Tempest (30 page)

“But we're not close enough to the ocean,” Nichol protested. “Can a mer even survive in fresh water?”

“The water isn't fresh,” Kiaran assured him. “Neither is it salt, but if nimh-fish can swim out to sea and return to the inlets here without issue, then perhaps Colm can as well.”

Perhaps, maybe, if, then… So many things needed to fall into place. The top of the cage was well loosened now, the shards of bone doing their job and diminishing the magical bond between metal and glass. One good push, Colm thought, if he thrust hard off the bottom of the tank… With one good push, he could be free. Free to fall onto the ground and writhe about until he asphyxiated, or free to plunge into water that made his skin crawl and killed him more slowly, or…

He had to stop thinking about it, or he'd never rest. Colm shifted in the tank, drawing Kiaran's attention. “You're awake, then?” he said softly, getting to his feet and finding the side of the tank with his hand. On a whim, Colm reached out and touched his own hand to it, the way he would with Nichol. Kiaran smiled.

“No matter what happens next, Colm Weathercliff, remember that you're more than you seem. You've bridged a gap between two different worlds and two very different peoples. You have both of their weaknesses, but also both of their strengths. I would never have wished this fate on you, but I'll never be sorry I met you either.” He turned and headed back out into the camp, as subtle using his cane as a passing zephyr, and both Colm and Nichol watched him go with tired bemusement.

“I wonder what he meant by all that,” Nichol said.

The next day started off well enough. The clouds that had threatened rain were gone, leaving clear skies in their place, and the ground was a little drier. Kith had fought hard to get his wagon moved to the front of the train and Regar had listened, so they managed to avoid the deep ruts that had gotten them into so much trouble yesterday. Regar kept up his running encouragements, letting some of the children take turns riding behind him on his horse, lending a hand here and there with pushing the wagons. Staring back through the sliver of tank that wasn't covered by the dark oilcloth Kith had draped over the top, Colm saw firsthand all the charisma that he remembered from the show he and Nichol had attended in Caithmor. Regar was a strong leader when he tried to be, and his son was just like him in so many ways. Mysterious, compelling…easy to listen to. Easy to believe.

It had occurred to Colm more than once during these long, dull days when he had nothing to do but sway in a mire of dirty water and tiny bones, that Kiaran could be lying. Or, if not lying, at least being very selective with the truths he presented. He seemed to have a genuine respect for his own capability and what it meant, but that didn't mean he was completely above bending things to suit his own interests. He seemed to want to help Colm, but visions or no, he had been responsible for Colm's capture in the first place. He might be playing a game that no one else could see the board for, and no one, not even his indomitable father, would know better.

Speaking of his father… “On, my lads and lasses, on!” Regar shouted, and on they went, not even stopping to eat lunch. “On to Framel, on to a night of warm fires and good foo—”

His voice was cut off suddenly, and the momentary silence soon echoed with screams. “Attack!” Kith yelled suddenly. “We're under attack!”

Attack…bandits
? As if in answer, the tank suddenly shuddered with a heavy scraping sound, and the cloth that covered him was jerked away by the heavy tip of the arrow that scored a scratch across the top of the tank as it flew by. Colm started at the sound and immediately looked to Nichol. The caravan had halted behind them, people falling into disarray as the bandits—Colm couldn't see them yet—shot more arrows into the crowd.

“Go!” Regar yelled from close by. Colm saw him stride into view, coming straight at their wagon as he exhorted the others to move. “Put your back into it, Nyle,” he snarled at Nichol before turning to Kith. “You've got to release them.”

Kith went even grayer. “I can't—they're too settled right now.”

“Drowning the one useful thing about you in drink, you useless coward!” Regar grabbed Kith and pressed his back to the tank. The glass began to heat, and Colm drew back. “Release them, or I'll stick you here by your own chain and leave you for these rogues to use as target practice.”

