Again he reached forward for the spear in order to have some sort of anchor, and again the beast screeched and shifted in the air, pulling sharply upward. Somehow, Teyn gathered his wits tightly enough to realize that it was tipping in the direction he pulled the spear, trying to get away from the pain each fresh tug brought.
A firm shove forward sent the beast into a dive again, confirming his observation and giving him the tiniest chance at survival. With tugs and nudges of the weapon, he guided the monster as best he could toward the surface of the lake below. It was working, but each attempt to steer replaced a bit more of the creature's fear with fury. He was a good deal higher than he would have liked when it finally twisted itself into a tight roll that successfully tore him from its back, the spear clutched desperately in his grip and sliding free. A flailing fall brought him to the surface of the lake, where he slashed down with punishing force. The water softened his fall only slightly.
The shock of water that was on the cusp of freezing was joined a moment later by the thump of his back against the lake floor. He coughed out a precious breath of air and convulsed as water rushed in to replace it. Drawing together the remnants of his mind that had survived the ordeal thus far, he realized that one aspect of the plan he'd failed to consider was the fact that he didn't know how to swim. It didn't matter. He would not survive a clash with a massive monster and a fall from the sky only to be killed by a pool of water. He planted a foot on the lake bed and pushed himself toward the rippling waves above.
Not a moment too soon, he broke the surface, and after a fit of coughing and spitting, he was able get a lungful of fresh air. What followed was a somewhat undignified sequence of splashes and sputtering gasps as he worked his way to the shore. Finally, his thrashing brought him near enough to feel the silt and stone of the water's edge.
He flopped ashore and allowed himself a few moments to gratefully take advantage of the fresh air and solid ground. Slowly, his mind began to process what had happened, and his body listed its complaints. Every inch of him ached. His heart was rattling in his chest, the cold breeze was chilling his wet fur, and he could feel a dozen different welts and bruises forming.
It wasn't until his breathing began to slow and his heart no longer threatened to beat its way out of his chest that he dared attempt to stand. It took three tries, but he finally managed to remain upright. He surveyed his surroundings, now grappling with the task of determining what exactly he was supposed to do now. His body politely suggested that he lie down for a few hours, but there would be time for that later. He turned his eyes to the sky, searching until he spotted the now-distant form of the griffin. To be on the safe side, he decided to fetch the spear, just in case it decided to return. At some point during the fall, he'd released it, but it was fortunately bobbing at the water's edge. Once it was in his hand, he shook away as much of the water as he could from his long hair and bristling fur. Finally, he limped toward the trees, coughing up a few lingering drops of water as he went.
The short distance to the low hill that hid Sorrel seemed like miles, and even so, his breathing had barely returned to normal by the time reached it. He plodded up the slop until he could see his fellow malthrope ahead. Sorrel was curled in a ball, her hands cupped over her eyes. She was shaking with violent, heaving sobs. Her voice was twisted with pain and sorrow.
“Sorrel?” he croaked, when he had breath enough to do so.
The sound seemed to slice through the agony. She wiped the tears from her eyes and snapped her head toward the sound. Teyn must have been a pitiful sight, drenched and shivering lightly in the breeze, the bloodied and broken remnant of the crutch still tight in his grip.
“You really are a teyn . . .” She uttered.
Without a word, he stumbled down the short hill and dropped to his knees beside her. His motions were clumsy and subdued until the moment his eyes turned to her ailing leg. Then a sharpness came to his gaze.
“We—” he began to say, stifling a cough. “We need to take care of this.”
“There is no use, Teyn. It is broken. What could you do?” She groaned. The pain was terrible, and the suggestion that something could be done about it almost made it worse, as though it had a mind of its own and would not be denied.
“I need to bind it. It needs to be straightened and it needs a splint.”
“Still you wish to do this? It is not too late for that?”
“If we do it quickly, your leg should recover.”
She knitted her brow, a look of pained contemplation on her face.
