An Unexpected Deity (Book 7) (10 page)

He proved to be right.  The small group halted as the sun dropped below the horizon, at a spot where a cave opened into the side of the gully they were climbing.

“We can go in quite a ways,” Woven said confidently, as he led his group into the cavern, where a modest-sized chamber provided a cool, comfortable shelter for the evening.

Having led his three clients to the cave for a first night’s stopping point, the gnome seemed to feel that he had established his credibility as a guide, and he took aggressive charge of the group the next day, while remaining slightly respectful of Kestrel’s demonstrated powers.  The path he led them on went due east.  “We’ll have to turn north eventually,” he told the others.

“Will we have to climb over the tall range of mountains like we did when we came to your village?” Kestrel asked.

“If we go far enough east, we’ll reach the Dangeaux River, and we won’t have to ascend higher – the river canyon cuts right through the mountains,” Woven answered.

The longer they hiked, the further they got from Woven’s usual territory, and they wandered into a region where he could only try to spot the landmarks that Hansen had described for him as he worked to take them to the northeast.  A wrong turn on the fourth day of the journey left them trapped at the end of a box canyon, until Stillwater flew high over the terrain and recommended a way to climb out along a game trail.  After that, the gnome and the imp conversed regularly during the day, using a translator – usually Wren – to facilitate their discussions about the terrain and the features ahead.

“Your gnomish is better than it was a few days ago, but that’s only an improvement above atrocious,” Wren told Kestrel.  “Plus, not only is your grammar bad, but you have that northern gnome accent from the Water Mountains,” she upbraided him.  “It’s no wonder Woven prefers me as a translator.”

Kestrel harrumphed but gave no other answer.  He knew that he had picked up a rough version of the language of the gnomes when he had lived Amethysaquina, and he had not tried to polish or improve it since then.

The next day Stillwater confirmed that he had spotted a large river canyon not far ahead, the Dangueax River, a landmark on the way to the lake where their mission awaited them.  The river provided the easiest way to turn north and go through the mountains without having to surmount the high altitude peaks that had been so unpleasant to cross on their way to the gnomish village in the valley.

“We just need to go a couple of days along the river and then we’ll find a way to cross it,” Woven explained, when they came to the top of the river gorge in the mid-afternoon.

And so they walked along the river gorge, appreciative of the spectacular view they had of the distant river that flowed far below, whitewater frequently visible as the river rushed over rocks and rapids while it cut its path through the mountains.  At the end of the following day Woven announced they had reached the crossing place.

“Hansen said that you elves can shoot an arrow with a rope across the gorge and we can use they rope as a bridge,” Woven spoke in a tone that seemed to doubt the tactic.

“That’s just how we did it last time,” Kestrel agreed, recollecting the
Garrant Spark
journey he had made with Greta and Hansen.  “We just need to make sure none of us fall into the river the way Greta did.”

“She fell into the river?  From up here?  And lived?” Wren sounded amazed.

“She did,” Kestrel agreed.  “But I’d prefer than none of us try to repeat that feat,” he said, as he remembered his rash decision to dive into the river after Greta to save her, and the long journey that had entailed.

“You have a rope, I presume?” Kestrel asked Woven, as he took his bow off his shoulder.

“I’m sure you have in mind to let me shoot this arrow, since you know I’m a better shot,” Wren said calmly.

“Oh, please stop dreaming!” Kestrel said indignantly.  Woven handed him the rope that the gnome had pulled from his pack of supplies, and Kestrel calmly attached it to his arrow, then aimed at a tree on the opposite side of the gorge, and fired.  He had adjusted for the weight of the line, and the arrow arched high as it started its flight, then began to sink, and came down into the tree trunk at an angle.

“Stillwater, would you fly over there and make sure the arrow and the rope are secure on that side?” Kestrel asked the imp.

“In a flash, Kestrel friend,” the small blue warrior replied, and he flew over the gorge to tighten the rope by looping it around a tree branch.

Wren crossed the thin bridge first, tiptoeing across with a precision of step that was dainty, a more feminine motion than Kestrel was used to seeing from his swaggering cousin.  Though she was three-quarters human in heritage, she handled the rope-crossing as easily as any elf.