“I—I can't, Regar, they won't all—”

“Target practice it is, then,” Regar said, and he tightened his grip around Kith's neck and forced the copper links of his necklace flush to the glass. The metal rings started to melt into the glass surface, bonding like the grate had to the top.

“No!
No!
” Kith struggled for a moment, his hands clawing fruitlessly at his neck, but Regar didn't make a move to release him, just glowered fiercely as more arrows came close. A moment later, Kith's whole body seemed to bow with force, arching him away from the tank. Nichol drew back, staring in grotesque astonishment at what was happening to Kith.

He seemed to vibrate for a moment, a faint buzzing that Colm could feel in the water, before Kith suddenly disgorged a torrent of white, sluglike shapes onto the ground in front of himself. Nichol staggered away from the tank, putting distance between himself and the creatures, but Regar stayed, his stern eyes fixed on the little beasts as they stretched and unfurled dragonfly-like wings that fluttered and dried quickly as they lifted themselves up out of the dirt.

“Set them on the bandits,” Regar commanded. Kith obeyed with a groan, and a moment later the slip-thin hatchlings—whatever they might be—flew up into the air, their translucent wings beating incessantly and their spiked tails curled in tight. They fluttered off away from the wagon, and a minute later, the arrows stopped falling.

“Get the wounded into carts and
move
!” Regar yelled at the rovers, who scrambled to obey.

“Down now…” Kith choked, his whole body slumped so that his neck held almost all his weight. “Let me down, damn you.”

“Not yet,” Regar snapped. “Not until you recall the little demons safely to your guts. Drive on, Aramin!” He left them, evading Kith's grasping fingers and leaving Nichol alone, utterly stunned.

“Move us, lad,” Kith managed. “Four damn that Regar, get us moving or I'm as good as dead. If I die, so do we all, 'cause I'm the only thing keeping those little beasts in check right now.”

“I… All right.” The front of the cart shuddered as the mules strained, and Nichol leaned in and began to push again. They started slowly but picked up speed, going as fast as possible with Kith having to stagger backwards, forcing his fingers between the necklace and his skin so he didn't choke to death on the metal.

This went on for another fifteen minutes or so before the first arrow came arcing back at them, this time headed straight for Kith. It struck the tank just above his head, scraping the glass again but not penetrating.

“I'll kill Regar, I'll kill th' bastard!” Kith gasped. “On, on! We must be gettin' close!”

“I can see a bridge,” Nichol confirmed. “And rooftops beyond it. We'll make it there.”

The enormous spotted cat and his handler raced by them, as did others who didn't have wagons full of their livelihoods to concern themselves with. Wes was one of them, and he grinned nastily as he passed them. “Sticking by your prize, then?” he sneered at Kith. “Ye'll get what you deserve.”

Five paces on, the wagon fell into another rut. The one just behind them barely stopped in time to avoid causing a collision. Its driver, one of the musicians, didn't even bother to swear at them, just jumped out of his cart, helped two of his family out and ran on.

Nichol pushed hard at the wagon, but it wouldn't move. He glanced around the cart again, then back. “The driver's gone. We're still twenty feet from the bridge.”

“Better run for it then, lad,” Kith managed. “Get far enough away, and even my beasts won't come after you.”

“No, I can't leave you two,” Nichol insisted.

“A fish-man an' a horror who bargained with the Two? Ye bloody well can!”

“I—”

Another arrow struck the tank, this one square on, cracking the glass and driving the shaft through the front wall. Water began to gush out of the hole, and the splintered shaft drifted down to the floor as Nichol yelled, “Colm! Are you all right?”

Colm knocked once, but his noise was overshadowed by Kith's sudden epiphany. “You can talk to it? Ye really can talk to beasts? Nyle,” and now he grabbed at Nichol's hand with new fervor, “You have to talk these monsters out of me. The drink only quells them for so long and I can't hold them anymore. I never shoulda prayed to the Two for help, but it was the only way to stay alive back then!”

