Orphan: Book One: Chronicles of the Fall

by Lee Ramsay

  The world vanished in a blue-white swirl of bubbles tinted with a red haze from his busted nose. Frigid water gripped his chest, seizing his lungs as momentum bore him to the bottom of the pool. Smooth rocks brushed his hip and sent him tumbling along the riverbed.

  His head broke the surface as he was swept over the next waterfall, allowing him to snatch a breath before plunging into the next pool. The flow tumbled him, confusing his sense of up or down before he crested the subsequent drop. The following fall proved to be more of a slide than a drop; however, the angle was steep enough for him to gain speed and plunge deep into the next basin.

  A stone smacked his lower back as the current swept him downstream, leaving his legs numbed and unable to push himself from the river bottom. Pine boughs blurred overhead as he tried to orient himself. Gloved hands found no purchase, but he twisted himself so he could see where he was going and protect his head from smacking jutting stones.

  The river dipped, shooting him into another deep pool. Lungs threatening to burst from lack of air, he bobbed to the surface with a splash. Rocky outcrops smacked his shins and hips; submerged deadfall hooked his toes, and eddies spun him in circles as he struggled to stay afloat.

  He wondered where Brenna was. She might have escaped the current, landing in that first pool far enough from him to catch hold of something to pull herself free. He wondered, too, if Groush and Rathus had fled Urzgeth by following him over the cliff.

  The water grew choppier as it entered rapids. His bootheels scuffed the riverbed as the flow coursed through a deep, narrow canyon. He milled his arms as he leaned his back into the current, attempting to keep himself oriented feet-first. A boulder smacked his elbow; agony blazed when his injured hand cracked another stone, causing him to vomit up swallowed river water.

  Time slowed as Tristan fought the river’s grip. The twisting flow swept him past narrow spits of dry land and sheer white cliffs. An ominous sound rose from further downstream as he struggled to keep from going under the surface. Water foamed around his chin as he worked on spinning himself around. Tossing a hank of sodden hair from his eyes with a snap of his head, he spied the rugged gap he was being carried toward an instant before he flew over the waterfall’s edge.

  Wind whistled as his arms and legs thrashed at nothing. The world turned gray as mist enveloped him. Every nerve and joint blazed from sudden deceleration as he splashed into the lake at the waterfall’s bottom, but hammering water pushed him deeper. Cold gripped his chest, shocking him into a paralysis that kept him from sucking water into his lungs.

  Unconsciousness beckoned as leaden shadows closed around him. Weightless, a peaceful lethargy took him. Pain reached for him from a distance, but the cold dulled his nerves. He wondered with a strange detachment how long it had been since he had not hurt.

  Too long. It would be so easy to breathe out and breathe no more.

  A bubble rose from his lips, drifting toward the shimmering sunlight overhead. Another passed his lips as his eyes closed.

  His coat sleeves dug into his armpits as a hand caught the collar and dragged him toward the surface. A heavily-built figure floated beside him, pulling him upward with powerful strokes of its free arm. Tristan thrashed, thinking it was Urzgeth, but relaxed as his head broke the water’s surface. Groush’s battered, bearded face peered at him from beneath black hair pasted across his face.

  The Hillffolk coughed and shook his head to clear his hair from his eyes. “You aren’t stupid - you’re mad.”

  The young man retched, chest constricting painfully as his lungs expelled water. When he could breathe without coughing, he asked, “Did we all make it?”

  Groush thrust his bearded chin toward the lake’s northern bank. Here the water was wider and far calmer, save where the water thundered from above. Rathus stood on the riverbank, wrapping his cloak around himself, while Brenna hugged herself and glared at Tristan.

  “The girl’s not happy,” the bull chuckled as he struck out for shore.

  “WHAT ALL DO WE HAVE?” Tristan asked, sitting beside the small fire Groush managed to start. His stolen coat lay beside him, the fleece lining turned out to dry in what little sun managed to pierce the gold and fire oaks they camped beneath, and his shirt hung over a low branch.

