Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [191]
The black ice split right between her hands. The wolfen popped out, seemed to lunge straight up at her. Involuntarily, Marit scrambled backward. Hugh the Hand caught hold of her.
“The ice is breaking apart,” he yelled.
And they were at least two body lengths from the shoreline.
Marit scrambled toward the shore, crawling since she could not stand. Her arms and legs ached with the cold; the pain was intense. Hugh the Hand slithered along beside her. His face was livid, his jaw clenched so tight it resembled the ice. His eyes were wide and staring. For him—born and raised on a waterless world—drowning was the worst possible death imaginable. Terror had very nearly robbed him of his senses.
They were close to the bank, close to safety.
The Labyrinth was intelligent evil, cunning malevolence. It permitted you to hope, let you imagine that you could make it to safety.
Marit’s numb hand clutched at a large rock, one of several lining the riverbank. She struggled to grip it with unfeeling fingers, pull herself up.
The ice gave way beneath her. She plunged to her waist in frothing black water. Her hand slid off the rock. The current was carrying her down …
A terrific boost from strong arms propelled Marit up and onto the bank. She landed hard, the breath knocked from her body. She lay, gasping, until a gurgle and a wild yell caused her to turn around.
Standing precariously on an ice floe, Hugh clung with one hand to the trunk of a scrub tree growing out of the bank. He had thrown her to safety, then managed to grab hold of the tree.
But the rushing water was tearing the ice floe out from under him. He tried to grab the tree with both hands, but the current was too strong. His tenuous hold on the tree was slipping.
Marit flung herself bodily on Hugh just as he lost his grasp. Her numb fingers clutching at the back of his leather vest, she fought to pull him from the river. She was on her knees; the water was rising. If she failed, they would both go under. Desperately she held onto his vest, pulled it up nearly over his head. Digging her knees into the mud, she dragged the man’s heavy body backward. Hugh was strong; he gave her what help he could. He kicked with his feet, sought purchase with his flailing legs, and, finally, managed to squirm his way onto the bank.
He lay still, gasping and shivering with cold and terror. Marit, hearing a rumbling sound, looked upriver. A wall of black water tinged with red foam, pushing huge chunks of ice in its path, thundered downstream.
“Hugh!” she cried.
He raised his head, saw the rushing floodwaters. He staggered to his feet, began scrambling up the bank. Marit was past helping him; she could barely make it herself. She collapsed onto firm, level ground; was dimly aware of Hugh the Hand falling somewhere near her.
The river roared in rage at losing its prey; or perhaps that was only her imagination. She stilled her rapid breathing, calmed the wild beating of her heart. Letting the rune-magic warm her, she started to banish the terrible cold.
But she couldn’t lie here long. The enemy—chaodyn, wolfen, tiger-men—must be hiding in the woods, perhaps watching them even now. She glanced at the sigla tattooed on her skin; the glow of the runes would warn her of approaching danger. Her skin was slightly blue, but that was with cold. The sigla were dark.
This should have been reassuring, but it wasn’t. It was illogical. Certainly some of those who had attacked the city with such fury yesterday must still be lurking outside the city walls, waiting for a chance to pick off a scouting party.
But the runes did not glimmer, except perhaps very, very faintly. If any of the enemy were about, they were far away and not interested. Marit couldn’t understand it and she didn’t like it. This uncanny absence of