Worlds That Weren't

The heavy craft was in the water now, river up to her knees, then her thighs, soaking into her leggings and chill against flesh heated by running and the pounding of her heart. She rolled over the side; Robre was pushing hard, his greater height letting him wade out. Sonjuh stuck her head up enough to see over the upcurved stern-end of the dugout, and saw Eric splash into the water at speed, lunging forward to grasp the wood. She also saw more arrows heading toward her like streaming horizontal rain, and ducked down again. King landed atop her, driving the breath out of her with an oof! and grinding her back into the inch or two of water that swilled around in the middle of the hollowed-out cypress log.

The man gave a sharp cry and then spoke fast in that other, utterly unfamiliar language he had-she could tell the difference when he was speaking the one that sounded almost-but-not-quite like Seven Tribes talk. From the sound of it, he was swearing with venomous sincerity. Robre was in the hull now, digging his paddle into the water and looking back to find out why King wasn’t.

Sonjuh had a good idea why, even if it was a little too dark to be sure. She wiggled out from under King and felt down along his legs.

“Arrow,” she said-more were falling into the water about them. “Nearly through the calf slantwise-missed the bone-head’s just under the skin here.”

“Push it through and break it off,” Eric King wheezed. At her hesitation-“ Do it, there’s no time!”

She drew her tomahawk, drew a deep breath, as well, and hammered the arrow through with the flat of the hatchet against the nock. The long body beside hers went rigid for an instant, with a snarling exhalation, his hands clamping on the wood. She used the sharp edge of the weapon to cut the shaft off to stubs on either side, moving his leg so that wood rested on wood for a quick strong flick of the hatchet-blade.

“Give me a hand,” he said tightly; she helped him to a sitting position, and he seized a paddle and set to work.

So did she, in the more conventional kneeling manner; the canoe was long and heavy, made for ten or fifteen men. They managed to drive it out past midpoint, and the rain of arrows ceased. Glancing over her shoulder, Sonjuh gave a harsh chuckle at the screams of rage, as hundreds of the swamp-devils poured onto the riverbank and found their canoes gone.

“That-won’t-hold-’em-long,” Robre panted between strokes. “They’ll-have-more-close by.”

“Or swim, or use logs and rafts,” Sonjuh said unhappily.

We are screwed up, she thought.

Oh, the wound wasn’t all that serious-unless it mortified, which was always a danger and doubly so with something a swamp-devil had handled. It wasn’t even bleeding seriously; arrow wounds often didn’t, while the shaft was plugging them up. But with his leg injured, there was no way the Imperial could run, or fight beyond sitting and shooting. King reached for his rifle, fired again, reloaded and fired before he put it down and resumed paddling. “That’ll keep them cautious for a bit,” he said.

There was no energy to spare for a while after that; paddling went easier once they had reached the ebb-water on the other shore, driving northward to the little semi-islet they’d left. Robre hopped overboard and took a line over his shoulder, hauling them into a tongue of water, halting when the canoe touched bottom. Instead of trying to haul it out solo, he tied off a leather painter to a nearby dead cypress root. Meanwhile Sonjuh got their weapons in order and helped the wounded man out. He hobbled upward, supporting his weight on her shoulder; their supplies were undisturbed, and when she let him down next to them he immediately broke out a box of shells and refilled bandolier and pistol. Then he took out a notebook, made quick notes, tore out the sheet of paper and folded it. Robre squatted nearby, replacing scavenged enemy arrows with shafts from his own bundles.

“All right,” King said, looking from one to the other. He closed the notebook; when he spoke, his voice had more of the hard, clipped tone than it had shown in a while. “What you’ve got to do is get this to Banerjii back at Donnulsford. He’ll see that the garrison commander in Galveston gets it. And you have to warn your own people on the way-?”

“Wait just one damn minute,” Sonjuh said hotly. “You expect me to leave you here?”

“Well, yes, of course,” he said, peering at her in the moonlight. He smiled. “My dear, do think-”

She restrained herself from slapping him with a visible effort. “What’re you thinking of me, that I’d take up with a man ’n’ walk off from him when he’s hurt, like some town trull?”