“No, it's not all animals, just Colm,” Nichol insisted. He pushed as hard as he could at the wagon, straining until veins bulged across his temples, but there was nothing, not even a tremor. “We can't move on. We're stuck here.” He stared at Colm, eyes wide and frenzied, but there was an inexplicable grin on his face.

“Time to go. I'll get you to the water.”

Colm didn't need to be told again. He thrust up against the mesh, which bowed under the first blow but didn't quite dislodge. Water spilled all over Kith and Nichol, arrows split the air, but Colm struck again, hard, and this time the mesh sprang off. Colm gripped the top of the tank, took a final deep breath, then pulled himself over the side.

“What in the name of the Four are you playing at?” Kith demanded, eyes wide with shock as Colm slithered down onto the ground. “What the—”

“I'll be back to help you,” Nichol said, getting one arm beneath Colm's shoulder, his hand unerringly avoiding the spines. Colm tried not to thrash, more desperate for Nichol's touch than he was to breathe. Warm, calloused hands that held him close… If the situation hadn't been so dire, Colm would have begged for stillness, just so he could appreciate the first touch of his lover's hands in months. “I'll be back, I just have to…” He started to drag Colm forward, hunched beneath his weight and the drag of his tail on the ground.

Colm helped as best he could, coiling his tail beneath him and pushing forward with it, but he was already so tired. He'd been pent up for so long, his muscles hardly remembered how to work. There was the bridge. He could smell the water that seemed almost but not quite right. Bodies lay on the road, bodies they skirted around. The spotted cat was there, whining and tugging futilely at her fallen master's collar. She didn't spare them a second glance as they struggled by, but the next corpse wasn't quite a corpse yet.

Wes clutched one hand to his chest, where an arrow had gone straight through his rib cage and out his back. He was bleeding from his mouth far too heavily to live for long, but as soon as he saw them, his face twisted with fury. “Monster,” he coughed. “Servants of the Two, I should have…I…” He lunged for them, and Nichol jerked them to the side, away from Wes's grip, but Colm slipped from his grasp and hit the ground hard. Stars flitted in front of his eyes, blurring the awful world into something more bearable as he began to lose consciousness. Wes's hand found them again, a terribly strong grip for someone who was dying, and Nichol couldn't pull away from it and hold on to Colm at the same time.

A brightly striped cane came down on Wes's arm, and he released them with a groan. Kiaran crouched down on the ground next to him, his eyes uncovered and completely clear for once. “Move! Now!” he snapped at Nichol.

“But Kith…”

“I'll go back for him. You two get into the water! This is the only chance you'll get!” Kiaran stood up and ran back toward the mired cart and its broken cargo, and Nichol turned back to Colm, looping his limp arms around Nichol's neck.

“Hold tight to me.”

All that was real now to Colm was Nichol, his desperate hold, the slow progress of their bodies as Nichol scraped and clawed their way across the ground. The smell of water got stronger, close, so close. Almost there, and Colm could
feel
the edge of the bridge against his side as they finally reached it, and with a final push, they were over it.

Holding desperately to each other, they plunged into the water below.

Chapter Twenty-Three

He could breathe. It was difficult and slow and astonishing, and Colm might have wondered about it more if he didn't feel Nichol's grip on him slipping, Nichol starting to push up and away as he strove for the surface. Colm got his hands under Nichol's arms and used his tail to drive them up—his tail, Gods, he could stretch it out again, use it properly for the first time in
months
—

They broke the surface of the warm, murky water, and Nichol gasped and began to cough. It was loud, too loud this close to the bridge they'd fallen from, and Colm gripped the back of Nichol's shirt and carefully pulled him away from the site of their initial dunking. If someone had seen them—

There was a shout from the shore, followed by the whistling sound of another arrow slicing through air and into the water not two feet away.
Bandits
, Colm reminded himself,
not that you'd need to be a bandit to want to kill me.
He pulled Nichol close and swam faster, but they were still too visible for safety, and there were no trees or rocks to hide in here.