“It will hurt very much, yes?”
“At first there will be a lot of pain. It will pass.”
As she gave the situation a few more moments of consideration, a wave of pain visibly made her decision for her. “It cannot hurt more than this. Do it. Do what you need to do. Quickly.”
He nodded and went to work. The broken-away head of the crutch was lying on the ground beside Sorrel. He snatched it up and sliced the lashing with a claw to salvage a short length of rope. Over the course of the battle and fall, the length of crutch that had served as a weapon had earned a fresh break. Placing it below his knee and giving either side a sharp pull snapped it into two roughly equal lengths.
“I need something to pad it, an old bit of cloth, or—”
“Fine. Take! Take what you need, just move fast!” she barked.
One hand propped her in a sitting position while the other danced across her outfit, plunging into her endless array of pockets and pulling out items of all descriptions. There were trinkets, coins, and swatches of cloth and leather so worn there was no telling what they might have been when they were new. Finally, she revealed the slave tunic she'd tucked away when Teyn had abandoned it. He grabbed it and wrapped it as gently as he could around the fractured shin. It was not gently enough for her tastes, prompting her to dig her claws into the cold ground and unleash a string of colorful words in her native language.
“Careful, Teyn!” she snapped, clutching his upper arm.
“We aren't through the worst of it,” he warned. He plucked the armrest of the crutch from the ground, wrapped it in one of the swatches of leather, and held it out. “Take this. Bite down on it.”
“What good will this do?”
“If you bite this now, you won't bite your own tongue later.”
She shuddered with pain again, eyes resting uncertainly on the leather-wrapped wood.
“Trust me,” he said, shaking it. “It will help.”
After another hard look she opened her mouth and clamped down on the leather. Teyn slipped the lengths of wood into a layer of the wrapped tunic to hold them in place, then looped what little rope he had around the dressed leg and prepared a knot. He turned to her. Sorrel's eyes were locked on the leg, apprehension and agony playing tug of war with her expression. He gathered the ends of the knot. If he'd arranged the rope correctly, a good hard tug of the rope would draw the injured leg firmly against the makeshift supports, aligning the ends of the bone and holding them in place. On the plantation, he had only seen it done a few times, but faces of the men who had needed it done, and the cries made by even the hardiest of them, were burned into his mind.
No matter. It needed to be done.
He placed his foot against one of the supports, bracing it. The stray ends of the knot were wrapped in his fist. With his other hand, he pulled her hand from his arm and clutched it tight. She held tight and wrestled her eyes open, meeting his gaze.
“Ready?”
She drew in a breath, held it tight, and offered up a stiff nod, eyes staring into his. He pulled the rope taut. A screaming sob of pain erupted from her, forcing its way past the tightly-clamped bit of wood and echoing through the trees. She squeezed his hand painfully tight and held it until the initial shock of pain dwindled to a slow, intense throb.
“That's it. It's done,” Teyn said.
Her watering eyes turned to the leg. Once crooked and useless, it had indeed been drawn back into t
he proper alignment.
“I need to finish tying the knot.”
At first she tipped her head in confusion, but then she realized she still had his hand tightly clutched in hers. She released it and, once he'd worked enough feeling into his fingers again, he finished the job.
“There. That wasn't so bad, was it?” he asked, grinning weakly.
“Let me break your leg and we will see how you like it,” she muttered with a scowl.
The two of them were exhausted and beaten, but alive and whole. For the first time since the beast had appeared overhead, the rush and intensity of the ordeal was gone, and it was steadily taking with it the strength and clarity of purpose that had carried them this far. Replacing it was a bone-deep weariness. All of the fatigue and punishment they'd been able to push aside was racing back. The only thing either of them wanted to do was collapse and let a long night of sleep restore some of their strength and wits. Unfortunately, it was twilight, they were far from home, and, as their run-in with the beast had taught them, they weren't safe in the thin forest. They needed to move, to find shelter. And with her leg so badly hurt, there was only one way it would happen.
