Squinting through the dirty, flying liquid, the herdsman sputtered, “Ahlitah! Where’s Ahlitah?”
Of them all, only Hunkapa Aub, utilizing his prodigious strength, managed to struggle to his feet in the midst of chaos and tempest. “Hunkapa see him!” Sodden hair hanging in triangular, downward-facing points like limp, gray pennants from the underside of his arm, he pointed.
“How …” Ehomba spat out another mouthful of water. “How is he looking?”
There followed a pause, which ended when Hunkapa Aub declared, “Hungry.”
The highly localized squall subsided almost as abruptly as it had struck. Around the waterlogged windwagon the river once again grew calm. Within, everything that had not been tied down was afloat, bobbing in the water that had bubbled or sloshed in. Not even the inherent buoyancy of the sturdy planking would keep them afloat much longer, Ehomba saw.
In front of the wagon and paddling steadily for shore was the black litah. In its powerful jaws it gripped the broken neck of the great eel. The nightmare head hung severely to one side, the black eyes glazed with death.
“Hunkapa, we must go with Ahlitah,” Ehomba told his husky companion. “You are the only one strong enough to pull the wagon.”
The massive man-beast regarded the herdsman with limpid, mournful eyes. “Hunkapa would do, Etjole. Only one problem. Hunkapa cannot swim.”
“Cannot … ?” It was rare indeed for Ehomba to be taken aback. When they had first plunged into the river to escape the pursuing minions of the Brotherhood, all the time they had been sailing and drifting across, even after they had become dangerously waterlogged and had begun to sink, the big brute had not said a word.