I must’ve had enough wherewithal at some stage to grip hold of something buoyant and save myself from certain drowning. That’s nice.
I pry my eyes open to a smear of orange water and blue sky above that’s threaded with a middae aurora. Sheer, rusty cliffs press in on either side of the river I’m currently bobbing along at a rapid pace. A gorge, but it doesn’t look like the one we flew through to get to the dwelling. Meaning I’ve drifted farther, though based on the rich color of the cliffs, not quite far enough to be clear of The Burn.
Damn.
Guess I’ll pass out for a bit longer. Sleep off this rampant thump in my head. Hopefully wake up closer to the wall.
I let my heavy lids fall shut—
“Gafto’in nahh teil aygh’ atinvah!” The coarse words echo through the gorge, nudging me. “Agní de, agní.”
That’s no language I’ve ever heard.
Should probably inspect.
I lift my head, turn it, then settle my left cheek on the trunk and pry my eyes open. A large shape is running along the thin shore, trying to keep pace with me. A male, I think. Pretty sure he can’t reach me from there—which is good. I’m too tired for stops.
“Hi.”
Bye.
I close my eyes again.
My log comes to an abrupt halt, jostling me so hard I almost roll off. I groan, opening my eyes to see I’ve snagged on a collection of debris, my trunk still banging and bumping into place amongst a pile of uptorn trees.
The blurred figure draws closer, yelling more words I don’t understand. But I don’t think he’s yelling at me, his head facing another direction, though he continues to point my way.
Cold dread slips through my veins, something innate telling me I need to get up.
Now.
I lift one weighty arm off the log, then the other, and immediately plunge beneath the water, wrestled by its churning might—realizing my mistake when I lack the energy to kick or flounder to the surface.
My lungs rebel, battling for breath, sucking a wad of water that feels so heavy and wrong—
There’s a splash, bubbles exploding.
Hands gripping me.
I’m lugged skyward, hauled toward the bank and torn from the water, up over the shore’s sharp lip before I’m dumped on the ground so hard any moisture I sucked down is quickly expelled in a retching heave.
Muddy water splatters, not discriminating between my sodden hair and the dirt I’m aiming for, air rasping into my heaving lungs between chest-cracking coughs.
My gut and chest continue to convulse in staggered synchrony as I nip squinted glances at my company between the violent upheavals.
The male is huge and muscular with yellow sunburst eyes, garbed in leather pants that hang off his trim hips. He’s littered with pale scars, bearing long red hair adorned with coils of copper thread. The leather strap braced across his chest is laden with an array of finely crafted weapons—dragonscale blades and bronze ones in the shape of lanky petals, akin to the one Kaan had. There’s also a hook-type tool similar to the one I saw being used to pull that eahl up from beneath the ice south of the wall.
What have I gotten myself into now?
The male lowers, his massive scarred hand coming down to point at my iron cuff. “Guil dee nahh?” he asks, and I shake my head, figuring he must be asking about the evidence of my past imprisonment.
“Just ornamental,” I burp out, chased by another splatter of spew. “Isn’t it”—reeetchhh—“pretty?”
Definitely wouldn’t want him to think that I’m an escaped prisoner who barely avoided getting ripped apart by a thunder of Moltenmaws. I might end up back there again.
The male turns, yelling more unfamiliar words to another in the distance, the latter standing on the shore’s severe lip, hacking storm debris from a damaged fishing net.
I’m so busy heaving half my guts on the ground that it takes me too long to notice the markings on the back of the male closest to me. A dotted tattoo of some kind of bird, wings stretched around his ribs as though hugging him from behind.
I frown—retch—continue frowning.
It reminds me of the dots that make up … Kaan’s . . . tattoo . . .
Realization flays me through the chest, another surge of water gushing up my throat, splashing on the ground.
Warriors of the Boltanic Plains.
This might be where Kaan spent his adolescence.
My nausea instantly abates, and I curse, using the back of my arm to wipe my trembling lips.
More yelling in that language I don’t recognize, the other male now running toward us. The one closest grabs my arm and helps me to my knees.
There are many clans scattered across this chapped and grainy wasteland no others have the tenacity to carve out a living on, and I seem to have drifted right into the clutches of two such folk, their way of life even more mysterious than those who reside near The Burn’s capital.
But I do know one thing.
These clans produce warriors with unmatched abilities …
Think I’ll give this place a miss.
The male before me drops to one knee, his ruddy beard concealing half his tan, freckle-dusted face, his sharp stare cutting across my features. He reaches forward and lifts a coil of my sodden hair. “Achten de. Kholu perhaas?” he says, pointing at the long, vomit-drenched tendril coiled in his palm, looking back at the other male who’s now drawing close—the latter shrugging. “Sheith comá Rivuur Ahgt … en?”
I gather my hair and push his hand away.
His brow bunches, and he grabs me by the shoulders, helping me to my feet. The moment I plant them on the ground, I lurch from his grip, backstepping, lifting a hand to cradle my throbbing temple.
“Acht etin aio?” the male asks, gesturing to me.
“I don’t understand.”
He touches his hand to his temple—to the same spot where mine’s throbbing—his next words presented so slowly it’s obvious he’s trying to help me comprehend. “Surva etin agaviein?”
Is he asking how I hit my head?
“I fell off a cliff.”
His frown deepens, and he murmurs something to the male beside him—more of those words I don’t understand.
I can tell by the glances nipping my way and by their general body language that they’re discussing how to get me from here to somewhere else. I don’t want to find out where that is, nor do I want to find out what they want to do with me there. I’ve got a headache. The last thing I feel like doing is breaking necks.
Unless it’s Rekk’s, of course.
“Well, it’s been grand, but I’ve got a tree to catch,” I say, jerking my thumb toward the rushing river that looks nothing like it did the previous cycle, now so orange and full of debris, no doubt torn up from the abated storm. Unfortunately, it’s nowhere near as tranquil and inviting, not that it’ll stop me from leaping into it the moment another log bobs by.
The males pass each other stares of uncertainty, speaking in those foreign words again before they advance as one—almost stepping through my puddle of half-digested soup.
The determined hardness in their eyes stiffens my spine.
Shit.
Looks like I’m not waiting for another log after all.
I spin, about to leap into the gushing river when a blur of motion catches my eye, drawing my attention to the cliff on the opposite side.
A piece of rock displaces, plummeting before thumping against the riverbank below. I wouldn’t think it strange were it not for the claw marks also scoring down the cliff, like something invisible is climbing it.
I frown.
How hard did I hit my head?
“Jakah tu …”
I glance back to see both males staring wide-eyed across the river, their complexions turning so pale their freckles stand out in stark difference.
Maybe I’m not seeing things …
There’s a shrill yowling sound, and I whip my head around, seeing a huge metallic smudge now perched on the opposite bank, contrasting the stone’s warm tones.
“What’s going on?” I murmur, ready to leap into the river and never learn the answer to this particular riddle.