Woven crossed next, swinging from below the rope, each powerful arm grasping the rope and carrying his body forward with sure-handed grips that were faster than Wren’s quick jaunt had been.

And then Kestrel started to cross the rope, and disaster unexpectedly arose.  Steps before he reached the halfway point, a pair of bugs randomly flew into his face.  One struck him in the eye, while the other insect flew into his nose at the same time.  Kestrel’s head shot back and his hands slapped at his face, he started to lose his balance, and then he erupted in a violent sneeze that caused him to tip too far forward, and he plummeted towards the river.

Chapter 8

“Kestrel!” he vaguely heard Wren scream as he swung his arms wildly in the air.

He felt something strike him from beneath, and he realized that Stillwater was valiantly trying to break his fall, trying to slow him down before he struck the surface of the river.

Stillwater gave him one mighty shove in midair, pressing him towards one side, and then Kestrel hit the water, and dropped deep beneath the rapidly moving surface of the chilly stream.

He inhaled a mouthful of water as his head struck the sandy bottom of the river bed, and then he rose to the surface, tumbling forward into the current.  He felt Stillwater grab the back of his collar, holding his head up above the waterline.

“Kestrel, brace yourself!” the imp shouted, and Kestrel instinctively thrust his arms out in front of himself, just in time to fend off a collision with a large rock in the middle of the river bed.  He swept past the rock as Stillwater released his hold on him, and the beleaguered elf caught sight of a tree trunk snag ahead, one with bare roots extending out to the sides of the trunk, and he grabbed one of the wooden handles as he was carried past the tree.

Kestrel rolled inward towards the trunk as the water pulled at him and then he managed to drag himself up out of the water.  He collapsed on top of the tree, coughing up river water and panting prodigiously as he tried to recover from the shock and the effort of his unexpected plunge.

“Are you okay, Kestrel swimmer?” Stillwater asked as he came to rest on the tree trunk in front of Kestrel.

“I’m catching my breath,” the waterlogged elf answered.  He felt a weight on his back and realized that his pack had remained securely on him, but had filled with water.  His staff and his bow were gone, and so was Lucretia, his knife, all jarred loose by the tumultuous fall into the river.

Kestrel slowly sat up, and drained the water from his pack, as he looked up at the top of the gorge.  The heads of his two companions were faintly visible, peering down at him where he sat in the shadows at the bottom of the canyon.  He waved his arm at them, then watched as they vigorously waved in return.

“Would you go tell them I’m okay?” Kestrel asked Stillwater.  He watched the imp immediately fly aloft, and then he turned to look down river at the path that awaited him.  The river ahead was a long stretch of rapids, one which he hoped ended in a calm pool of water.  He planned to catch his breath before he started to run atop the water down river, in search of a ravine that would allow him to ascend back up to the top of the gorge so that he could rejoin his friends.  He and Greta had had a very similar experience the last time they had attempted to cross the Dangueax River; at that time they had relied on the extraordinary ability of the
Garrant Spark
to allow them to track and find Hansen.  This time Kestrel would have the extremely helpful ability of Stillwater to act as a messenger, he was relatively pleased to note, since he was in a position of being separated from his trail once again.

He saw his staff lodged between two stones not far ahead of him, and he was thankful to see it.  The staff would be a useful tool when he found a ravine and started to climb upward.

Stillwater descended back down towards him.  “They wish to know what your plans are, and Wren-feisty-one wishes for me to tell you that you’re a clumsy oaf,” the small blue being reported nonchalantly.

“Tell them I’d like for them to join me down here, and I’d like Wren to take the fast way down,” Kestrel grinned.  “Or perhaps you should tell them that I will find a ravine I can climb upward, so that I will rejoin them on top of the gorge.  There should be some game trails, and after a ways we’ll be able to find a road that I’ve been on up there, a road that leads directly to the lake,” he added.  “I’m going to go down river in the meantime and get my staff,” he told the imp.  Stillwater flew off once again, as Kestrel took a deep breath, then leapt off the tree and started sprinting down the river, alternately stepping atop the water and atop the stones of the rapids as he aimed for the location of his staff.  He abruptly came to a halt atop one of the stones that held the staff in place, then knelt, breathing heavily, as he wrenched the wooden staff out of the tight crevasse in which it sat.

