Staerstone, page 16
“We can’t swim across it. We’d be washed away,” Hygera said.
“No loss,” Channagrin said, glaring at Andalu.
“Stop it!” Dendreá slapped his shoulder. She turned to Andalu. “So what do we do?”
“I…”
The Cavergothern had thrown down their bags and were unpacking their gear.
“It’s too early to set up camp,” he snapped.
“We cross.” Pan pointed to the rapids, with an actual smile. It was small and wry, curling one side of his thin lips, showing his crooked teeth, the first smile Andalu had seen from him.
“Impossible.”
The Cavergothern laughed.
Andalu frowned, unsure why Pan was eager to enter this rushing, freezing water. They’d switched from snarky to helpful, so he was wary of what they were planning. Did the Cavergothern really have a safe means of crossing the Glorious River? They lived in caves, in rivers. If anyone knew how to cross, it would be them.
Spoogy Holds
Zericha woke to bright light, and Catiallé cooking up a feast in the pot, the rich aroma of mushrooms, rehydrated goat meat and herbs promising a nourishing meal. She blinked at the sky, entirely blue, with the sun’s white eye blazing, warming her face.
“By the lazy slats of Skree!” Zericha cursed. “You let me sleep late. Is it midsun already?”
“You needed the rest. And another coating of this.” Catiallé squeezed a cold green poultice in her fist and held it up to Zericha’s nose.
“Eurgh. Stinks like rotting potatoes.”
“Your wound loves it.” Catiallé smiled.
Zericha touched the red skin on her ankle. “Ouch.”
Catiallé had already applied the paste while she’d slept. “It was oozing pus,” she said.
Zericha pressed her hand to her forehead, warm and slick with sweat, yet she felt cold. Shivering, she sat up and pulled the soft fur of the krooskin close around her shoulders.
Catiallé applied more paste to her leg.
“Stings!” Zericha said.
“That means it’s working.” She smirked.
“You sound just like the Chronos.”
“If only I were as wise as that old witch.” Catiallé wrapped the wound in paper bark, then tied a cloth bandage around it.
“She helped us, I know. But she stole my memories, when I was small.”
“She must have had good reason. I hope you can climb on this.”
“I’ll climb no matter what,” Zericha said, ignoring the warning voice in her mind: push yourself too far, too hard, and someone gets hurt. It might not be you, but you get tired, fatigued, clumsy, distracted; you make a mistake, and someone—
“Shush,” she said.
“Huh?”
“Nothing.” Zericha raised a spoonful of mountain stew to her mouth. “I don’t want to stop for another break until nightfall, if we can help it.”
Catiallé frowned at Zericha’s ankle. “Whatever you can manage.”
They ate, packed up and set off, rounding a corner to the north. The hiss of water falling nearby confirmed they were on the right path. The Glorious Waterfall lay not too far ahead, and it was thunderous.
The sunshine on Zericha’s shoulders urged her onward, warmed her up, to climb. Her skin itched and twinged around her sore ankle, but it was bearable unless it rubbed against something. She ignored the feeling of fever around her temples.
The roar of cascading water grew. As they rounded the bend, the forêt embraced them. The waterfall was enormous, thousands of gallons tumbling down and casting mist across to the sky, making rainbows as it caught the light. Through the trees, the waterfall was magnificent, the strongest force in the forêt, surging with power to give life and bring death.
“Great Mother Mountain,” Catiallé breathed. Zericha saw the rapture on her face and smiled. The plentiful water was testimony to Staerstone’s health and vigor. It was a source of hope that they’d find their way through this unsettled, dangerous time. She closed her eyes and raised her hand, inviting its strength to flow into her, as its spray misted her face.
“May the waters flow unhindered,” Catiallé said.
“May they tumble and cascade,” Zericha added.
“Full of life and flowing free, to all the lands.” Catiallé smiled.
It was a quote from the Staerstone Sagas. Zericha’s skin tingled.