Without words, Sorrel gathered the things from her pockets and tucked them away. When she was through, Teyn hooked one of his arms around her back and the other beneath her knees. For once, her withered and undernourished form was a blessing. Lifting her was like lifting a scarecrow, which was fortunate, because he scarcely had the strength to lift much more. As carefully as he could, moving slowly so as to avoid jostling the newly-splinted leg, he climbed to his feet and set off toward home.
#
The crash that comes after pushing the mind and body beyond their limit can only be held at bay for so long. After an hour of heading back through the woods, Teyn couldn't go any farther without the fear of faltering and dropping his precious cargo. When he reached a reasonably sheltered notch in the mountain, he carefully lowered Sorrel to the ground and leaned heavily on the stone wall. His breath was ragged and wheezing, still giving way to a weak cough from time to time and slow to return to normal.
“I'll . . . I'll try to find some wood for a fire. I just need . . . I need to catch my breath.”
Sorrel winced as she extended her leg and attempted to find a comfortable position. “Forget the fire, Teyn. You try to find wood now and you will fall, and maybe one of those cat-bird things will find you. Or maybe a fish-eater. And then where would we be? You dead, and me soon after. No, Teyn. Rest. Fire later.”
Teyn attempted to object, but he was already settling to the ground, his body having decided to take his friend's advice even though his mind felt differently. He sat and leaned against the wall, leaving a respectable amount of distance between himself and the female. After she finished adjusting her leg, she turned to him, eyes flitting over him and taking in the sight of her savior. She seemed to consider him as one might consider a riddle. Finally she squinted, abandoning the puzzle with a single word.
“Why?” she demanded. Like many of her questions, she didn't so much seem curious as impatient, as though he was late in answering a question that should have been answered ages ago.
“Why what?”
“Why what happened back there? Why carry me so far? Why dress my leg so well?”
“It needed to be done,” he said simply.
“That is all? You did not do it for any other reason? You did not want . . . something from me in exchange?”
“No. You needed help, I gave it. You would have done the same for me.”
“No, I would not,” she countered, a chuckle of disbelief behind her voice. “Coming back? Fighting the cat-bird thing? I would not do this for my own brother. It is a hard enough life without fighting battles that are not your battles. You must put yourself first if you want to stay alive.”
“That is not what I was taught. You do what you can to help your people when they can't help themselves. If we all did that, then we would all be better off.”
“Maybe, yes. But we do not all do that. And if others do not, then why should you?”
He shrugged. “It has to start somewhere.”
“Men taught you that?”
“One of them did . . .”
“He was teaching you to be weak, then. To do what they tell you. He was like the rest.”
Teyn shot her a dagger-sharp look. “Say what you wish about the rest of the human race, but do not speak ill of that man.”
She murmured something, a noncommittal sound that was neither an acknowledgment nor a retort, and certainly wasn't regret or apology. He sat in silence while she resumed her gaze of consideration. Deep inside, he found himself wishing there was a fire crackling, and not just for the badly needed warmth. A fire gave him something to stare at, and it filled the air with a quiet but constant sound. Without it, the mournful wail of the wind did little to cut through a silence that felt thick and oppressive. His eyes felt restless without a suitable focus. The wind gusted enough to curl into their shelter and offer an icy burst that motivated Teyn to tug the front of his shirt a bit tighter. The long walk in the breeze had been enough to take most of the dampness from it, but in doing so, it had chilled him to the bone. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her tip her head again, something in his body language catching her attention.
“Give me your hand,” she said, reaching out.
He took the hand nearest to her from the edge of his shirt and offered it. She clutched it lightly.
“Still cold. That fall in the water chilled you good, eh? You are lucky it was not in the north. This cold is nothing. There, a dunk in the water without a way to get dry quick is a very bad thing. Even with fur you might not survive it.”