“Colm,” Nichol croaked. “Dive.”

Colm shook his head.

“I can hold on, it'll be all right,” Nichol said, his bright brown eyes wide with fear, and something else Colm couldn't quite put a name to. “Go, now! Dive!”

Colm trusted Nichol to hold on to him, and dove under the water.

He couldn't go very deep. The water went down no more than three meters, but it was so cloudy and dense that they were invisible to their pursuers after just a few feet. That didn't prevent more arrows from going into the water, but only a few of them came close enough to feel their ripples before their speed fell away to nothing. Colm swam, surprised to find that he didn't need to rely on his eyes to pick his way through. His sense for where things were worked as well as ever, even though this water wasn't nearly as hospitable as the clean salt of the ocean. The salt was there, but it was diluted, not giving him the buoyancy and ease that he was used to feeling. This water felt…thick. Slow. As if Colm was working as hard as he could for every breath and it still wasn't quite enough, especially given how hard he had to swim to move both himself and Nichol through the water. Nichol…Nichol!

Colm brought them up again, and Nichol's hands spasmed where they gripped Colm as he inhaled, fast and frantic. At least they were out of sight of the bridge, although not far enough that Colm considered them safe. He could hear men shouting, women screaming, and he hoped that Kiaran was safe. He had told Regar not to go this way, and the ringmaster had refused his insight. At the same time, he had promised that Colm would be free, and now, astonishingly, he was, along with Nichol. If there was one ability that Colm wouldn't care to trade his awful transformation for, it might well be the curse of prophecy that Kiaran bore.

“Farther,” Nichol murmured once he'd caught his breath again. “Farther, it's fine, I'm fine.” Only he wasn't fine. Colm could tell by the way he held one arm close to his body instead of wrapping it around Nichol for better purchase. Oh gods, had Colm…had he pierced him?

Colm whined, one of the few soft sounds he could make, and reached for Nichol's arm. Nichol jerked away reflexively, then began to babble as Colm ducked his head. “No, no, it isn't you—is that what you think? No, you didn't do anything to me, Colm, and I'm not afraid to feel your touch. No, it's just…” His smile was wobbly but there, as good an effort as it seemed Nichol could make right now. “One of the arrows scratched my shoulder, is all. 'Tis just a wee thing, bad enough to sting but nothing more.”

It was true that Colm couldn't detect a lot of blood, and that was a scent he was ruefully well attuned to. But clearly the wound did more than sting. Colm ducked his head under the water to take a labored breath, then lifted it again. This water was warm but it wasn't clean, not good for an open wound. He needed to get Nichol to shore, where he could find someone to tend to him.

Nichol frowned when he felt Colm start to move them toward the distant, soggy shoreline. “Not yet,” he said. “We have to get farther from those bandits, not to mention the rovers that remain, before we can even think about putting in on dry land. Regar's sure to want you back if he's survived the attack, and Kiaran only promised us one chance. We're close to the sea, I'm sure of it. You can taste it in this, can't you?” He touched the surface of the water with one hand. “It shouldn't take too long to swim there. Once we're on the coast and you're safe, then we can worry about me.”

Colm hissed with frustration, wanting to bare his teeth but knowing that wasn't going to help anything. Nichol, frustrating creature that he was, just chuckled weakly. “I know exactly how you feel,” he murmured. “I've felt that way from the moment I saw you locked away in that tank. At least now I can touch you.” He framed Colm's face with his warm, human hands, his thumbs rubbing circles over Nichol's scaly cheeks and chin. “Thank the Four I can touch you at last.”

Colm wanted to press closer to him, to feel more of Nichol's welcoming warmth against him, but he had to duck his head down again to catch his breath.

“We should go,” Nichol said when he surfaced. “As far as we can while there's still light. Tomorrow, you'll see. We'll reach the sea before you know it.”

