The Quest for Saint Camber (31 page)

The rain finally began to slack off, at least. Conall supposed that was something of an improvement. The footing ahead looked no firmer or less muddy, but the trail seemed to be slightly wider. Conall even had the impression that it was not quite as steep as it had been, though he was to decide later that it had been an optical illusion. Whatever the true state of the slope ahead, so far as steepness was concerned, the forces of nature at work chose that moment to precipitate disaster.

The piebald pony was the first animal to founder, suddenly up to its knees in shifting, rain-sodden mud and starting a chain reaction that soon had the horses of Kelson, Dolfin, and Dhugal mired to the belly as well, squealing and thrashing as that entire section of the trail began to dissolve under them.

Then Conall's mount lost its footing under the near foreleg and nearly pitched him off over its head as he tried to recover. Squire Jowan, riding directly behind his master, crowded closer to reach out a hand to Conall, in case he had to get off, but that set Jowan's bay to slipping and sliding, its entire hindquarters suddenly over the edge and scrambling wildly to regain decent footing while Jowan tried to crawl up its neck.

Conall grabbed instinctively at the animal's reins, trying at the same time to steady his own beast, but it soon became obvious that he might not even be able to get himself out of this alive. The whole cliff face seemed to be disintegrating, too long waterlogged and then subjected to too many horses and too much weight.

He heard someone go over the edge ahead—whether man or beast or both together, he had no time to find out, because he was fighting to keep from following. Dhugal's horse, whinnying and plunging ever more wildly for footing, pitched Dhugal over its near shoulder and managed to put a hind leg through the reins of Conall's, jerking the poor animal's head down flat against the muddy trail. Conall could not see where Dhugal landed, because his own mount's gyrations jerked Jowan's reins out of his hand, and he twisted in the saddle to see the consequences.

Jowan screamed. Conall saw him and his mount beginning to slide slowly over the edge, but his own straits were desperate, and he dared not make any more aggressive attempt to try to save Jowan, or he would overbalance and both of them would go over. As it was, his horse was slipping and scrambling past the point of no return and making matters no better by trying to break free from the leg Dhugal's horse had through its reins.

Some of the horses were going to go over the edge. Up ahead, at least one already had done so. Conall heard its scream and the muted splash its body made as it hit the rapids far below, but he was too busy scrambling for firmer ground to look and see whose it was—Kelson's or Dolfin's, most likely. And he could not see either of them.

But his own horse was about to follow. Seeking any feeble chance to save himself, he launched himself from the saddle to hug the cliff face, twisting his gloved fingers around a few spindly tree roots and bushes exposed by the rain and praying that they would hold his weight. Mercifully, they did, though his grey, relieved of the extra weight in the saddle, reared up in a desperate attempt to break free of Dhugal's red dun and went over backwards, taking the dun with it.

Conall was quick enough to see his and Dhugal's horses disappear over the edge and could only assume that Jowan had gone over, too. And ahead, a tangle of russet and mud, equine and human, slid and tumbled down the face of the embankment—Dhugal, surely—followed by the flailing figure of Dolfin, all into roiling white water below. Of Kelson he could see no sign.

Then, suddenly, his Uncle Saer was at his side, edging along the cliff face on foot and passing a rope around his waist, sobbing—and Conall dared to look over the side again, where a frantically struggling red dun horse was disappearing around a bend, toward the waterfall that raged beyond. His own horse lay battered on the rocks below, not moving, several of its legs at impossible angles, and a little farther along, he spotted the body of the piebald pony floating belly-up, temporarily wedged against some rocks. It appeared that a few of the sumpter horses had gone over, too.

Afterward, Conall never quite remembered just how Saer got him back down to the rest area near the falls, or precisely when it stopped raining. But he would remember, for the rest of his days, the looks on the faces of the survivors gathered there, gradually retrieving bodies of men and beasts from the pool of stiller water that lay a little beyond the waterfall's crashing spillway. The only living things to come from that pool of flood-wrack were the plucky Squire Dolfin, half-drowned and with a broken wrist and several cracked ribs, not to mention bruises over most of his body, and Dhugal's horse, shuddering and heaving, one leg dragging pitifully as it made a game try to follow the servant leading it away from the water.