“Let’s refill our water skins,” Catiallé said.
“And then let’s climb some wet rock.” Zericha grinned, keen to tackle the challenge head on.
Catiallé sighed, eyes serious. “Spoogy holds.”
“There’s an easy ascent we can use ropes on,” Zericha said. “We’ll be careful. We’ll be all right.” She squeezed her sister’s shoulder.
Catiallé nodded, then scratched her head, nails penetrating deep within her red and blonde spiraling braid. She looked at her nails. “Aurgh. Sweaty.”
“Maybe when we get to the top, we can wash our hair as a reward,” Zericha said.
“In freezing cold water?” Catiallé grimaced. “Some reward.”
“If we’re hot enough it will be refreshing.”
“Oh, we’re hot, babe.” Catiallé winked at her.
Zericha sniggered. “What am I going to do with you?”
The approach to the side of the waterfall was a gently-angled tract of rock and fallen wood, covered with moss, ferns and orchids. It was easy enough to walk through, and beautiful. Zericha reached out into the white cascades which fell like heavy rain this far out from the center, and filled her waterskin in moments.
She donned her harness and tied into the rope, then arranged all the gear on the loops at the sides. She had hexes and nuts for placing into cracks as anchors; prusiks and a personal safety attachment, with which she could attach herself directly to gear in the wall; she also had a tubular belay device, which the rope would flow through when she belayed her sister, or if she abseiled, and plenty of slings and carabiners to quickly attach things.
“I’ll climb without my pack, and then haul it up before you climb,” she said.
Catiallé nodded. Zericha looked up and planned her route, hands on the rock, leaning back to study the cliff. The wet rock resembled a carved, ghostly artwork, with long ovals like sad faces. Most importantly, there were flat sections to support her feet. Smearing—using friction to stand on vertical rock—wasn’t an option in the wet.
The last time she’d climbed here it had been easy, but it had also been dry and she hadn’t been carrying so much gear, or feeling the gravity of the mission she was on. Today, in the wet, she was taking a lot of protection and would place it at every opportunity she found: every crack and solid-looking, upward-angled protrusion.
She glanced over at the waterfall. It wasn’t a concern, so long as the wind didn’t drive the water towards her. As she climbed higher she’d be able to see a hundred feet down, to where the torrents crashed into a pool and flowed away in rapids.
That will be your reward, she told herself. That and making substantial progress up the mountain, to claim the Scepter. Yornan might have taken the Keyneedle but in this, the quest that matters, you can win. For the mountain. For peace. For everyone.
“Ready?” she asked Catiallé, whizzing through a quick cross-check.
“I’ll spot you,” Catiallé said, standing close behind, arms raised to catch her shoulders if she fell.
The rock under Zericha’s hands felt velvety, slippery and smooth. Balance, security, and small moves upwards would be key. Climbing on big holds, the first eight feet went past quickly. A deep crack was perfect for her first hex. A cool draft blew out from within. Strong rock on each side increased her confidence. She eased the hex in and angled it downwards where the crack narrowed, then attached a quickdraw and clipped the rope in.
“Bomber.” She grinned at the perfect placement. It was bombproof.
“On belay,” Catiallé said. Her breath was shaky as she drew in the excess rope.
Hearing her sister’s worry, Zericha took a deep breath, too. She was okay. The gear was solid. It would be better if she didn’t have to rely on it, but it was there.
“Upward,” she said. The rope pulled tighter as she climbed, then loosened again as her harness passed the hex. A small crack appeared within reach on the right, so she worked a nut in, frowning. She should try to go back left, away from the waterfall. A breeze chilled her shoulders and drops spattered across her back. Worry gnawed. If heavy wind brought torrents of water flowing this way, she might wash off the rock. She’d have to descend, or scramble to get a hold of the wall, with the threat of her protection flushing out, too. At best she’d be cut and bruised. At worst, she’d be—
Don’t think about it.
Another nut fit perfectly into a crack. She clipped the rope into the attached alpine draw.
