The Night of the Swarm (Chathrand Voyage 4) by Robert V.S. Redick Page B
Authors: Robert V.S. Redick
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notched the soft wood with swords, tied them
into a square frame with the vines that boiled at the forest’s edge, and woven a net of these same vines on which to rest the giant bladder. Then everyone had helped to stuff the bladder like
a cushion, with anything that would float: dry grass, hollow reeds, a spongy moss that grew on the ruin’s north face. At last, using Ensyl’s sword like a sewing needle, they had
stitched the incision shut as best they could.
‘It should carry us as far as the forest’s edge,’ said Hercól, ‘provided we keep that hole above the water line.’
The sun was by now almost straight overhead. They ate a hurried meal of cold goose. Then Ensyl brought something from among the stones, and Thasha felt the ache again, worse than before. It was
a rough pine carving of a woman, standing straight, arms raised high like a child who expects to be lifted in its mother’s arms.
‘Farewell, sister, honour-keeper, brave daughter of the clan,’ she said, bending her voice so the others could hear her. Then, methodically, she broke the statue into twenty-seven
pieces, and wrapped each one in a bit of cloth. Everyone but Dastu had contributed a scrap or two from their clothing. Ensyl gave the parcels to the stream one by one, and Thasha blinked back
tears. If Myett had died among them, it would have been parts of her body in those little shrouds. Thasha had witnessed it before, this grisly rite, an assurance that no trace of the dead could
ever be found by humans, and thus endanger the clan. Even funerals were part of the ixchels’ struggle to survive.
The ceremony over, Hercól brought out the sack containing the Nilstone (another sort of death-parcel), and tied it firmly near the centre of the raft. Ramachni circled it once, his black
fur raised. Then he turned and looked at the others.
‘The sorcerer’s reek is still about the Nilstone,’ he said. ‘Stay as far from the sack as you can. If anyone should reach for it, we must assume his mind is under siege,
and stop him by force.’
‘To do so would be simple mercy,’ said Hercól. ‘Four men on the
Chathrand
touched the Stone, and four men’s bodies withered like leaves in a fire. Come, it
is time we left this place.’
Together they dragged the raft into the shallows. Hercól and Vispek held the frame as the others scrambled aboard. The raft heaved and shifted, but it bore their weight. They spun away
from the clearing, pushing off with long poles, and Thasha felt the current gather them into its arms.
Big Skip laughed aloud. ‘We’re ridin’ a blary jellyfish,’ he said. ‘By the Tree, I hope I live just to hear what people say when we tell ’em.’
‘They’ll say we are liars,’ said Bolutu.
‘Be still, now,’ said Ramachni. ‘We are above the very spot where the River of Shadows roars up most powerfully into the Ansyndra. The blend of shadow and water is very thin
here. If we do not sink in these first minutes we may have hope for the rest of the journey.’
They brushed the side of the tower where it jutted out into the stream. ‘We
are
sinking!’ cried Ensyl. And it was true that the raft was suddenly very low, ripples and
wavelets lapping over the frame.
‘Spread out! Lie flat!’ Ramachni hissed, and they hurried to obey. The raft was teetering, one side and then another vanishing beneath the surface. Thasha lay on her stomach, half
submerged, watching the river slosh around the crude surgical scar in the middle of the raft. She prayed, a reflex. The water black and chilling. They knocked along the tower wall, spinning like a
leaf, then gyred out into the swifter current.
No one was laughing now. Thasha was dizzy and cold. She sensed a frightful nothingness below her, as though an endless black cavern waited for her there, lightless and roaring with wind; and
this river surface, delicate as a soap bubble, was all that held them above its maw.
They sank lower still, clinging to the frame
into a square frame with the vines that boiled at the forest’s edge, and woven a net of these same vines on which to rest the giant bladder. Then everyone had helped to stuff the bladder like
a cushion, with anything that would float: dry grass, hollow reeds, a spongy moss that grew on the ruin’s north face. At last, using Ensyl’s sword like a sewing needle, they had
stitched the incision shut as best they could.
‘It should carry us as far as the forest’s edge,’ said Hercól, ‘provided we keep that hole above the water line.’
The sun was by now almost straight overhead. They ate a hurried meal of cold goose. Then Ensyl brought something from among the stones, and Thasha felt the ache again, worse than before. It was
a rough pine carving of a woman, standing straight, arms raised high like a child who expects to be lifted in its mother’s arms.
‘Farewell, sister, honour-keeper, brave daughter of the clan,’ she said, bending her voice so the others could hear her. Then, methodically, she broke the statue into twenty-seven
pieces, and wrapped each one in a bit of cloth. Everyone but Dastu had contributed a scrap or two from their clothing. Ensyl gave the parcels to the stream one by one, and Thasha blinked back
tears. If Myett had died among them, it would have been parts of her body in those little shrouds. Thasha had witnessed it before, this grisly rite, an assurance that no trace of the dead could
ever be found by humans, and thus endanger the clan. Even funerals were part of the ixchels’ struggle to survive.
The ceremony over, Hercól brought out the sack containing the Nilstone (another sort of death-parcel), and tied it firmly near the centre of the raft. Ramachni circled it once, his black
fur raised. Then he turned and looked at the others.
‘The sorcerer’s reek is still about the Nilstone,’ he said. ‘Stay as far from the sack as you can. If anyone should reach for it, we must assume his mind is under siege,
and stop him by force.’
‘To do so would be simple mercy,’ said Hercól. ‘Four men on the
Chathrand
touched the Stone, and four men’s bodies withered like leaves in a fire. Come, it
is time we left this place.’
Together they dragged the raft into the shallows. Hercól and Vispek held the frame as the others scrambled aboard. The raft heaved and shifted, but it bore their weight. They spun away
from the clearing, pushing off with long poles, and Thasha felt the current gather them into its arms.
Big Skip laughed aloud. ‘We’re ridin’ a blary jellyfish,’ he said. ‘By the Tree, I hope I live just to hear what people say when we tell ’em.’
‘They’ll say we are liars,’ said Bolutu.
‘Be still, now,’ said Ramachni. ‘We are above the very spot where the River of Shadows roars up most powerfully into the Ansyndra. The blend of shadow and water is very thin
here. If we do not sink in these first minutes we may have hope for the rest of the journey.’
They brushed the side of the tower where it jutted out into the stream. ‘We
are
sinking!’ cried Ensyl. And it was true that the raft was suddenly very low, ripples and
wavelets lapping over the frame.
‘Spread out! Lie flat!’ Ramachni hissed, and they hurried to obey. The raft was teetering, one side and then another vanishing beneath the surface. Thasha lay on her stomach, half
submerged, watching the river slosh around the crude surgical scar in the middle of the raft. She prayed, a reflex. The water black and chilling. They knocked along the tower wall, spinning like a
leaf, then gyred out into the swifter current.
No one was laughing now. Thasha was dizzy and cold. She sensed a frightful nothingness below her, as though an endless black cavern waited for her there, lightless and roaring with wind; and
this river surface, delicate as a soap bubble, was all that held them above its maw.
They sank lower still, clinging to the frame
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