He was glad to have the staff back – it made him feel a little better.  He didn’t have his bow, and he suddenly recollected that he didn’t have his knife – his hip was bare of any weapon.  He wanted more armament than just the reliable staff.

“Lucretia, come,” he called.  He held his hand out, and he rotated his head, trying to find what location the weapon would approach from.  He saw a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye, and as he turned his head back, he felt the handle of his knife firmly land in the palm of his hand.  His fingers instinctively curled around and closed upon the knife – just that quickly he was rearmed with the wonderful, returnable, enchanted knife, the weapon that he had created himself.

Kestrel looked up at the top of the gorge.  There was no sight of the heads of his companions.  They had apparently already left and started walking inland.  There was no need for such a hurry on their part, Kestrel told himself.  His climb up out of the river canyon was going to take many long hours, he knew.

Kestrel slid the knife into his belt, then turned and looked down river, searching for a breach in the sheer stone walls of the gorge.  He needed an opening to climb up towards the top of the canyon, but there was no such opportunity visible in the short straight stretch of river he could see.  Resigned to a possible long journey, Kestrel jumped forward and started running atop the water of the river, alternately stepping on white foaming water and then slick wet rocks that jutted up in numerous locations, as he cut through the inside of a curve in the river’s course and gained a view of the further river valley.

He saw three things immediately, and came to a screeching stop as the panorama of the new view opened up.  He saw a place where the river disappeared from view, apparently because it descended over a waterfall.  He heard the deeper-throated sound of rushing water that confirmed a waterfall awaited him.  Immediately in front of the waterfall he saw his bow and quiver of arrows, snagged on a tree branch that extended out into the water from where it was jammed against a stone.  And beyond the waterfall he saw a valley opening on the east side of the river, the opportunity he wanted to start climbing upward out of his shadowed location.

He wanted his bow.  He had his staff and he had his knife – if he retrieved the bow he’d have his whole arsenal of weapons complete again, a comforting thought as he approached the nameless mountain lake where the waterskin needed to be fixed to provide the protection against the Viathins.  He ran towards the western riverbank, then as he reached the top edge of the waterfall, he veered sharply to the right, and ran parallel to the falling stream on his left.  He looked down and saw that the river’s waters plummeted twenty feet, and crashed upon a pile of jagged rocks, foaming wildly.

Kestrel stopped his gaping as he bent low and snatched up the bow and quiver of arrows he sought, then crossed further to the east and ran up onto the narrow shelf of stone and mud and debris that rested between the river’s edge and the foot of the towering cliff.  He placed both arms out in front of himself as a cushion to prevent crashing into the wall at full speed, then spun around, stopped, and considered how to advance.

There was a jumble of stones alongside the waterfall, a place he could carefully climb down.  He checked the soundness of his bow, then slung it over his shoulder and hopped gingerly down to the lower bed of the river, and minutes later he reached the open mouth of the valley he set as his next goal.

He suddenly wondered where Stillwater was.  He wanted to stay in touch with the imp, to maintain his opportunity to reconnect with Wren and Woven.

“Stillwater!” he shouted, repeatedly, his voice sounding puny to his own ears as the waterfall continued its eternal roar, but within five minutes he saw the small blue being come flying towards him.

“Kestrel friend!” Stillwater said excitedly, speaking first.  “This is a magical place!  I found a spot where the gray plate mushrooms grow!

“I was flying up and saw a small dell in the side of the cliff, and many mushrooms were growing there!”  Stillwater’s voice rose two octaves as he spoke.  “Now, at this time of year!  We can have mushrooms all year round!”

“Stillwater, that’s great,” Kestrel said.  “But it’s not what’s important right now.

“I’m going to start climbing up this gully.  I want you to go tell Wren and Woven where I’ll be tomorrow morning, and we’ll try to meet again.”