“Nice,” Catiallé said.
Her climb up the cliff continued on good holds in brown rock. This section was run out, so she climbed very carefully, until she mantled onto a wide ledge, by pushing on her palms until her elbows were straight, and getting a leg up. Wait—was that metal she saw, glinting in the sunlight? Someone had placed anchor bolts here! She tapped the rock around them. It sounded solid. She clipped her personal safety attachment directly to a bolt, and took a deep breath of relief, then built a quad anchor of cord and carabiners. She clipped her rope in on one side with a clove hitch, and set up a pulley on the other to haul up the bags.
Catiallé climbed next, pausing only to clean up all the gear.
“You’re a fast climber, Princess,” she called down.
Catiallé rolled her eyes as she glanced up at her. “It’s easy enough on top rope.”
Zericha smiled. “There’s still some risk.” If her sister fell now, she’d swing a long way to the left, beneath the next quickdraw.
Catiallé’s eyes widened as her hand slipped. Zericha drew in a sharp breath and tightened her belay grip. With the rock so wet and slippery, Catiallé’s other hand lost its grip, and she fell.
Slackers
Andalu frowned at the Cavergothern. What could they be planning, beside these unpassable rapids? With a wide-legged stance on the gray rocks, Dya raised his bow. He aimed an arrow—with a thin rope attached to the back—across the roaring river, then drew back his bowstring and shot the bolt across.
The arrowhead lodged firmly in the nearest tree. A weighted tether sprang forward, carried by inertia. It extended a few feet, then bounced back. The weight swung around the tree trunk several times, wrapping and tethering tightly. Somehow the weight then swung around the rope several times, passed through a loop and stuck on.
“How in Doruth’s name did you—?” Andalu began, amazed by their efficient set-up, but wondering what they’d do next.
“Who?” Dya asked.
“Physics, magnets.” Pan waved him away.
“What’s this?” Andalu pointed to the flat cable Pan was handling.
“Shush,” Pan muttered.
“Slackline,” Dya said, using the doubled-up rope through the arrow to pull the slackline across the river, all the way to the tether on the other side. Pan fastened the other end of the slackline to a tree on this side of the river.
Andalu laughed. They had to be kidding.
“What good is that skinny thing?” He scowled at the thin webbing, about two inches wide. “Do we hold onto it and wade through the water?”
“I no get wet,” Pan said, placing a foot on the webbing. He sprang upward and balanced easily on the thin membrane.
“You’re not going to cross the river on that,” Andalu said, disbelieving, but Pan proved him wrong, halfway across the river already. As casual as if he was strolling through a park.
Andalu gulped, barely able to watch as he skipped back over the rapids. Anxiety constricted his throat. He couldn’t lose another team member.
“I don’t—”
Hygera’s warm hand pressed his back. “They seem to know what they’re doing.”
Pan bounced high and touched his toes. He threw in a somersault, landed with a wobble and laughed.
Andalu turned away, sick to his stomach. Fair enough, get them across the river, but he didn’t have to show off.
“Bags,” Pan said, reaching down. Dya passed their bags up.
Pan sauntered back across with them. Dya leapt onto the slackline. He carried Channagrin and Dendreá’s bags over, then returned for Andalu’s and Hygera’s. Andalu was reluctant to let go of his bag, with all his climbing equipment in it. But he had to admit, the Cavergothern were unstoppable on the slackline.
Dya set out across the river, but he tensed, glancing upriver. Andalu squinted that way, too.
“Danger!” Pan cried.
A log sped down the river on the rapids, rolling in the white water, several branches jutting out above the water. Dya tried to avoid it, backtracking or moving forwards, but the log changed direction too, heading for him. It spun as it passed under the slackline. Dya leapt forward but, as he landed, a protruding branch hooked around his ankle, pulling his foot out from under him.
