Tonight’s anthropophagous treat came courtesy of the dwarf.
Rap’s weakness appalled him. True, his clothes were soaked and clinging, but even so, he should not be shivering to such excess. He staggered, making far more noise than he should as he scrambled through the brush on the hillside.
Every few minutes he had to stop and rest. His head was pounding like a farrier’s hammer, and all his muscles had turned to . . . no, not to water. Mud, maybe.
The shore flats were narrow: tide-washed sand, a strip of rocks, and then some scrub at the base of the slope. He knew he must climb well away from the beach before he rounded the curve in the hill that blocked his view of the anthropophagiand blocked their view of him, also. The hill seemed unfairly steep, and the dry scrub was sharp and thorny and noisy. Just because his farsight didn’t work through hills didn’t mean that a sorcerer’s wouldn’t, but as he angled higher he began to hear the drums more clearly and see the flame-lit smoke roiling upward in the wind, and then sparks.
He took a farewell glance at Stormdancer, her prow almost clear of the water, and one thin thread of a cable curving down to a boulder. Gathmor sat morosely on that rock, sword in hand and totally blind. No one seemed to be moving on board. It was a ship of the dying.
Now Rap had reached the spur and he needed another rest, but he crouched low and forced himself to crawl through the prickly scrub until he had a clear view.
Once there had been a narrow stream valley notched into the hill. One side had collapsed ages ago, and the debris from the landslide now formed a little shelf on which Fort Emshandar had stood, a bulge on the shore. The rest of the gorge was still there, higher up the slope. It could not hold any great torrent, but surely there would be some water there? The Gods could not be so cruel as to make it completely dry?
Most of the anthropophagi were down by the fires. Not one of them wore as much as a string of beads. Few were still dancing. Many seemed to be feasting—God of Vomit!
Four chattering women were clustered around the well in the ruins of the fort just below Rap, so close that he could hear their laughter. He saw a whole pailful of water being tipped from the draw bucket into a pitcher, and the sight was a stab of pain to him. He wanted to leap up and run screaming down there. He quickly directed his attention farther seaward.
The shore below the fort was packed with canoes, dozens of them drawn up on the sand. Fuzzily Rap wondered if he could somehow damage those, to frustrate any pursuit when Stormdancer left. Then he knew he must be growing lightheaded.
Yet he could detect no sentries anywhere, and the lack of them was an ominous hint that the cannibals might be relying on occult protection; and just as that thought occurred to him, his mental eye was caught by two anthropophagi who had left the victory feast and were running away from the firelight. They were running in his direction. For a freezing moment he thought they must be guardian sorcerers who had noticed him; then one of them seemed to trip and pull the other down on top of . . . of her. Oh, that! He sighed with relief and sent them a private blessing. Now he noticed other couples similarly engaged. Obviously the anthropophagi would not be indulging in that sort of celebration if they had any suspicion of enemies skulking nearby.
Deliberately, but shakily, he rose to his feet. Tiny whispers inside him said he should continue slithering through undergrowth, but no mundane eye could see him in this darkness, and no bush would hide him from sorcery.
His sodden boots were eating the skin off his toes, but he hobbled as fast as he could up the slope to the little gorge. He could hear no water running, but soon his farsight picked it out-slimy pools, small trickles. He stumbled down the rocks, remembering his arrival at the fairy village, when he had thought he was thirsty. He had not known what thirst was then. Oh, praise the Gods!
He stopped drinking before he made himself ill, but it was the hardest thing he had ever done. He had no time to let the first load settle and take on another. Well, he would be returning. He filled his two buckets and began staggering up the bank with them.
They were impossibly heavy. The rope handles cut his blistered hands, and he staggered with weariness, slopping more water into his already sodden boots. Almost all the anthropophagi had paired off, many not even bothering to leave the firelight. Apparently that was dessert. The drums had stopped. If he kept on swaying like this he’d arrive at Stormdancer with two empty buckets . . .
But he did reach the ship eventually. Gathmor was slumped over, holding his head as if it were about to fall off. His sword was thrust in the sand at his feet beside two empty buckets. Rap kicked a pebble and the sailor jumped a league in the air. He drank right from a bucket and afterward he muttered a prayer of thanks.
Then he said something else, but Rap was already heading back with the empties, going for more.
By his third trip, the drums had started again, and most of the lovers seemed to be back dancing and feasting. Anthropophagi must have remarkable stamina. Perhaps it came from their diet.
He felt a few spots of rain. The wind was backing.
He delivered his buckets and went back again. And again . . .
The fifth trip was a dangerous blur. Rain was falling heavily, and the wind was stronger. Even the distant surf sounded louder, so the storm was still increasing. Storm or not, the ship must leave before dawn. Rap was so unsteady now, slithering and stumbling, that he dropped one of his buckets coming down the hill. He handed over the other and fell to the sand.
“Need a break, “ he mumbled.
Gathmor had handed the precious cargo up to eager hands. There were people stirring on board now, revived by the water. “Everyone’s had a drink, lad. You’ve done all you can.”
Rap forced out the hateful words. “I’ll do one more.”
“No. You’re beat! You’ve done great, though. Really shows the jotunn in you.”
“How far to the next fort?”
“Gods know. Depends where we get blown.”
Two buckets—even two half buckets—would mean very little water among seventy, but divided among the strongest rowers, it might make the difference between safe haven and shipwreck. Rap struggled to his feet, feeling as if he weighed more than the ship and all its crew together.
“One more,” he insisted.
“No! Get aboard. That’s enough.”
Rap took up the buckets and walked away over the sand, and Gathmor could not have noticed at first that he had gone, for he was busy shouting orders to the crew.
Rap scrambled up the hill with his eyes tight closed against the streaming rain. The Gods were having fun, sending rain now. But Gathmor had been right, he was very close to his limits. He reeled with weariness, fighting for every step, waving the empty buckets around to keep his balance.
He tripped, fell, and rolled into a spiky bush. For a moment it was just pure heaven to lie there with his mouth open and the downpour washing his face. And he could sleep for days if he let himself.
Sleep? He sprang to wakefulness. He hadn’t slept, had he? Probably not, or not for more than a few minutes. But he had been awakened by shouting.
One quick scan around told him how bad things could become in just a few minutes. Dawn must be close, for the darkness was no longer impenetrable-he would have noticed that sooner had he kept his eyes open. He did not bother to hunt for his buckets. He was on his feet and running down the hill before he knew he had started to rise, and all the demons of the Evil were screaming in his ears.
It was a three-way race.
Stormdancer was leaving. The sailors clustered around the prow were heaving her seaward. The tide had gone out since she was beached, and the bosun’s shouts rang through the night as he called time to the men. Every push moved the hull a fraction farther into the waves, but it was hard and desperate work for a sadly weakened crew.
Rap was staggering with weakness, windmilling down a thorny, tangled hillside. Only his occult ability to see in the dark let him avoid the roots and bushes and trees, but his magic was no help in keeping his balance. Rain had become a cloudburst, grass and dirt were slick and greasy. He slid and fell and rolled and scrambled up to do it all again; but his progress was agonizingly slow.