Taste of Lightning (10 page)

CHAPTER 6

Penthesi

THE rain stopped at last. Perrin had almost given up hope of finding Doughty and the boat when he heard the rush of the river. The boy and the girl argued in whispers behind him; the boy was complaining about his feet. Thank the gods, they were nearly there. Now Doughty could take over. Doughty would know what to do.

Perrin was exhausted; he looked forward to hearing the bark of military orders again. Orders from Doughty were one thing, but he was damned if he'd take any more bossing from that laundry-maid. He wondered how the boy-king had come to choose a laundry-maid for a girlfriend. She
had
been useful, smuggling them out of the Palace. She'd led them through a maze of dark passages that stopped and started and wound back on themselves like a burrower's tunnel. And she'd been scared to death, too, that was obvious; she was so relieved when they emerged into the clean, damp air of the woods that she'd squeezed Perrin's hand nearly to pulp.

But there was no place for a girl on a mission like this, especially a Balt girl, even if she did know how to handle a sword. Well, she was Doughty's problem now. With Doughty and the boat, maybe, just maybe, they'd make it home after all.
Swordsman Perrin, survivor of a dangerous mission – rescued the
boy-king single-handed – Hero of Rengan –

They were at the edge of the woods. Perrin could hear the rustle of the tall reeds, and the lap and gurgle of the lazy river.

He stopped abruptly. There was a light on the water.

The boy and the girl came up behind him. The girl whispered, ‘What's that?'

Doughty would never light a lamp. Never.

‘Down!' Perrin ordered. He grabbed their arms and pulled them forward into the river as the shower of arrows whistled around them. The boy spluttered as his head went under, and the girl cried out. Perrin dragged them deeper into the current. Now he could see the boat was in flames, and soldiers were silhouetted along the bank, their bows raised and arms pulled back. Someone shouted, and more arrows rained down. The boy flailed in panic beside him, and the girl struggled against him; at last Perrin realised she was hissing, ‘Let
go
!'

Promptly Perrin released her and turned his attention to the thrashing boy. ‘Can you swim?'

‘I learned on the farm,' said the girl, treading water beside him.

‘Not you!'

The boy gulped and spluttered. ‘A bit – no, not really –' He gasped as his head went under again; Perrin reached out to grab him.

‘Stop
splashing
, you frugging idiot. Keep still and I'll tow you. We've got to swim, it's our only chance. They won't follow, they've got too much gear.'

‘I can hold my breath . . .'

‘Then hold it.'

Another shower of arrows shrilled around them. If they could shelter behind the burning wreck of the boat –
where was
Doughty?
– they might be all right. The Balts couldn't swim, Tugger had assured him. Yeah, and man-monsters guarded the Palace, too, and here was the frugging laundry-maid paddling away beside him like a frugging otter, even with her knapsack on, hair plastered to her head. Still, safer in the water than on the bank . . .

The boy lay as limp as a corpse with Perrin's hand cupped under his chin; one slow stroke at a time, Perrin towed him toward the burning boat. The flames painted the river with dancing orange. They were nearly there; they were going to make it. The boat was burned nearly to the waterline; but he hoped there'd be something to grab onto.

Perrin saw the girl duck as yet another volley of arrows spat into the water, then his right hand blazed with searing pain, as if he'd caught a burning coal. He doubled over in the water, letting go of the boy.

‘One down! One down!' came the shout. ‘Sarge, I got one!' There were big splashing strides along the river's edge.

Moaning with pain, Perrin kicked through the water toward the wreck. The flames were dying; there was nothing left but a blackened shell. An oar floated past him, and he threw his arm over it; it bobbed and spun, and he swallowed a mouthful of water. It tasted like dead leaves. He rested his chin on the oar and kicked until he was on the far side of the boat; he wedged the end of the oar between the planks, and rested, gulping air as the cold, lazy current tugged at him.

His hand throbbed where the arrow-shaft stuck through it. His right hand; of course it had to be his right hand, his harp hand, his sword hand. He'd never been wounded before. He'd even come through the Battle of the Falls without a scratch.
Perrin's luck
, they said; men fought to stand beside him in the line. He knew he ought to pull the arrow out, and try to stop the bleeding, but he was in the middle of the frugging river! He felt faint; his mouth and nose slipped under the water. No – no. He mustn't drown, he didn't want to die here.
Like
Doughty?
No, Doughty must be safe somewhere, hiding in the reeds on the other bank. They couldn't
all
be dead.