If Nichol was so sure, then perhaps they would. Colm nodded, and began to swim again, this time leaving Nichol's head above the water so they wouldn't have to worry about sharing an element. If he saw trouble above, Nichol would let Colm know. Otherwise, he would swim as fast as he could push himself, for as long as Nichol let him. The current helped, swift enough that the distance flew as the sky darkened, sweeping both of them through the water so quickly at times that Colm worried he'd lose Nichol if he didn't find a float for him.

They spent all night in the swamp, Nichol perched on top of a grassy, floating hummock that had been occupied by a few black-feathered birds that had let them know just how disgruntled they were to be displaced. It was barely big enough for Nichol to sit on, and sank alarmingly under his weight, but most of his body was above the water. Colm curled his tail around the thick clump of roots on the bottom of the little island and alternated breathing and lifting his head out of the water to keep Nichol company. The water felt warm to Colm but Nichol was shivering, his hands rubbing along the tattered fabric covering his clammy arms.

If Colm had had body heat to share, he would have, but he knew better. Instead, he left his hand on Nichol's ankle, enough to reassure both of them that the other was still there.

It had been so long since Colm had touched anyone that the sensation was almost like a drug now. Nichol's ankle was underwater, and when he held it in the right place, Colm could feel the blood move beneath Nichol's fragile skin, sluggish with cold but still moving to the dogged beat of his heart. Colm remembered the feeling of that heartbeat beneath his head, the gentlest and most reassuring lullaby he'd ever heard. Holding it like this wasn't the same, but it was close enough to soothe him somewhat. Nichol's voice, unobscured by water and glass, did the rest of the job.

Colm was tired, but Nichol kept talking, needing the company, and so he lifted his head up and listened as best he could.

“Did Gran or I ever tell you about the Caresfall Weathercliffs?” Nichol asked, still chafing his arms and shivering with every fresh breeze. The current moved them slowly southward, tugging the hummock along. Colm didn't interfere, just let them move. The more it drifted, the less he'd have to swim in the morning.

“Their family was famous once. The Weathercliffs were friends of Tierna Red-Eyes's father, and he gave them the land north of Caithmor and let them found a town there. Caresfall, because people's cares fell away when a Weathercliff was around. They had a power, a famous power—it was luck. Weathercliffs were luckier than anyone else in the kingdom. No matter what they laid their hand to, they had success with it. Some people called them witches, some worried that they made dark sacrifices to the Two in order to keep their luck so strong, but the Emperor was willing to ignore it as long as he had a Weathercliff in his army, commanding his troops.”

Well, that hadn't lasted. Colm traced a trail along the bone of Nichol's ankle, a questioning gesture, before letting his head drift down so he could breathe for a minute. It was like being in the harbor again, gunk in his gills, clogging them up. He lifted his head and found that Nichol was already talking.

“—refused to join Tierna in his northern campaign. No one knows exactly why they fell out, but when they did, it was brutal. The Emperor halted his northern expansion and dedicated himself to the eradication of Caresfall. Just a tiny little village on the cliff face, and they managed to hold off his troops for weeks and weeks. The land fell away beneath the soldiers' feet, freak storms drove them back, and fever spread through the troops. Some of the family escaped before the town fell, but eventually their luck was overwhelmed by sheer numbers. The village was burned to the ground, and Berran Weathercliff was dragged before Tierna. The Emperor had him cut to pieces and cast into the sea, and the legend of the Caresfall Weathercliffs' luck died with him.”

Nichol looked down at him. “But some of the family did survive. I don't think your father would ever have laid claim to that name if he didn't have reason to. Do you think some of the luck survived with them?”

Colm huffed, and used his free hand to indicate himself. Nichol shook his head.

“No, I know, I mean, I know that this is a terrible thing, but Colm…you're with me. After every terrible thing that's happened, you're here, with me, and that's amazing to me. That we're both alive, how far we've come… It's not impossible, is it, that there could be some luck at work?” He reached out and stroked a finger across the bridge of Colm's nose, then cupped his cheek. “What do you think happened when the magic that made you blended with the luck in your blood? Perhaps this is what Kiaran was talking about yesterday. Perhaps something wonderful is waiting for you.”

