The River Queen

© 2012, ANDREW WARWICK

Chapter 1 – The Call of the River

The river ran swift, its waters churned white in parts where it was dashed against jagged rocks that splintered its surface or jutted out from the shoreline.  Around the river there pressed in tight and dark a vast forest, crowding the banks so thick that naught beyond a few feet could be seen but verdant gloom.  Ancient and untouched, it had a sense about it of having never changed since the birth of the world, a primaeval place unknown to man.  Gnarled roots twisted and heaved from out of the dark earth, heavy laden with mosses and lichens.

Beyond the river’s edge none had ever trod, nor seen what lay within.  Animals called out from its depths, their cries strange and raucous, while birds burst overhead on wing, their harsh shrieks filling the air.  In parts, the broad boughs and canopies of the trees stretched forth out across the river, enclosing it in a living tunnel of pale green light.

Down the river’s wild length sped a small canoe, formed of tanned hides stretched tight across a wooden frame.  Two figures sat in the canoe, muscles working hard to keep control of their simple river craft, paddles digging deep.  The waters had the canoe, though, and they carried it along as if with a mind of its own, taking them whither it willed.  It was all that the pair in the canoe could do to bite their paddles into the surface of the water to keep the canoe pointed forward, and off the perilous rocks that threatened to tear the bottom out of their boat and end their journey.

Neither of the pair who rode in the canoe could afford to look at the forest around them, or wonder what it might have held, for all their thoughts and efforts were bent towards keeping their canoe on course, navigating the obstacles that sprung up ahead of them.

The one who was foremost in the canoe was a woman.  While only of an average height, she more than made up for it in her build, which spoke of iron hard muscles and rangy thews of the kind that came of those who lived and struggled in the hard wilds, and not from the soft living of the city dwellers.  Upon her frame she wore hides and furs to keep out the far northern chill that lingered in the air.  Her auburn hair was tossed about by the winds from the passage of their ride, and her amber eyes were keenly awake, and alive with the thrill of the dangerous route they were taking, all the while laughing at it.  Between her and her companion, in the bottom of the canoe, lay two packs, of their gear and belongings, and weapons.

The man at the back of the canoe was the taller of the pair, but of a slender build, and with a pale hue compared to the tanned complexion of his companion.  Beneath a tousled mop of dark hair, his long face held a languid quality, almost sleepy, and unaware of just how close to disaster they were.  He had a cloak of dark blue, of the finest make, lined with fur, and his clothes were likewise formed, embroidered with elegant stitching, of costly silvers and crimson upon black silk, and most inappropriate seeming for such wild surrounds.

The course of the river had led down from the far, cold north, where miners hunted for gold in the snow capped mountains, and trappers sought out furs in the forests below of the kind that were so highly valued by those that live in the cities of the plains to the south.  The river itself bore no name that any knew of, and nor did the forest around it, being just one of the many tributaries that began in the northern mountains, to eventually thunder down and merge until at last they hit the plains, and the two great rivers that fed it, swift Shalahir and turgid Far’hadal.

In time, as the day drew towards its demise, and as they continued on, still held tight in the grip of the rolling, thrashing river, the pair became aware off a roar, distant at first, yet growing in strength with each passing moment, the herald of crashing waters cascading down some great fall ahead of them.  Without a word, they took to their paddles again with a renewed vigour, no longer coasting along, but once more trying to break free of the swift rush that gripped them tight and carried them forward, to make for the bank and the safety that it would provide.  It proved to no avail, as all previous efforts had.  The river would not relent its hold upon them, and swept them onwards towards their doom, as the noise grew ever louder.

Ahead, the river banked away, turning more towards the south, its course hidden behind the shroud of trees that lined it.  As they sped forward and turned the corner in the river, they beheld before them the white mists that marked the top of the falls that they had heard, but also, in the centre of the river, a large island, thick with trees, about which the torrent split before it fell away down the falls.

They stroked hard as they were carried forward, aiming for the break where the rapids split in two, making for the island.  For a moment it seemed as if the currents would keep them locked in its grasp, and dash them down the falls, but at the last moment, when all hope seemed lost, it wavered and they shot free.  The canoe drove up onto the rocky shores of the island, a tearing sound registering as the hides of the canoe caught the edge of sharp rocks beneath the waters and breached their hull.

The woman leapt out from the canoe, carrying her paddle as if it was some great club, surveying the island before them, alert and wary to any danger that might arise.  Some instinctive part of her felt it was as if they had been drawn to the island, the river having brought them there, and such matters left her on edge, and if so then she expected trouble to follow.

The trees that grew on the island were not as densely packed as those that crowded the river banks.  The ground beneath them had a thick cover of fallen needles, while grass and bright flowers lent it a pleasant edge.  A rabbit that had been grazing upon the grass scampered away at their arrival, diving down behind a fallen log.  It felt more open, less wild than the primal lands they had been travelling through, almost as if it had been tamed.

