by Lionel Fenn
He watched as the lorra circled its catch warily, then pounced onto its ridged back with all four hooves. The sounds of bone snapping, flesh tearing and other things squishing were all too clearly audible, as was Red's grunt of delight when he jumped back onto the grass with a joyous purr and playfully stomped the tail into submission.
He watched as the river-beast expired.
He watched as Red spotted him and, with a toss of his head, invited him to a free dinner.
And when Horrn eventually summoned the courage to descend the rise himself, Gideon smiled with all his teeth agleam and said, "Jimm, lad, what's that?"
"The river or the rankgo?"
"The rankgo."
"It's a rankgo."
Botham and the duck joined them, and the blacksmith's eyes widened in delight. "Hey, it's a rankgo!" And he broke into an excited run, his pack slamming against his spine, his bowed legs bowing even more, and his duck wrapping her lovely wings around his head to keep from being spilled into the dust.
"I notice," Gideon said calmly as he and the thief continued their stroll, "that the river... the—"
"Khaleque," Horrn supplied eagerly. "The mighty River Khaleque. It's very famous. At least, it used to be."
"Ah. Well, I notice that the Khaleque seems to be filled with rankgos."
Horrn agreed, and explained that the fresh flowing water was the natural habitat of such a creature, whose eating habits were, as far as he knew, confined to those unfortunate animals who strayed too close to the muddy, and thus slippery, banks. They were not amphibious, he hastened to add, and therefore held no danger for the band as long as it kept out of harm's way.
Better and better, Gideon thought in his struggle against hysteria.
"I also notice that Hykrol Peak is on the other side of the Khaleque."
"Well, of course it is, Gideon. There's no trick of the eye involved here."
Gideon remained silent, hoping he had made his point without having to resort to vocalization, which, he knew, would surely send him screaming across the plain.
"Oh," said the thief. "Oh, my. Oh, dear."
"The phrase you're looking for," Gideon said, "is 'Oh, shit.'"
CHAPTER EIGHT
Necessity, and a healthy respect for the creatures in the river, constrained their campsite to a position more than fifty yards from the swift-moving water, that being the distance experience determined to be beyond the range of the rankgos' quills, which they were able to fire from their watery bastion by arcing their backs above the surface, bringing their tails high over their heads, and performing a feat of whip-and-splash that was not only dizzying to watch, but painful as well. Only Red was immune to the dangerous projectiles, which for some reason slid off his thick silky hair and buried themselves harmlessly a meter or so into the ground. It was this apparent invincibility that had lured one of them too close to the bank; Red managed the rest with his horns, his hooves, and a noose his near-naked tail looped into at the appropriate moment.
At Gideon's request, the lorra dragged the carcass of the dead rankgo into camp. There, using a cleaver and his anvil, Botham carved the thing into thin slabs of meat which he then cooked with flair over a fire Jimm produced in a shallow pit with a match from the depths of his sack. Garnished with the plain's grasses, it was a satisfying meal, and the quills, which tended to stick in one's teeth, were set aside in a neat pile since Gideon was determined to find some use for them in the certain battle to cross the river. They were pliant, strong, easy to hold and aerodynamically far better proportioned than an Olympian's javelin.
Once the meal was done, he sat by the fire and stared at the flames, ignoring as best he could a sullen, pulsing orange glow on the eastern skyline.
Red snuggled down beside him, purring as he stroked its neck; Tuesday waddled to his other side and settled her feet beneath her, her wings laid sleekly along her flanks, and nipped at the grass thoughtfully.
"What do you think?" she said.
"I think I could build you a hell of a nest back home," he said at last. "You could have your own private pond in the backyard, I'd import ducks from all over the world to serve as your slaves, and you'd have enough duck chow to last you the rest of your life."
"But no steak."
"Yeah. No steak."
She rapped his knee lightly with her beak. "You didn't think this would be easy, did you?"
He laughed in spite of his depression. "I had hopes, if you want me to be honest."
"Would you be less bitchy about it if I were Ivy instead?"
"That's a lousy thing to say, Tuesday."
"I know. But I want to know where I stand in your devotion to duty."
He smiled and slipped an arm over her back. "Where you always do, Sis. Where you always do. Don't let me get you down."
"In public?" Horrn whispered from where he was trying to sleep.
A faint splash and low tuneful whistling sounded softly by the river; the rankgos were blindly firing their quills into the dark, hoping for a snack before they settled into the mud for their night's rest.
Gideon wriggled against Red's flank, pulling the long hair over him to use as a blanket. Tuesday beaked him goodnight and wandered back to Botham, who was finishing the last of the meat and wrapping the uncooked portions in cloth for future meals, when they weren't fussy about where their next meal came from.
I am not a defeatist, Gideon thought as Red's purring lulled him closer to sleep; I am a realist who can see the hopelessness of the challenge. There are, after all, some obstacles that are not meant to be overcome. There are roadblocks for which the only detour is an about-face. There are pass plays for which the best execution in the world will not guarantee success. Unless, he thought with a jerk that had him sitting upright, the defense thinks you're going to run instead. In which case, the pass might work after all.