  “What we carried when you had the brilliant idea to throw us over a cliff.” He hissed as the needle Brenna pushed through his skin went deeper than intended. She waited for his muscles to relax before drawing his split flesh in his shoulder closed. “You could have gotten us killed!”

  “It was that, or face Urzgeth.” He prodded his swollen nose, wincing as a pain radiated across his face, and took a deep breath. Broken cartilage ground together as he pulled and realigned the pieces. A fresh wave of blood spilled across his upper lip, forcing him to remain still until his dizziness subsided. Iron saltiness clogged his throat as he snorted and spat bloody saliva into the fire.

  “You couldn’t have known that the water was deep enough. We could have broken a leg, or snapped our backs.”

  “I thought it might be. My ward father despaired at my inattention to anything he thought important – I was always more interested in hearing about faraway places. He’ll be pleased I remembered something from his lessons about glacial landscapes and rivers.”

  Brenna finished her stitching and cut away the extra thread with her knife. “If nothing else, it washed some of your wounds out. Turn around so I can tend your chest.”

  “That one isn’t so bad,” Tristan said, but did as she bid. “So, what did we lose?”

  “It’s easier to list what we still have. We have the things I carried in my pouches, Groush’s sword, my knife, and Rathus’s dagger. What little food we had, and the extra clothes and blankets, are lost.” She leaned close to prod the slice across his chest. The skin parted where the serrated spearhead grazed, but the wound was not deep. “Best to let that one breathe.”

  “I’m sorry about Esra. The two of you were growing close.”

  Brenna said nothing as she wiped the needle on her pant. She dropped it, and the black thread on the wooden bobbin Masha had given her, into the battered pouch tied to her belt as she rose and moved toward the riverbank. He let her be, guilt stinging him over the loss of Nisha and Esra. The Dushken may have killed them, but he held himself responsible.

  Groush emerged from the forest with an armload of deadfall cradled in his crooked elbow and dropped the wood beside the fire. “You going to live?”

  “Unfortunately.” He gestured at the pile. “Don’t you think we should get moving?”

  “Not tonight. They won’t follow us the same way.”

  Brenna looked back over her shoulder. “How can you be sure?”

  “Dushken aren’t stupid. They also have armor. They’d sink.” Groush undid the clasps of his cloak and tossed the sodden wool at Tristan as he sat down. “Wrap yourself in that, so you don’t take a chill.”

  “Thanks.”

  “We have a few days before they catch us again. Maybe longer. They’ll search for our bodies once they find a way around the falls. The water will wash away our scent, and they’ll be searching for any sign of our leaving the river. Not easy, with the banks being rocky. If we’re lucky, it may rain.”

  “I’m not sure I’d count that as luck. We’re already soaked, and it’s getting colder.”

  “We’re in the mountains’ lower ranges. Storms come in at this time of year. Heavy rains in the foothills, but mostly soakers in lowlands. We’ll be cold, but we won’t freeze, and the storms will wash away our tracks and scent.” Groush glanced up at the oaks’ brilliant foliage as he scratched his bearded cheek. “These lands are not unlike my homeland. I have Rathus gathering wild plants. Found some grapes, a couple of persimmons. Saw some barberry bushes and hickory trees, too. Only an idiot would starve in a forest like this.”

  The bull leaned back, propping his weight on his palms as he sucked his teeth thoughtfully and looked at Tristan. “We’re in Troppenheim, mayb
e Caledorn. Hard to tell, the way the river breaks up coming out of the mountains. Won’t know until we are further down toward the flatlands. Still want to go to Caer Ravvos, or do you want to run for Caer Rochiel?”

  “Which would be easier?” Brenna asked, coming back to sit by the fire. She plucked at the damp clothes clinging to her skin.

  “Doesn’t matter. We’re north of both. We can follow the River Ernhesh west, cross the narrow part of Troppenheim, and then the River Ossifor to Caer Ravvos. Might be a better bet. The Dushken might think to catch us if we turn south and head for Shreth. That border is closer.”

  “What do you think we should do?” Tristan asked.

  “Rest tonight, start again in the morning,” Groush said. “We find a farm, and figure out where we are and where to go. Maybe split up, divide the huntsman, and give ourselves a better chance to survive.”