“Where will you be?” Stillwater asked.  “Close to the mushrooms?”

“At the top of this gully, wherever it rises to,” Kestrel replied curtly, feeling growing frustration at the imp’s lack of focus, the distraction by the anomalous mushroom patch.

“I will go follow the gully up, and then I will go find our partners,” Stillwater suddenly, succinctly summarized just what Kestrel wanted him to do.

“Thank you,” the elf smiled gratefully.  He looked up at the dribble of water that emerged from the gully, and then he crossed his walking staff behind a pair of stones, and pulled himself upward into the gully, starting his climb out of the treacherous river bottom.  Stillwater flew off, and Kestrel found himself alone.

He remembered the previous time he had made such a climb, when he and Greta had risen out of the river, honed in – through the
Garrant Spark
– on their reunion with Hansen.  He wished he had that
Garrant Spark
connection to his companions now, the unerring ability to know what direction they were in.  It would be a comfort, though he did not doubt the ability of Stillwater to provide communication between the two parts of the team.

The shady gully was growing darker, as the sun set in the west, its light long absent from the spot where Kestrel was climbing.  He tried to hurry his climb, to make as much progress as possible before the darkness grew too dense for even his elven vision to penetrate.  He grabbed onto bushes and trees to help pull himself along, and continued until one bush he pulled became uprooted.  He fell backwards into the rill of water in the middle of the gully, soaking his pants once again, just as they were drying out from his immersion in the river.

Kestrel said one curse word, looked at the offending bush that had betrayed him in the soft earth, then gave a whoop of joy, as he saw that a nest of crickets had been exposed by the opening of the roots and the decaying leaves that had covered them.  His hands swooped in and grabbed a multitude of the insects, and he had a momentary sense of appreciation for Stillwater’s excitement over the mushrooms.

It was time to quit traveling for the night, he decided.  He ate the trove of crickets he could find, then he climbed into a tree and settled in for the night.  He closed his eyes, and opened his mind and soul to prayers, wishing that he could communicate with the goddesses who had given him so much direction, advice, and assistance.  There was no response, and he fell asleep feeling a deeper loneliness.

Kestrel awoke before sunrise, and he sat up in his tree limb perch, listening to the chorus of birds that were greeting the pending dawn; springtime was further advanced in the southern mountains, and he heard a nest full of baby birds calling for breakfast.  He slid down from the tree, and cautiously started to pick a path upwards, moving slowly in the murky darkness at the bottom of the steep ravine that sliced downward.

Within a half hour there was dim light starting to penetrate the shadows around Kestrel, helping him to move more quickly, and an hour after that he was able to see into the distance, to see that there was no end in sight when he looked upward at the trail before him.  He sighed as he examined the path ahead, then continued to climb.  His walking staff was a valuable tool, helping him pull himself, brace himself, and stabilize himself, even more than it had been when he had been traveling through the Water Mountains with Hampus.  That memory made him wonder how Hampus was, how he had been received in Center Trunk, and when he would marry Princess Elwean.  And the musing about Center Trunk soon sent his mind meandering towards Oaktown and Putienne; he was desperate to hear something, anything, about the girl.

And so, distracted by such thoughts and longings, he climbed upward.  By mid-afternoon he found that the grade of the ravine was lessening considerably, and he was able to move faster, at a pace that started to approach the speed he wanted.  He wondered where Stillwater was, and where Wren and Woven were.  He was, he suddenly comprehended, on the side of the river he needed to be on, on the side closest to the mountain lake that was his goal; before long he would be on the road towards the lake, and he would need to be watchful for signs of the Viathins that were returning to the lands of the Inner Seas.

Kestrel reached ground that was nearly level, and he walked in the very headwaters of his gully, at a place where it was merely a knee-high swale among the tall trees of the mountain lands, when he heard the not-too-distant sound of weapons, shouts, and conflict.

He stopped and strained his ears, trying to hear better, to understand and detect what was happening.  The noises were still too faint however, so he started running in the direction of the battle, anxious to get closer and find out what was happening.