He smiled broadly.
He had no idea what the hell he was thinking, but it made him feel incredibly good, and when he woke up he might even be able to figure it out.
—|—
"Huh?" Tuesday said the next morning, when Gideon attempted to explain the plan he'd devised just before dropping into an uncomplicated slumber. "What does that mean?"
He didn't answer; he walked toward the river as lightly as he could, watching the backs of the rankgos as they barely disturbed the water's surface. The plain was fenced with quills that appeared to be melting in the hazy sunlight, which would explain why he hadn't seen any on their approach.
Red walked beside him.
"Gideon," Horrn called anxiously. "I think you're getting too close. Or maybe not. I can't really see very well from here."
He knew he was. He wanted to. He also wanted to believe that he was right, that his earlier impressions of disaster were wrong, and that Botham would come up to stand with him in order to prove to his love that he was no coward and get himself pincushioned to death.
The river grew more agitated.
"Gideon, I think they know you're there," Horrn called.
He nodded and waved, and looked at the lorra. "Nice day, isn't it?" he said.
Red gave him the benefit of one skeptical eye.
Then a tail lifted, a ridged back arched, and Gideon plunged under Red's belly. The lorra sidestepped skittishly at the unannounced violation of his hitherto private undercarriage, but Gideon urged him on with a pat here and a tug there, hunched over and duck-walking as it were, until they reached the lip of the muddy bank.
Not a single quill penetrated the silken carrier.
Not a single scratch did he receive, unless he counted the occasional scrape of his buttocks on the uneven ground.
Now he could see the rankgos in their element, how with mere twitches of their tails they darted effortlessly through the water, sleek as otters, the quills flat along their backs and sides until the rankgos streaked into the air and let fire. There were, he estimated, about a dozen in this particular area, and he supposed that, like land-based animals, they had
their own territories, which effectively ruled out the possibility of moving up- or downriver in order to find a safer place to cross.
No, he thought; as much as he didn't like it, they might as well use this crossing as any other.
He turned awkwardly, apologized to Red for poking him in the stomach, and guided the animal back to where the others waited. When he climbed out from under, Horrn instantly shook his hand in admiration, calling him a genius, praising his heroic measures, and wondering why he himself hadn't thought of it before.
"You mean," Botham said, "you want me to get under there, hold on, and let that... that thing swim across the water and put me down on the other side?"
Gideon nodded. "Sure! How else are you going to do it? You can't ride him because there's no cover. You can't swim on your own because there are too many of those things for you to bash. And you can't stay here because Tuesday would make my life miserable for years. Have you ever heard her when she starts crying?"
Which she did, and quite reasonably for a tearductless creature of white plumage and flat feet.
Botham, being a fool but no idiot, relented instantly, and Gideon hastened to break camp before anyone asked him what he himself had been wondering since he first thought of this stupid idea—which was, how did everyone else get across, those people who lived and loved and more often died out here on the plains? Lorras were not a very common or domesticated animal in the Middle Ground. And unless he was to consider the possibility that no one ever crossed the river at all, there had to be another way. Unfortunately, there was no time to rush back to the last farm and question those who lived there. They might not know, and he might then be confronted with evidence that the food shortage might well have already begun to turn to famine; or they might indeed know, and he wouldn't want to hear how it was done.
Either way, he was stuck with what he had suggested, and before further objections could be raised, he explained his plan to Red, who nodded and purred and otherwise informed him that the animal hadn't the slightest idea what he was talking about. Then he told Tuesday to use her considerable wingpower to get to the other side and wait.
"Hey," Finlay said. "Why can't I do that, too?"
"Because you don't have any wings," he said patiently.
"Why does she have to go first? It could be dangerous over there."
"Good point," said Tuesday, who had been flexing her wings in preparation for takeoff.
"A very good point," Gideon said to the blacksmith. "Which I will explain to you, in detail, once we're across." Then he aimed a quick and brotherly boot at his sister, who flapped into the air, flipped an obscene feather in his general direction, and sailed elegantly and safely over the River Khaleque. She landed, preened in satisfaction, and took off again with a shriek when a volley of well-aimed quills threatened to pin her tail to the ground. The second time down she strutted back and forth, squawking at the rankgos, daring them to do their worst, getting them into such a lousy mood that Gideon hoped their natural instincts would not be subverted.
Botham—at his own insistence, and who was Gideon to argue in the face of true love and anvil might?—was next. He wasn't at all comfortable with the lorra on the best of days, and he complained the entire while as Horrn expertly lashed him into position in such a way that he could, when the need arose, break through the hairy confines and take a deep breath. When the blacksmith asked what he should do in case a rankgo came at him from underneath, Gideon only patted his head and gave Red the nod.
He and Horrn watched from as close to the bank as they dared go.
"A brave man," Horrn said when Red slipped into the water and was immediately surrounded by a host of rankgos.
"If I didn't think it would work, I wouldn't have let him go first," Gideon said.
The thief looked at him sideways.
"I wasn't kidding about Tuesday," he said quickly. "When she gets going, she's an expert at guilt."
