Chapter 16: 16 : River Run

The rope groaned—then parted like rotten hemp with a sound like a giant’s tendon tearing.

For one blind instant Will was sure the crowd had vanished and the bridge had gone with it. Wind howled upward around him; sky wheeled the wrong way. Then the river struck—a slab of ice-cold iron that jackknifed his legs and punched the last breath from his lungs.

Dark swallowed light. Impact rang through bone to marrow. He sank, disoriented, ropes and sleeves billowing like dead kelp. The noose cinched his throat, blocking the gasp his body demanded. Panic clawed for purchase.

Move.

Legs kicked, useless in swirling skirts. The river’s under-current seized him, wrenching sideways so violently his shoulder cracked. He tumbled once, twice, then thrust both thumbs beneath the knot and tore at the wet hemp. Every tug burned raw skin deeper, but the slipknot loosened a fraction—enough to wedge knuckles inside. His chest roared for air.

With a last savage jerk he freed his neck, flung the loop away, and kicked upward.

Seconds later sunlight shattered across his eyes and air tore into his lungs. He gagged, coughed riverwater, then rolled with the current—half-floating, half-drowning—while shouts on the bridge smudged into echoes.

At first he fought the current, arms churning, legs burning; every stroke stole strength faster than it gained distance. Voices faded to murmurs.

Let it take me. He rolled onto his back, gasping, and surrendered to the river’s pull.

Banks blurred—the eastern shore bright with first-hour sunlight, western fields still ghosted in mist. Cold knifed deeper, but shock dulled it; soon only a hard tremor remained, rattling tooth against tooth. With each bend the water calmed, growing broader and slower. Mid-reach willows dipped thin fingers; morning skylarks spun songs overhead as though no hangings had ever marred their dawn.

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Will’s head lolled. Half-formed pictures flickered behind his eyes: Bram’s blood spraying under moonless sky, the butterfly’s impossible grace, three eyes that spoke in braided voices. Reality felt stitched together with dream-thread.

A log nudged his ribs, jolting him awake. He scanned for a landing—saw ahead a wedge of shingle where pale rocks glimmered beneath pine shadows. He angled into a sluggish eddy, stroked until river-puffed skin scraped pebble. Feet found purchase; he staggered, collapsed onto hands and knees, and crawled inland until pine needles cushioned skin.

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He lay there panting, listening to blood drum in ears while the river hissed behind. When the world stopped spinning, he crawled farther, hiding among the trunks. Only then did he look back. Water slipped by in patient silence; no boats, no riders on the far bank. For now he was alone.

Tremors took him—shock giving way to raw cold. He hugged himself, wet cloth leeching heat. Tears came without warning, hot against numb cheeks. Father, brother, Miriam’s kindness, Osric’s lie, elder deer, cavern, pond-kiss, campfire kicks—grief and disbelief tangled until he could not tell which hurt worse. He pressed fists to eyes, rocked once, forced the sobs down.

Movement warmed him a shard. Walking would warm him more, but walk where? The river offered cover; he considered striking a spark for fire—then pictured torches converging, rope returned, neck snapped true. He clenched jaws till teeth ached. He chose stillness, curling against a trunk where branches draped like makeshift roof. Needles pricked, but the spot hid him from three sides. Good enough.

Sun climbed. Steam lifted from damp cloth, though cold lingered. Hunger gnawed—no food, no blade, not even his worn bow. He counted breaths to quell worry, counted drips from a twig overhead, counted heartbeats. Somewhere in counting, exhaustion dragged eyelids shut but mind wild.

He drifted in and out. A jay’s screech jolted him once; later the croak of a frog. Each time he tensed, listened, heard nothing human, and let still rest reclaim him. Hours bled into one another until light slanted gold and chill crept back—dusk approaching.

He still dared not make fire. Instead he huddled tighter, pulling pine duff over legs like a poor man’s blanket. Barn tricks, he thought, lips twitching at memory of those frigid Calrune mornings when he’d done the same in hay.

Sleep never came. Voices did. Somewhere to his left, twigs snapped. He stiffened. Male voices drifted—two, maybe three—low and purposeful. A moment later, from his right, another pair answered. His heart lurched. Two lanterns-glow bobbed between trunks, gathering.