The woman’s companion followed after her, pulling the canoe up onto the island, off the rocky shore and beneath the cover of the trees, well away from the water’s edge, for fear it might be snatched away once more by the river and leave them marooned there.  He, like the auburn haired woman, was on edge, yet for reasons different.  To him, the place had the smell of magic, of a kind unfamiliar, and he wasn’t about to take any chances with it.

“The canoe is not going anywhere,” he announced after an inspection of it, “At least not until we mend the hole.”  He removed the packs from the canoe and set them down alongside it, upon the grass and leaves.

The woman nodded her head, her eyes still focused on the surrounds, never leaving them.  “Just wave your hands, Blade,” she suggested, “And whistle up some repairs as you do.”

A languid sigh followed, one that hinted at an old subject oft broached.  “You know that is not the way it works.”  By the name of Carse, he sometimes went by Carse of the Red Blade, or, to most, simply Blade.

The woman nodded again, turning back from her intent study of the surrounding forest, her caution satisfied for the time.  Her name, Fianna, in her native tongue meant Peregrine, and thus was she known in her travels.  “We can fix it the old way then.”  She sniffed at the air, her amber eyes narrowing.  “It does smell as if we may be in for a bit of rain later this evening.  Best we find ourselves a place to camp for the night, out of the weather, and in the morn begin the repairs.”

Blade, city born and bred, had long learnt to trust Peregrine’s instincts in such matters, even though to him all that he could smell was the forest about, of the sharp smell of resin and pine needles.  To smell rain that was yet to come seemed to him unlikely, and yet she had never been wrong before; he doubted not that she could tell the type of trees about simply by smell as well.

They made secure their canoe before seeking out a place to camp, heading further in under the trees, carrying their packs with them.  The roar of the river, and of the waterfall, lessened as they entered the island’s forest, and the cool air lost much of its sting.  Only a short distance in, the river now hidden from sight, they found a small clearing in the forest, ideal for a camp, and there they went to work.

Peregrine recovered a hatchet from her pack, and took it to a fallen tree that lay on one side of the clearing.  The hatche swung down, each blow of its sharp edge removing a branch from the tree.  Blade collected up the branches, stacking them off to one side, to be used for firewood.  He used one to sweep aside an area of fallen leaves, revealing the bare, dark earth that lay beneath.  In it he dug out a small pit, ringing it with stones that he collected from the water’s edge, forming a fire pit.  A small pile of dried leaves and twigs were stacked in the pit, and he took to it with a flint and steel.  Striking sparks with them, he soon had the fire started, laying thicker twigs and branches upon it.

As Blade worked on the fire, Peregrine had taken the log that she had cleared the branches from and lashed it between two close set trees nearby to the fire pit, at about shoulder height.  Fresh cut sapling and branches were laid up against the log, so as to construct a rough lean-to, piled thick and woven together so as to form a waterproof roof, or as near as it could be made.  More were added to the sides, so as to enclose the whole of it but for the side that faced the fire.  Their packs were stored in it to one side, and their heavy bedrolls spread out on a bed of leaves.

Blade set up a small iron pot on the fire, filling it with water from their waterskins, before throwing in a cake of dried soup that they had purchased from a small town up river that served the mountain men, the miners and fur trappers.

“I’ll just go and refill the waterskins,” Blade announced, leaving the soup to slowly bring itself to a boil.

Peregrine nodded, continuing her work on the shelter, putting the finishing touches to it.  By the time that she had completed the task, however, and the evening’s light had begun to grow dull, Blade had yet to return.  Peregrine frowned, for he had been overly long for one simply filling a couple of waterskins.  She removed the cooking pot from the fire so that the bubbling soup did not burn, and set it aside.

From among her possessions, she pulled clear a short sword, one well used.  With it held in one hand and the hatchet in the other, she set off towards the water’s edge, in the direction that Blade’s trail led.

Emerging back out of the trees to the rocky shoreline, she spotted the two waterskins laying empty beside the running river, but of Blade himself there was no sign.  For a moment a touch of fear came to her that he had tumbled into the swift flowing river and been swept away, to be dashed over the falls, but she had heard no cry for help, and so dismissed the idea.

She followed Blade’s footsteps to the edge of the water, and there she spotted a second set, though of a smaller size to his.  Both sets headed south, along the side of the river, before they disappeared off into the trees.  A chill touched Peregrine at the sight of the second set, not because they existed, but for the fact they appeared to have emerged directly out of the river itself.

Dropping down into a low, stalking stride, reminiscent of a lioness of the prowl, Peregrine set off following the tracks, her steps just as silent as those of a hunting cat.  Her eyes, as keen of those of her namesakes, swept ahead, seeking out any sign of danger, or for clues as to what had happened to Blade.  The chill was still upon her, for whatever had happened to Blade, she felt that it could not have been of a natural origin.  Man or beast troubled her little, yet she harboured a deep seated distrust and dislike of the word of the supernatural.  She would not turn aside, though, no matter what lay before her, not for as long as Blade’s life was in peril.

On To: Chapter Two: Father and Daughter

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