For the first time since the arrow had hit him, he wondered what had happened to Skir and Tansy. He couldn't see them. Maybe they'd drowned. At that moment, he didn't care; he had his own skin to save. He tilted his head back. The stars were always brighter at moondark. The clouds had melted away. Water filled his ears, blurring the noise of yells and splashes.
Breathe, Perrin. That's an order.

Tansy saw Skir go under as the Gani writhed in the water; it took her a moment to realise what had happened. She duck-dived as the arrows sizzled around them; down into the cold, rushing water she plunged, down and down, until she thought her lungs would burst.

An image flashed through her mind: the luckpiece Wanion had given her, blazing into flame and then drenched with water. Fire then water. The Gani's boat was on fire, and now she was drowning. Wanion's magic was punishing her after all. Cold fingers pinched at her heart. As she came up she banged her head hard against something. Skir had stamped on the luckpiece, and now the Witch-Woman was stamping on her head. But she pushed out blindly with her hands and felt the wreckage of the Gani's boat. She gasped for breath, eyes squeezed shut, groping along the side of the boat with her hands. Skir couldn't save her now. Tansy clung to the wreckage with her fingernails, and waited for Wanion's death spell to claim her.

When Perrin disappeared, Skir had just enough presence of mind to gulp in another lungful of air and kick out hard, away from the hail of arrows. It was true he could swim a little; Beeman had insisted on trying to teach him, but the Baltimarans were horrified by the very idea, and it had been difficult to arrange lessons. The knapsack dragged him sideways, but Tansy had pulled the straps too tight – he couldn't wriggle out of it. Skir kicked and splashed blindly until he ran aground; he staggered to his feet and found himself some distance upstream, in the shallows by the riverbank, face-to-face with a Palace guard, his blue-and-scarlet uniform daubed with mud, waving a short sword in one hand and a blazing torch in the other.

‘Don't move!' He was young, no older than Skir himself, and the sword shook in his grasp. He yelled, ‘Sarge!'

Skir raised his hands. He felt oddly calm. ‘It's all right. You mustn't hurt me. I'm the Priest-King of Cragonlands. I'm valuable property.'

The young guard took a wobbling step forward and ran his tongue over his lips. In the livid light of the torch, his face flickered copper and bronze. ‘I said, don't move! One step and I'll run you through.'

‘You know you can't do that.' Skir took a step back into the river. The water was up to his waist.

‘Sarge!' bawled the guard, but the only response was a fierce, unearthly squeal from the direction of the woods. The young guard's head jerked round, just for a heartbeat, and silently Skir slipped under the water.

Skir let himself swirl in the current as long as he could before he risked snatching another breath. He was close to the boat. He dropped his head back into the water. He might not have the power of chantment, but he was well trained, first by the priests of the Temple at Gleve, and then by Beeman. One thing he could do was to hold his breath for a long, long time.

A hand grabbed the strap of his knapsack and hauled him closer, and his head reared up, spluttering.

‘Ssh!' hissed Tansy. ‘It's me.'

He could see her face dimly; it was starting to get light. They were on the far side of the charred wreckage of the Renganis' boat, hidden from the soldiers. Tansy's teeth were chattering, and one of her hands was thrust into a gap between scorched boards to keep herself afloat. Skir found a handhold and they trod water side by side.

‘You all r-right?'

‘I think so.'

‘Ssh!'

Voices carried across the water. ‘– no time to find nets. Get some poles to drag the body in from the bridge.'

‘– almost sorry for the poor kid –'

‘More sorry for old Hooksey. Wouldn't want to be the one to make
that
report.'

‘Did you hear what happened in the woods?'

The voices lowered, sober. Tansy could only hear the words
boar
and
two men
. Then the voices faded altogether. Everything was quiet. No shouts, no splashes.

‘They think I've drowned,' whispered Skir.

‘Thought I was going to, too.' Tansy's face was pale. ‘That was
her
. Wanion. We shouldn't never have hurt that luckpiece.'

