On the ground, drenched with blood, were sprawled the bodies of three men. One, with the crescent badges of a tryzatt, wore a leather helmet and iron-ringed corselet. The other two, no more than youths, lay in their shirts and breeches, having evidently been caught unawares- asleep, perhaps, in the hut. One of these, on his back close beside the fire, glared up into her face with fixed and terrible eyes. His hands were clutched over a gash in his chest, and blood was still oozing between his fingers.
The Subans had already plunged into the ford. From beyond the firelight she could hear splashes and shouting, and glimpse here and there the glint of broken water. Pillan had let go of her wrist and was striding ahead of her, but as she faltered, recoiling from the bodies, he turned quickly.
"Don't stop there! Them as run won't be gone far."
Suddenly another, faint but appalling voice spoke from close by.
"Oh, mother! Mother!"
Maia stopped dead, looking about her. Close by, just beyond the light of the fire, lay a boy little older than herself. He was stretched on his stomach, his hands beneath him, and as he moaned his head twisted from side to side.
"Mother! Mother!"
The accent was unmistakably Tonildan. Maia dropped to her knees beside him. Putting her hands under his shoulders, she tried to turn him on his back, but at this he gave a cry, wrenched himself from her grasp and fell back on his face. The sand beneath him was sodden and there was a smell like that of a slaughtered beast. Bending down, she put her mouth against his ear.
"I'm from Tonilda. What's your name?"
His lip were moving. Stooping still lower, she could just catch his answer. "Sph-Sphelthon. Sphelthon."
"Sphelthon. Where's your home?"
But now it seemed as though he could no longer open his lips. For a moment only a low, humming sound came through them.
"M'mmm-M'mmm-Meerzaaa-"
She was jerked to her feet. Someone had her by the arm, someone was speaking in a curious, distorted voice.
"Maia, come on, before we're all killed!"
It was Bayub-Otal, dripping wet, his dagger clenched between his teeth.
Out of the firelight: stumbling down the steepness of the bank. Water over her feet, ankles, knees. Now she was struggling in the river for a foothold, clutching at Bayub-Otal as she tried to keep her balance in the current, ankles turning, stones moving under her sandals, firelight receding behind them as they pushed their legs forward into the deeper water. Here's a broken post-clinging to it-stones grinding in the river-bed beneath-giving way-tilting- toppling over-gone; another; now none; only the chattering, swirling pressure round thighs and waist, a cold demon trying to sweep her legs from under her. Somewhere in the darkness Lenkrit was shouting.
"Thel's gone! Don't stop-fatal!"
Another step. Another. Which way-which way were the others? Nothing to be seen, no one, no mark to make towards. Only the swirling water in the dark. Don't stop! One foot sliding forward, groping along the uneven stones. Leaning into the current, her body at an angle, the flowing water nearly up to her shoulders.
Bayub-Otal's voice shouted "Maia!"
"Help!" she answered. "Help me!"
He was beside her. He had her by the hand. Again she was lurching forward, forcing one leg and then the other through the heavy, wavering pressure of the water.
"Another yard!" he shouted.
With a cry she lost her footing; but he had stayed beside her, downstream; the current swept her against him. He steadied her, leaning against her, keeping his balance, straddle-legged, until she could stand again. Another step and the water-surely-was shallower-slacker? Yes, it was slacker. She could walk. She took three slow yet steady steps. Bayub-Otal, stepping past her, took her hand and thrust it into his belt.
"Keep hold!"
He himself was holding Lenkrit's belt, but there were no others.
A minute later they stopped, knee-deep in stiller water, swamp-grass high all round them, trees overhead forming a cave from which they looked back at the turbulent river and the watch-fires burning on the other bank. Men were bending over the dead and a voice was shouting angrily.
Pillan appeared out of the swamp behind them. Lenkrit turned to him.
"Tescon?"
Pillan jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Leg's hurt, though."
"Badly?"
"Can't say."
His own forearm was gashed and bleeding. His head hung forward, gaping, grinning for air: a froth of saliva covered his chin. And now before Maia's eyes his bearded face, in the gloom, seemed floating bodiless. Ah! and she was floating too-surrounded-dear Cran! by men tall as trees, their lips moving, speaking without sound, all swirling, spiraling together in a slow vortex.
The next moment she had pitched forward in a faint. Pillan and Lenkrit, grabbing, were just in time to catch her.