All he offered was a slow nod. She held his hand a bit longer, the corners of her mouth drooping and her brow furrowed. Teyn closed his eyes, trying to force the cold from his mind so that he could give his aching body a few hours of real sleep. Beside him, Sorrel adjusted herself for a moment, no doubt seeking a position that would offer a bit less pain. Her shuffling left her leaning lightly against his side, her shoulder to his. She shifted, and then came a gentle warmth drifting over him. His eyes opened to find that she'd pulled the heavy cloak from her back and thrown it over the both of them like a blanket. If it had been a proper-sized cloak, it wouldn't have been nearly large enough, but the comically oversized thing was more than enough to cover them both, so long as they stayed close.
“Thank you. You didn't need to do that,” he said.
“No. But I am thinking . . . the lessons this one man teaches you. Maybe not all of them are bad.” She yawned wide and leaned her head against his shoulder. “Sleep now, Teyn. You have much carrying to do tomorrow.”
#
It had taken the pair of malthropes more than twice as long to return from the ill-fated trip as it had to reach the griffin's cliff. Fortune had smiled upon them along the way, offering up a few plump game birds that were too slow to evade Teyn once he'd set down his teacher. It wasn't the meal they'd been seeking when they set off on their journey, but it was enough to give them the strength to return. Now they were making their way through the familiar trees of the place they called home. It was strange—there wasn't anything particularly distinctive about this part of the mountain, nothing to set it apart from the miles and miles of rocky wilderness that surrounded it, but, somehow, being here brought a profound relief. Pacing the land that greeted him every morning filled him with a sort of comfort, a security that he'd not truly felt since the workshop that he'd shared with Ben.
He shifted his path toward the hidden crag of the mountain that now served the same role as the shop of old, but Sorrel stopped him.
“No, go that way,” she directed.
She was cradled in his arms, one arm around his neck and the other pointing the way. After that first night of sleep, she'd been foolish enough to second-guess Teyn's advice. The throbbing had subsided for the most part, and the splint seemed strong, so she'd tried climbin
g to her feet while Teyn slept. The result was a cry that startled him from sleep and enough pain to assure her that, for better or worse, Teyn would be her legs for a few weeks.
“Up there, then down the slope a bit. There is a patch of flat stones and a gap between two tall parts,” she said.
“Where are we going?”
“Where are we going . . .” she muttered. “We are going home, Teyn. Where do you think?”
“Your home? But you told me never to follow you there.”
“You are not following me there, you are taking me there. It is different. How else am I supposed to get home? Now go, quickly. It has been a long time. I want to be sure my things are where I left them.”
He followed her instructions, and soon found his way to a deep overhang nestled in a nook near the mouth of a small valley not far from his own lair. A thin shard of stone that had dropped free of the mountain ages ago served as a wall, closing off the overhang and turning it into a room of sorts. Carefully slipping through the narrow opening beside the stone, Teyn found the place that Sorrel had called home.
The late afternoon sun was filtering through cracks around the edge of the natural door, where something in the stone of the wall made it sparkle and cast points of rainbow light all around. Here and there, a patch of the wall had been rubbed or scraped to reveal more of the gleaming stone, forming simple patterns of the stuff. Most of these designs were centered on the wall farthest from the entrance, where a neat mound of dry boughs had been piled and draped with a rough cloth to form a cozy little bed. A trickling sound drew his attention to the corner of the den, where a natural spring had forced its way between the layers of stone and formed a small pool.
Perhaps it was simply that it was shielded from the wind, or perhaps it was due to two warm bodies occupying a space only just large enough to accommodate them, but the little alcove seemed warmer than it should be without a fire. Scattered around were little indications that this was a home: smooth pebbles of various colors polished to a sheen and piled neatly on a natural shelf, a few delicate bones and feathers strung together on a piece of poorly knotted thread and dangling from a crook in the roof, tiny touches that Sorrel had left behind to make the space her own.
The Book of Deacon Anthology Page 165