  THE RAINS CAME AS GROUSH warned. Moisture-laden clouds swept eastward up the floodplain between the rivers Ernhesh and Ossifor, dropping rain to the north and south of the rivers bordering the country of Troppenheim. There was little to slow the wind as it bore the clouds over the hundreds of miles between the sea and the Laithach Mountains. Updrafts rose from the broken, jagged landscape as clouds piled against the mountains’ towering faces, shivering the blanket of vibrant autumnal forests.

  Drizzling rain swirled around the four travelers as they struggled through rugged foothills. The lake they had camped beside drained along its southern and western edges into a warren of deep ravines and canyons, creating dozens of waterways that would eventually merge to create the River Ernhesh. This was ideal for throwing the pursuing Dushken off their trail, Groush explained; provided they hid signs of their passage well enough and stayed near the water, the tributaries and the rains together might delay the remaining huntsmen as they sought trackable spoor.

  It took days, however, for the small group to cover any distance. The canyons and ravines twisted back on themselves as they descended to lower elevations, and at several points they were forced to cross icy water to continue forward. Being so deep in the canyons spared them the worst of the winds, and forests of oak, maple, beech, and ash provided some shelter from the rains.

  Groush was less affected by the cold and gave over his cloak to Brenna. Able to eat things the others could not, such as some of the yellowing grasses they came across as well as berries and leaves the others found bitter, he alone gained weight from scavenged foods. Fashioning a crude spear from a dropped branch, he was able to catch fish. He allowed small, well-concealed evening fires to burn long enough to warm themselves and cook the trout he caught.

  Rathus, too, appeared to thrive. Under Groush’s direction, the bard grew adept at spotting wild berries, fruits, and late-season wild vegetables. They cooked what roots he found on stones beside the fire and filled their bellies enough to drive back the chill settling into their cores. While he never found enough to quash their hunger, between him and the Hillffolk, they had enough to keep from starving.

  Morale, however, flagged. Wrapped in Groush’s cloak, Brenna withdrew and worried her lip bloody. Rathus deduced she was uncertain where she might go, provided they escaped the huntsmen trailing them. What worried her – as well as Rathus and Groush – was Tristan’s declining health.

  The young man had been well enough the day after their escape over the waterfalls but soon grew feverish. The gouge in his thigh from the Dushken arrow was deep. Though Brenna had stitched it closed, walking across rough terrain kept it from healing clean. The skin around the wound was inflamed; the scabs broke whenever he flexed his thigh too much or jarred his leg, and the cut across his shoulder festered and wept yellowish puss.

  Worse, though, was the damage to his finger. Crimson lines rose across the back of his hand and his palm. Shattered bone jutted through torn skin, and the crusted scabs had taken on a mottled black and red quality. Whenever Brenna removed the glove to examine the injury and replace the bloodmoss, she caught a stench like rotting cheese. Finding medicinal plants was proving difficult, and what little she gathered could not be prepared appropriately without a pot of boiling water.

  Tristan did not complain; in fact, he said little at all. Wrapped in his battered Dushken coat, he stumbled along behind his companions and paid little attention to Rathus’s stories and songs. He was unaware of the concerned glances thrown his way, nor was he aware of the unhealthy contrast of sallow skin beneath his auburn hair or the bruising masking his eyes.

  He was certain he was dying. A part of him wished it would hurry up and happen, yet he woke and managed to move forward with the others every morning. He wanted nothing more than to wrap himself in his coat and fade into oblivion, and wished they would leave him behind.

  Like I left Esra to die beside the river, or Nisha to bleed to death from her severed arm. Just like I left Deshan and Rashek behind, when I could have stopped them.

  He waved off Brenna’s concerned look when he slipped on a slick rock and stumbled forward.

  Leaving Sahra with Masha and Ferhan had seemed like a good idea. Feet torn by days of running over rocky ground without shoes, the girl had been unable to walk. He had decided to leave her behind, though he had not needed much persuasion from Masha.

  If the Dushken tracked us to that cottage, the blood of three more people is on my head.

