Around the combatants, the wind swirled and the black rain battered down. The silver dragon had either abandoned the carcass or been unaffected by the drugs. He galloped in a clumsy circle around them, trumpeting in distress. Leftrin could not worry that the dragon’s noise might bring the keepers down on them. If they came, he could show them Jess’s knives, say he’d only been protecting the dragon. Grip, he told his weary hands and shaking arms. Grip! The pain was sickening. There was a roaring in his ears, and he feared he would pass out before he could finish the job. He squeezed, and still the hunter struggled, flinging his head forward in a futile effort to butt Leftrin in the face.
A wall of water, stone, and timber suddenly appeared behind Jess. Leftrin’s mind froze that agonizing moment into a decade. He saw, clearly, the debris that showed in the white water. He knew that the wave would be acid and heavy with silt. This was a flood that had come a long, long way, collecting driftwood and tearing trees free from the banks as it came. He caught one glimpse of a huge elk carcass coming toward them, tumbling like a toy tossed in the air.
“Tarman!” he shouted, and let Jess’s throat go. He spun to run for his ship, to save his beloved boat if he could.
But in that instant, time resumed. The water smashed him down as it devoured the sandbar. He saw nothing, knew nothing except the struggle of an animal that is suddenly thrust into a foreign element. There was no air, no light, no up, no down. Cold and force drove his breath from his body. Good-bye, he thought stupidly. Good-bye, Alise. At least I didn’t have to see you go back to another man. A drowning death might be better than that other, slower torment.
Something bumped him. His hands and arms locked on to it and he rose with it, bursting into blackness. He gasped in both air and the water that streamed from his hair and skin, choked, went under again with the tumbling log, and then popped up again. The crest of the wave had passed them, but the river still flowed strong and possibly twice as deep as it had been. The speed of the current swept him down the river in a dangerous stew of trees, struggling animals and carcasses, and driftwood. He did not try to get on top of the log he clutched. Instead he resigned himself to regular duckings and held tight to it, hoping the current would hold him near the center of the river. He could hear the crashes and snapping as debris struck trees on the river’s banks and tore them loose or smashed them down. He had one glimpse of a dragon, swimming frantically. Then his log turned, ducking him again, and when he came up, the dragon was gone.
As the river settled, he moved down the trunk toward the root end. There the wood was thicker, and the roots offered him more grips. He ventured to climb a bit higher out of the water and scanned the surface of the water. As the water calmed, the debris was spreading out, borne along on the still swollen river. The starlight and moonlight shone on the white water. He saw floating carcasses as black shapes. In the distance, he saw a large silhouette of a paddling dragon. He shouted, but he doubted that his voice reached it. The sounds of the rushing water, of trees groaning and giving way, of flotsam crashing together drowned his human voice.
Then he saw something that lifted his heart. Light sparkled, dimmed, and then grew steady to become a perfect circle of yellow lamplight. It could only be Tarman; someone had just re-kindled a lamp on board him. The light gave sudden shape and meaning to what had been blackness against blackness. Tarman was distant, down current of Leftrin, but he knew his ship’s low black profile. He drew his breath deep into his abused lungs, wincing at his aching ribs. He didn’t waste his breath cursing Jess; with any sort of luck, the man was a corpse by now. Instead, he pursed his lips and pushed out a long, steady whistle. Another breath. Again, he whistled, the pitch a notch higher than before. Another breath.
Even before he pushed the sound out, he knew Tarman had heard him. The circle of light shifted as the ship wheeled toward him. The light vanished. For a time, he just clung to his log, breathing steadily and waiting. Then the lantern on Tarman’s bow was kindled. He drew breath, whistled again, and watched the light almost immediately grow larger. Paddling with all his might, Tarman was coming for him. The barge’s thick sturdy legs and webbed feet would propel him against the current. Swarge would man the tiller and the crew would break out the sweeps, but Tarman would not wait for that pantomime of help. The liveship was coming for his captain. He whistled again, and low to the water, he saw the pale blue gleam of two large eyes. Rescue was coming. All he had to do now was wait for his ship to save him.
PERHAPS SINTARA ATTEMPTED to set her down beside Alise. But the effort failed, and Thymara fell on top of the Bingtown woman. Alise’s arms closed around her in an engulfing embrace that both kept her from sliding back into the water and sent a spike of agony down her back as her clutching hands pressed against Thymara’s injury.