Dolfin, at least, would mend. No so the red dun, who had to be put down. Once they had gotten Dolfin to cough up the water he had swallowed, Father Lael bound up the boy's wrist and ribs, poured a hot posset down his throat, and pronounced his survival a miracle.

No such miracle had attended the other lost squire, however. Conall was among those who found Jowan's body wedged in rocks at the far edge of the pool—drowned, even if his skull had not been fatally split open by collision with a jagged rock. And as they watched, Conall still a little dazed from his own near brush with death, the body of the unfortunate Brother Gelric bobbed out of the roiling rapids at the base of the waterfall, swirled around for several minutes, then was sucked under, never to emerge again, as was the feebly struggling form of Jowan's bay.

Within the next few hours, the carcasses of Dolfin's chestnut, Conall's grey, two sumpter horses, and the piebald pony also came over the falls, long drowned and battered to death. And later, farther downstream, they recovered the drowned and broken body of Kelson's grey, with the Haldane sword still strapped to its saddle. But of the king and his foster brother they found no trace, though they kept looking as long as the light held, and by torchlight thereafter, for several hours more.

Even after Saer had called off the search until morning, the MacArdry men kept their own vigil at the edge of the pool, old Ciard O Ruane keening softly as he rocked back and forth in his grief—for Ciard had regarded his young chief almost as a son of his own. Taking a cue from the old gillie, Father Lael assembled the entire company nearby and led them all in prayers for Jowan's soul, with added supplications for the safe return of the king and Dhugal. Afterward, while the servants threw together a makeshift supper, Jass and the other MacArdry men remained with Ciard, Dhugal's sword thrust into the ground like a cross, Jass with his hands on the quillons and forehead bowed against the pommel, as he had watched with his chief and their king during their knights' vigil not three weeks before, weeping as if his heart would break.

It was not until well after dark, huddled under a borrowed cloak beside one of the fires of their miserable campsite, that it suddenly struck Conall, through the numb shock of the entire afternoon's events, that they were not likely to find Kelson or Dhugal—not alive, at any rate. And that made Conall's father king, and Conall himself heir to the throne!

Nor need Conall suffer any pangs of guilt over his shift in fortune, for it honestly had been none of his doing. Forget about the fact that, but for the accident, Dhugal and even Kelson might have drunk from the flask that Conall had drugged. That flask was now gone forever into whatever watery grave had claimed Dhugal and the king.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN

Behold, my terror shall not make thee afraid,
neither shall my hand be heavy upon thee
.

—Job 33:7

Dhugal fought his way feebly back to consciousness with the certain conviction that he was dying. Or perhaps he was dead already. Even though he struggled to open his eyes, it was pitch dark, and he certainly was cold and wet—though, if he were truly dead, why could he hear this roaring in his ears?

Besides, he hurt too much to be dead. Every part of his body ached, where it was not numb from the cold. He was lying on his stomach, water lapping at his face, and he managed to lift his head enough to draw a ragged breath, but his lungs burned with the water he had already inhaled. All at once, his entire body convulsed in violent spasms that curled him hard on his side, coughing and choking. Water spewed from his mouth, from his nose, and it was all he could do to keep his head high enough to avoid breathing it in again.

Somehow, he managed to haul himself to hands and knees—or, rather, to elbows and knees, for his left wrist twinged with a terrible pain whenever he tried to put any weight on it. But then he could only cough up more water, gagging and retching helplessly until he was sure that either his guts or his lungs must come up.

Finally, though, his body seemed satisfied. His chest ached as if a giant had been sitting on it, and he did not even want to think about how badly he might have damaged his wrist, but at least he was alive. He let himself collapse down on his calves and forearms, bracing his forehead against his good wrist to keep from breathing water again—for he was awash in it, several fingers deep—and made himself take a slow, steadying breath while he willed his pounding heart to subside to something approaching normal rate and blinked the sand out of his eyes, trying to pierce the darkness of his surroundings. The roaring sound behind him continued to be a mystery—until suddenly, without preamble or further prompting, memory came flooding back.