With a cry, he hit the water upstream of the slackline, bags clutched in his hands. He fought to hold onto them. Andalu dived into the gushing rapids, gasping as the chill clenched him. He clutched the slackline, fighting the strong current.
“Here!” He reached for his bag and pulled it onto his back. Dya shouldered the other bag. He reached for the slackline but lost his footing, disappearing under the water. Andalu searched for him, grabbed for him. Where was he?
“Dya?” Pan cried.
Andalu’s heart was racing. He had to get out of the rapids, but he had to help Dya, if he could.
“There!” Hygera cried, pointing downstream.
Great clods of Raanbriner, Dya was gone, floating face up, unmoving, for an instant, then sucked back under the water again.
“Dya!” Pan called, racing along the bank after him.
Andalu had to get out of the rapids before he was pulled away, too. Should he go back or forward? The rapids tugged him downstream and he was close to losing his own footing, so he struggled back the way he’d come. Almost clear of the river, an excruciating pain exploded in his heel, stabbing through his shoe and into the sole of his foot. He screamed in agony and fell onto his hands and knees.
He looked up at Hygera’s and Dendreá’s worried faces. The leaves of trees, the blue sky and white clouds spun above him. Lightning flashed in his vision, his nerve ends firing white and red, as he cried out again. The pain!
The world faded, blotted out by growing dark spots. He screamed. He tried to silence himself, bit his tongue as they dragged him out of the river and across the ground, every touch flaming in excruciating pain.
“Leave me be!”
They’d drawn him out of the fog. High above, standing on a protrusion of rock a hundred feet up, was the beautiful klimber, her spiraling braid atop her head. Zericha. Belaying in circles of rainbows. She wasn’t meant to be here. She was a dream.
“Come with me,” he said. “Let’s go to Staercrags together.” He reached for her. “I’m ready to take the Cumulus Ferrata.”
Zericha clutched the brake rope as Catiallé lost her grip on the rock and fell, her eyes wide with fear. Her legs were splayed, her hands gripping the rope, as she fell: three, five, seven feet, closer to large rocks that would hurt her badly if she hit them.
She screamed as the hex above her popped out of its placement and slid down to her harness. Pebbles fell, striking her shoulders and head. She swung toward the far left, and inward, raising her legs to miss protruding stone. The other gear held, but she hit the cliff hard, on her side.
“Cat, are you all right!?” Zericha leant forward, heart racing, afraid.
“I think so.” Catiallé’s voice was small. She sounded weak and tired. “Give me a minute.”
“Did you hit your head? Are you bleeding?”
“Just scrapes on my thigh and my hand,” she said. “I jarred my wrist.”
Catiallé sat on the rope, catching her breath. She coughed a few times and wiped her mouth.
A muffled scream pierced the roar of the waterfall, rising from far below—a human or a bird, in pain. Zericha shuffled closer to the waterfall and leant out to see what was happening. She gasped to see a group down at the churning waterhole, a hundred feet below.
“What was that?” Catiallé asked.
“Denizens! Looks like Andalu’s hurt.”
“They’ve made it so far already? Did he fall?”
“The way he’s screaming, and he’s next to the water, it has to be a stonefish barb. They’re giving him something to drink. There’s nothing you can take for stonefish barbs.”
“That poultice I put on your ankle, though,” Catiallé said.
“Yes. Apply that, mixed with ugner-lichen.”
“There’s probably some growing over there.” Catiallé pointed to a shady hole, not far to her left, across the cliff face.
“Fancy a detour?” Zericha asked.
“It’s a doable traverse,” Catiallé said. “Doesn’t look hard. But then, I didn’t expect to fall like I just did.” She held her wrist and spun her hand in a circle, testing the movement. “I can climb on it.” She squinted up at Zericha. “But why would we help him?”
Zericha bit her lip. It certainly went against the dimarcheio’s order to kill him. But then, they hadn’t thought her good enough for this quest at all.
“You should leave him,” Catiallé said. “He might get through it, if one of them knows how to make the unguent.”