Red was already halfway across, and seemed to be enjoying himself. He cavalierly gored a pair of rankgos who came too close, caught another one by the tail and dragged it along with him for a few yards before releasing it, and issued his water-frothing, panther-like bellow whenever it appeared as if he would be overwhelmed. The rankgos retreated in splashy haste, and did not return until he was almost to the other side.
Botham was unseen.
"A very brave man," the thief said.
Gideon would not admit it. Instead, he watched as Red climbed the opposite bank, shook himself, and trotted over to Tuesday, who used her skillful beak to untie her lover and drop him to the ground. He lay there, panting, gasping, finally sitting up and taking the duck into his arms. Red signaled his triumph and rushed back to the river, plunged in, and took the measure of two more beasts before his return.
Horrn was next.
Gideon watched alone, hating himself for being more concerned with the kid than with his sister's paramour, and telling himself he'd get over it.
The rankgos were decidedly more cautious, and none were lost in the crossing.
Then, far too soon, Red was standing in front of him, dripping, snorting, and generally letting him know he wasn't going to tolerate any stalling. Gideon looked at the others waiting for him, looked back along the road and sighed.
"Red," he said, "have you ever been to Miami this time of year?"
One of Red's eyes started to turn black.
"Lousy," he said quickly. "Too damned hot, and all those damned hurricanes. You wouldn't like it."
Red ducked his head sharply.
"All right, all right. Just hold still a minute while I get the rope and... damn."
Red pawed the road impatiently.
"I have a problem," he said, and held up the rope. "Can you tie this thing?"
The look he received was all the answer he needed.
With increasing doubt on his face, he walked slowly around the lorra, hoping for a miraculous answer to his dilemma. But there was nothing he could do. He had to crawl under and hold on, and hope that the rankgos would not go for him, that the river would not dislodge him, that he could maintain a grip long enough for Red to get to the other side.
He could, of course, call Tuesday back, give her the map, and have the others nip into the valley and get Grahne for him; on the other hand, they would probably die of old age while Horrn made up his mind which way to go and Botham threatened to just bash the volcano down and be done with it. The man could probably do it, but if even half of what Whale had told him about Grahne's reputation were true, he wondered if the thief would be up to the negotiations.
No. He had to do it. To spare Horrn the possible humiliation, and the volcano a sound thrashing. It was the least he could do, since Ivy wasn't here and this was, in effect, war. And war, he thought, is hell.
So thinking, he clapped the lorra on the back and slid underneath, wrapped his hands and arms in the thick hair and pulled his legs up to clamp against the animal's sides.
Red didn't wait.
As second, third, and fourth thoughts clamored for his attention, Gideon felt himself being slid down the bank and into the river. The chilly river. The river that swept and thundered over him and reminded him that holding his breath had never been one of his best events, and that at swimming he was even worse.
But the water was clear when he permitted his eyes to open, and he could see without distortion the rankgos swirling beneath him, wary of the lorra and hungry for lunch.
Then one of them moved closer.
And he saw its sleek head, its formidable teeth, and the eyes that turned from a flat and disturbing black to a slanting, gleeful blue.
CHAPTER NINE
Gideon panicked.
It wasn't so much the smirking, smug sneer on the blue-eyed creature that got to him as it was the fact that he had no effective way to defend himself in case the stalking monster decided to attack him. To get at his bat would mean releasing one of his hands, which were already slippery and threatening to slide off
. Red's churning hooves and sweeping horns had evidently deterred the others from getting too close, but if the rankgo made another pass, he doubted the lorra's defenses would mean much to that one.
They didn't.
After a moment's coasting and contemplation, it dove into the river's dark depths with an arrogant snap-and-curl of its forked tail, and seconds later came streaking up into the dim light, its mouth open, teeth gleaming, quills on standby in case it missed on the first pass.
Gideon, gurgling a useless shout, hauled himself up as close to Red's belly as he could, feeling the agonizing pressure of a need for breath expanding his lungs and puffing his cheeks, yet unable to do anything about it except wince and produce a few rows of bubbles when a quill pierced his shirt and carved its signature along his spine. Once it was gone, however, he jerked himself to one side and thrust his head above the surface. He gasped. He sputtered. He saw a pair of rankgos cavorting maliciously not two inches from his nose and sank again, saw the blue-eyed monster waiting patiently, and wished there were a way he could scream without drowning.
Red, who was aware now of the danger, increased his speed, but he was neither sleek enough nor powerful enough to outdistance the water-bred foe. Nevertheless, his muscular legs struck out gamely, and so rapidly that one caprine knee kept thudding into Gideon's thigh.
He squirmed out of the way.
The blue-eyed rankgo sailed silently below.
He felt his right hand slipping.
The rankgo sailed past again.
Ten yards later, the lorra lost its swimming rhythm and began twisting side to side, for some reason purring like forty cats in a creamery, and making Gideon's already precarious position decidedly more so; but the more frantically he scrambled to hold on, the more Red rolled and lunged until, with an oath that cost him a mouthful of water, he realized his squirming was tickling the damned thing.