Colm shut his eyes hard, unable to look at Nichol for a moment. They were lost in a swamp hundreds of miles from home, hunted and bloody and profoundly separate, and yet Nichol could see a light for them. He always looked for light. Colm turned his face and pressed a closemouthed kiss to Nichol's palm, and this time when Nichol shivered, it wasn't from the cold.

Colm drifted into sleep while the hummock floated farther south. When he opened his eyes again, the sky was pale with early morning light, and he could smell distant smoke. Charcoal smoke, deliberate, which meant a settlement had to be nearby. They were close to shore, so at least Nichol would be on solid ground again soon.

It wasn't the smell that woke him up, however. Colm didn't realize what had, until he felt it course through the water again, a low, swishing reverberation that was growing louder and louder. It wasn't the sound of oars, or the hull of a boat cutting through the water. This was uneven, organic…and
fast
.

Colm jolted into movement, letting go of Nichol's damp, tacky hand and dropping fully into the water, seeking the direction of the disturbance. It pulsed forward from the deeper side of the swamp, upstream, but not afraid of shallower waters. Colm could hear Nichol's exclamation, him calling Colm's name, but there was no time to reassure him, not when he had to—

Fasterfaster
faster
—Colm dove to the side, away from Nichol, as the massive scaled body of the nimh-fish hurtled past, its long jaws nearly grazing his shoulder. Colm had heard tales of the nimh fish, of their voracity and fierceness, how their skins were prized as heirlooms because successfully killing one was such a rare occurrence.

The nimh-fish had jaws as long as Colm's arm, studded with sharp teeth all the way down, and four stubby fins on the side of its body that, in concert with its tail, could propel it to incredible speeds. Its hide was heavily scaled, which made it harder for the creature to turn in close quarters, as evidenced by its slow, ponderous turn back toward him, but Colm couldn't rely on his speed to save him for long. He was already exhausted, the brackish water taxing his lungs, and he had Nichol to look after. He needed to get Nichol to shore, and he needed to hold off the nimh-fish long enough to do that.

Nothing else really mattered.

Colm backed away, swimming in loops and circles, hoping that the creature felt the eddies the same way that he did. It seemed to, pressing forward and snapping, thrashing its heavy head side to side as it sought to catch whatever it could reach in its jaws. Colm wound his sinuous body in circles, looping over and under the nimh-fish until he'd doubled back to Nichol's drifting hummock and gave it a mighty shove, pushing it farther into the sluggish current.

“Colm!” Nichol shouted—had been shouting, probably; he sounded hoarse, although that might have been due to thirst. “What is it?”

Colm knew Nichol didn't really expect him to answer, but even if he had, he couldn't have taken the time. He couldn't stay close and put Nichol in greater danger. Colm swam away, thrusting his tail back and forth, appealing to the larger predator the only way he knew how. It would be enough.

It worked, at first. The nimh-fish regrouped and came at Colm again, full of furious energy, and Colm dodged and swam and came close to getting caught, but never quite close enough. He led the nimh-fish farther away, downstream where the water was shallower, where the big brute had more trouble moving about, and for a few moments, it looked like that would be enough. It was tiring, it would give up, slink back to deeper waters and wait for easier prey.

It found evidence of that prey in the water. The nimh-fish stopped suddenly, and Colm was close enough to see its large nostrils flare in the murk. He teased it with his tail, almost brushing the creature's face with it, but the nimh-fish ponderously turned and headed back upstream. Colm was dumbfounded for a long moment before he realized what he was scenting. Blood in the water. Nichol's blood, from where the arrow had cut into his shoulder, slipping sticky down his hand and into the water below. Nichol's blood was enough to draw a predator, and the nimh-fish was big enough that it could drag the entire hummock into the water, and Nichol with it. Colm couldn't let that happen.