  His decisions kept getting people killed. Jesta was dead, torn apart where he could not see because he lacked the strength to lift the gate separating them. Eosan and Kayla had been hanged because he refused to play Ankara’s game. Gashan, whose suicide Tristan had not argued against. Eighteen others, whose names he had either forgotten or never bothered to learn, were also dead due to his choices. The others rescued from Ankara’s nightmare dungeon were undoubtedly dead. He remembered their faces, if not their names, and had little doubt they had been caught.

  Thirty-four people at least, Tristan thought as he trudged along. He hunched his shoulders against his physical misery and the guilt weighing his feet and wished the others would let him die. It was what he deserved, and they stood a better chance of surviving without him.

  Chapter 57

  Tristan wondered what had happened to Dorishad for a confused moment, his feverish mind blurring scattered memories and his current surroundings. He ignored the chill lodged in his bones and the sour stench of his sodden clothing and forced his mind to focus on the present.

  A cottage stood in a hollow between three tree-crowned hillocks, surrounded by several outbuildings and a small barn. Wispy smoke drifted from the chimney rising over the thatched roof. Veils of rain swirled across the turned fields and the yellowing grasses of the pastures. The bleating of sheep rose over the buzzing in his ears and the nearby babbling brook.

  Rathus shoulders hunched against the rain as he drew his arms drawn into his cloak. “Shall I beg a bit of food and a night in the barn?”

  “We keep going,” Tristan said, his voice rough. Rails clicked deep in his lungs as he coughed. He frowned as Brenna and Rathus traded a concerned look.

  “We need food and a dry place to sleep, and you’re about to collapse from sickness,” Brenna said, keeping her voice reasonable. “We need to ask if they have any medicines to spare, and maybe some old clothes.”

  Groush folded his arms with a scowl, frustrated and unhappy. “The girl’s right – you can go no further. None of us can, without food and a decent rest—”

  “We keep going,” the young man repeated, turning his back on the cottage as a coughing fit wracked him. He slipped on a patch of muddy grass, wrenching his muscles as he caught his balance. Pain spiked through his joints, and the wound on his thigh tore open with a sickening tug. He ignored both the blood trickling down his leg and stumbled on. “We’re too close to the mountains. If Groush is right, the Dushken will be days searching for our trail. We should use the time to cross as much flat ground as we can.”

  “You call this flat?” Rathus asked wryly, gesturing at the rolling foothills, rills
, and gullies all around them.

  Catching up with him, Brenna hooked her hand through Tristan’s elbow. “We won’t get far if you fall over. Come, let’s at least ask if we can rest by their fire—"

  He pushed her away with a shake of his head. “I said no.”

  That was what he meant to say, at least; the words came out slurred and barely intelligible. Balance abandoned him when his shove proved too weak to move her. His eyes rolled back in his head, and mud squelched as he collapsed to the ground.

  BRENNA’S EYEBROWS RUSHED together as Tristan’s hand smacked against her breastbone. She started to give him the sharp side of her tongue for being an ass but clicked her teeth together as he toppled over. She hurried to his side and slipped her hand under his collar when he failed to rise. Cold rain had soaked through his clothing, but his skin was hot beneath her fingertips. A sour stench rose from him, which she thought at first came from his stolen coat’s mildewed fleece lining.

  He recoiled from her fingers, shivers chasing through his muscles. She found the rhythm of his heart fast and weak when she pressed her fingers to the pulse point in his neck.

  Panic gripped her as she leveled a stare at her companions. “Groush! Pick him up. Rathus, tell the farmer we’re in desperate need of help. We have to get him somewhere dry and out of these clothes.”

  “What if he says no?”

  “You’ve told us how you charm women out of their skirts. Charm him out of a place by the fire.” She sent him off with a thrust of her chin.

  Groush met Brenna’s eyes as he squatted down by Tristan’s body. “He is right. We are too close to the mountains. We need to get him moving, and soon.”

  “If we don’t get him clean and dry, and get him some food and medicine, he will die,” Brenna said, slipping her hand under Tristan’s arm.