The river! Good God, where was Kelson? The cliff had collapsed under their horses, and they had gone over the edge, into the rapids.

Dhugal whimpered as he struggled to a sitting position, for the pain of his wrist was almost enough to make him faint, even though he tried to brace it with his good hand. If he did pass out again, and he fell face-down, there was a very good chance that he might truly drown, this time. And Kelson—

Kelson surely had been in the water, too. Dhugal remembered throwing himself clear of his horse as he fell, trying to angle his body so he would not hit squarely on any of the rocks rushing up to meet him—but even as he fell, he had been aware of Kelson already in the water not far away, looking dazed and scared.

He had hit the water hard, narrowly missing collision with a massive boulder, and he went deep. Somehow he managed to push something and surfaced almost immediately, wildly shaking water from his eyes and searching for Kelson. He saw the flash of a crimson-clad arm not far away and struck out for it, yelping as he slammed one knee against a submerged rock, but he dared not spare too much attention for where he was going or he would lose sight of the king.

Things got a little hazy after that, but he knew he had managed to reach Kelson, and that the two of them had clung together as long as they could, while the water buffeted them along—and then he remembered the waterfall, and
knowing
that there was nothing he could do to prevent them going over. Kelson was hurt already, far more than himself. Both of them had screamed weakly as they were swept over the edge.

He had held onto Kelson all the way to the bottom of the falls, but, after that, he was not sure. A quick, tentative sweep of the darkness around him with his good arm confirmed that Kelson was not within reach, at least.

He knew they had still been together when a current sucked them under, however—deep, deeper, until Dhugal was sure his lungs would burst. In the end, though, he had had to surrender to the pain and the cold, breathing in water and letting go.

That realization set him coughing again, but it was not as bad as before—though a different kind of pain in his chest told him that he might have cracked another rib or two, in addition to whatever he had done to his wrist. His braced his good hand against his ribs for a few seconds while he caught his breath again, trying once more to pierce the darkness that pressed close around him, and was surprised to find that his wine flask somehow was still slung across his chest.

Well, thank heaven for very small favors. If the stopper had not come out—which it had not, his questing fingers soon discovered—wine might help ease the pain, or at least warm him a little, when he had gotten his bearings better.

But first he needed light, and he dared not move from where he was without it, for suddenly he realized the full implications of the roaring sound behind him—the river from which he must have dragged himself, with some vestige of semiconsciousness. If he was not careful, he would be back in it—and he knew he could not survive another like buffeting.

Very well, then, his light must be handfire. He should be able to manage that much magic, even with his head still full of water. But when, without thinking, he tried to flex the fingers of his injured hand in the proper configuration for the spell, pain shot all the way up his arm, making him suck in his breath between clenched teeth and nearly setting him to coughing again.

Jesu
, was the blasted thing broken?

Subsequent examination, feeling gingerly with his right hand, convinced him that perhaps it was not broken after all, but only badly sprained; but the distinction made little difference just now, other than the fact that he would not be able to do this as easily as he had hoped. Under normal circumstances, he had no doubt that he could conjure handfire with either hand; but his circumstances were anything but normal just now, and he had never done it except with his left. Not for the first time in his life, being corrie-fisted had become a distinct disadvantage—though he supposed that, if he had been right-handed, it would have been
that
wrist that was injured, for he suspected he probably had sustained the injury while trying to fend himself off a rock with his stronger hand.

Very well, then, he would have to do it right-handed, but light he must have—to look for Kelson, as well as for his own survival. Taking a slow, careful breath, he cupped his right hand and shifted his usual mode of concentration from left to right, bending the power in his mind. The resultant glow in his right palm grew a little unsteadily at first, but then it swiftly took on its usual, robust silver gleam.