prudent to just leave the creature to its own devices. They rowed hard, angling for the reeds and the illusion of safety. They didn’t make it.
Sati shrieked as the pole was ripped from her hands and then snapped like a twig. The brown water churned and a grey-green flank turned in the morning sun and was gone – beneath them. The four of them clung to the sides on instinct, riding the next impact, which sent the punt lurching cross-current. Eron and Cahn fought the oars to drag them back on course.
Another impact spun them the other way and they all saw it this time, the muscular body whipping through the water, longer than the punt – a freshwater eel mutated, grown to monstrous size and malevolent intent.
‘Everyone quiet,’ Brida whispered and they waited, oars in the water but not pulling.
‘I think we’re all right,’ Cahn started, but the boat rocked again, the wood echoing to the dull boom of the eel’s strike. A tail flicked up and around, scything towards the men in the waist. Eron grabbed Cahn and jerked him sideways, almost into his lap, and the tail flapped down, smashing the bench where he’d been sitting. It wriggled and was gone.
‘Circling,’ Sati called, her voice throbbing with fear. ‘It’s coming back. Row!’
‘Ship those oars,’ Brida countermanded. ‘We’re going to need them.’ She stood, legs spread for balance, and hefted her rush-knife. The long handle gave her a six-foot reach and the blade had a wicked edge. She watched the river intently, blinking away the freezing water leaking from her hair. The twins both took up their knives and Eron hefted an oar with awkward resolution. They all stared down at the river as the punt slowly spun and began drifting downriver with the current, back towards Demesnus.
‘Port!’ Sati cried.
‘Starboard!’ Eron yelled at the same time.
‘Which is it?’ Cahn demanded, but then the boat shuddered, the planks splintering as the eel drove into the side. ‘We’ve got a leak!’
Brida glanced back. It was more than a leak; water was pumping from between two planks faster than they’d be able to bail. If the eel was prepared to let them bail. She saw its blunt head and square mouth arrowing through the water away from them, and the long, powerful body sliding after. Her heart was in her throat, beating so hard it was difficult to breathe.
‘Twins, take position fore and aft the bench,’ she croaked as it headed for them again. ‘Eron, both oars, row for your life. There’s an island ahead, I’ll guide you in. Sats, port side – Cahn, take starboard. Slash don’t hook. We don’t want to drag it on board or we’re all dead.’
The warm brown of Sati’s face had curdled to sickly grey, but she balanced easily against the rocking, rush-knife poised.
‘Careful, careful,’ Cahn was muttering as Eron grunted at the oars, pulling fast and smooth while Brida threw handfuls of water out of the bottom of the boat. It was covering the tops of their feet already. If the eel managed to hit the same spot again, the punt would come apart.
Even at the height of summer, the sun wouldn’t have been strong enough to cut through the chill she felt as the thing’s back breached the river and she saw, clearly for the first time, that the green speckling wasn’t a pattern on its scales, but rot. Gangrene. Plague.
‘Alarielle save us,’ she breathed and then Sati was swinging, blade winking golden as it disappeared below the surface and beneath the creature’s body to slice upwards, rolling it and opening grey flesh and green putrescence. Blood gouted from its flank and, maddened by its wound or Nurgle’s Rot – for it could be nothing else – it bashed its deformed, monstrous head against the punt over and over, coiling its massive body to flail at the underside.
Brida saw it foul the oar and began to shout a warning, but then the oar snapped in half with horrific force, the handle slamming up into Eron’s face and knocking him off the bench. Cahn grabbed the remaining oar and hit the eel as it passed beneath them again. Brida splashed to Eron and dragged his head up so he didn’t drown. He was unconscious and bleeding.
The Chaos-addled fish rammed them again, staving in three planks so the river poured through the gap. They were going down.
‘Take him,’ Brida shouted at the twins. ‘I’ll keep it busy on the starboard side. Slip out on the other and make for the island.’
‘That island? They say it’s haunted–’ Cahn began, horrified.
‘Go!’ Brida screamed, because their own ghosts would haunt the river if they didn’t. She had the rush-knife in one hand and the broken oar in the other. The eel lifted its head from the water, gills flapping obscenely. It watched her and she watched it, both poised, both waiting. It was just a fish, but there was intelligence there. Malevolence.
The deck rocked as the twins lowered Eron and themselves into the river with the punt between them and the monster and the island only a hundred yards away. They could make it. They would make it. They’d be safe. Brida didn’t let herself think any further than that. The eel’s head lowered so its gills lipped at the water, and she feinted with the oar, swept the rush-knife around instead. She caught the thing with the outside, false edge, knocking it away instead of slicing it open.
It dropped below the surface and Brida felt it pass beneath the boat, felt its intent. There was easier prey to be had. Prey that swam fast – for a human – but was encumbered with an unconscious man.
‘No,’ Brida breathed. She dropped the oar, ripped the knife free from the long handle and dived into the river, wrapping her arms and legs around the eel’s tail as it flashed by beneath. She had time for one breath before it twisted and was on her, head slamming into her leg and teeth just missing flesh.
Brida hooked the sickle underneath the churning body and jerked upwards, felt the bitter edge bite in, and sawed it frantically back and forth. Green blood bloomed in the murky water and the eel thrashed, more concerned now with throwing her off. Brida tightened her legs and arm around it and kept cutting. It was longer than the punt, thicker around its middle than her thigh, and it was all lean, packed muscle. It gave a single, mighty contortion and threw her clear.
Brida struggled to the surface, dragged in air and looked around. The island was only a few strokes away – the eel had brought her right to it. She kicked desperately as Cahn splashed back into the shallows armed with a heavy stick. Then Sati darted past him, grabbed Brida’s hand and hauled. Her knees caught on the riverbed and she kicked, pushed, knife-hand squelching down into the mud. Cahn bellowed and she heard the stick swing down and crack into something with a meaty thud. Water roiled and thrashed and then the big twin raced back, grabbed Brida under her other arm and, together, they got her to shore.
They didn’t stop once they were past the tideline, though Brida had swallowed half the Quamus and could barely breathe. Instead, Cahn threw Eron over his shoulder like a bushel of reeds and they ran. Trees, dripping with moisture and bearded with moss, closed in around them and the rushing of the river, along with its cold breath, faded into silence broken only by their pounding footfalls and rasping breath.
They stopped in a small clearing and Cahn lay Eron on his side. His nose was mashed flat and the lower half of his face was coated in fresh blood, but his chest rose and fell. He lived. Brida let out a cry and dropped down next to him, her hands feverish on his face and chest even as she coughed and struggled for air. ‘Eron? Eron, wake up. Please, Eron!’