After a moment, Skir said, ‘They shot him, you know – the Rengani.'

But Tansy shook her head. ‘He's holding on over there.'

Now Skir saw, in the strengthening light, a hunched shape attached to the side of the boat. ‘Is he all right?'

Tansy shrugged. ‘He ain't let go.'

Skir half-paddled, half-pulled himself along the side of the boat until he reached Perrin. The Rengani's head turned sharply and his teeth flashed white as he grinned. ‘Well, well,' he said softly. ‘Long live the boy-king. They've all gone off to fish your body out of the river. Good time to swim to shore, while it's quiet.'

‘You're not too badly hurt?' asked Skir timidly.

Perrin held up his hand with the arrow shaft sticking through it; the flesh around the wound was swollen, raw and seeping blood. ‘Think I can make it.' His voice changed. ‘No such luck for Doughty.'

‘Doughty? Your friend?'

Perrin jerked his chin. The boat dipped and swayed as Skir heaved himself up to peer in. A swollen shape bumped about in the water at the bottom of the boat; it looked like a mattress rolled up and tied with string. Skir lowered himself back into the river.

He whispered, ‘I've never seen a dead body before.'

‘Now you have,' said Perrin acidly. He'd lost count of the bodies, and parts of bodies, he'd seen since he joined the Army. Tugger, with his throat ripped out . . . Perrin bared his teeth in a mirthless grin. ‘Well, can't hang around here all day, it'll be light soon. Better hold onto this.' He shoved the end of the oar at Skir.

‘What about Tansy?'

‘Your girlfriend isn't part of my mission. She'll have to take care of herself.'

‘She's not my –'

Tansy had hauled herself hand-over-hand until she was beside them. ‘I
can
take care of myself,' she whispered fiercely.

‘Good,' said Perrin. ‘Take Doughty's dagger. He won't need it any more.' And he struck out one-handed for the riverbank.

With more splashing than Perrin would have liked, the three struggled back to the shore. The sun had fully risen now, and already heat pulsed from it as if from an open stove. It was going to be a blazing-hot day.

Perrin crawled over the mud until he found solid ground to rest on, and examined his hand. By daylight, it didn't look too bad; he'd seen far worse on the battlefield. Just a scratch, really. If Tugger and the lads had seen him fussing over that last night, he'd never have heard the end of it.

But Tugger was dead.

Again Perrin pushed the knowledge away. Still, the boy was alive, and while he was alive, so was the mission. Perrin had orders to follow.

He found a flat rock, and turned his hand so the arrow head pointed to the sky. Swiftly he banged his hand down on the rock so the arrow-shaft was forced up through his palm. ‘Frug!' He tugged on the arrow-shaft and it slid free with a gush of blood and liquid. The two bedraggled kids just stood there, watching. Skir's long hair was in rats' tails. There was a gash across Tansy's cheek, and a swelling bruise on her forehead. Perrin tried to tear a strip off the bottom of his shirt for a bandage with his teeth and one hand, but the cloth was too tough and he was shaking too much.

Without speaking, Tansy ripped a long band from the bottom of her own shirt and held it out to Skir.

He shied away. ‘I don't know how.'

Tansy snatched back the length of cloth and said to Perrin, ‘Give me your hand. Is it clean?'

‘You tell me. You're the laundry-maid. Ow! That's too tight.'

‘It's got to be tight. Can you walk?'

‘I was shot in the hand, not the foot. Of course I can walk.'

‘Get up then. I might be just a
laundry-maid
, but I got an idea.'

Skir gazed at her eagerly. ‘What is it?'

‘You still got that money? Well, I thought we might borrow something else from the King.'

Tansy led them through the trees to a low thorn hedge built close against the woods; beyond it, half-a-dozen horses cropped the grass. ‘Ingle keeps the hunters in the Long Field, now the weather's warm.' Her voice was reverent. ‘That's Warble, and Jasper, and Peak. The chestnut mare's called Sedge, she's a gentle one.'

‘I like that big black stallion,' said Perrin.

Skir blanched. ‘Can't we take the gentle one?'

‘We'll need more than one,' said Perrin.