The weight of the horse was unbearable. Yaret could feel the bones of her foot cracking beneath it. But she was trapped.
She was frantically pushing at Poda’s body with her left foot to try and free her right, all the time aware that the edge of the rock platform was just behind her. Her head was already lolling in thin air and the roar of the water below pummelled her ears. She needed to pull free and get up and join the fight. She could hear the shouts and clash of swords but she could not see what was going on.
When the stoneman leapt up onto Poda’s belly her first fear was for the poor labouring horse. She thought his axe would fall on Poda’s neck. She did not fear for herself until it was too late: the axe’s sudden crunch had freed her leg, though she was conscious of no pain. As she struggled to sit up the blow of the stoneman’s boot in her chest was a heavy jolt. It sent her helplessly backwards, flying, tumbling, falling.
Strangely, her only coherent thought was “the donkeys!” Then something hit her painfully on the head and shoulders, tugging on her clothes and ripping at her skin. As she tore past and through it she realised it was a thornbush and tried to grab it; but too fast, too slow, it was gone upward and she was going down again. This time she was not head first but still did not see the second shrub as it rushed up and caught her by the legs.
It held her for about a second, maybe two. Then with a strident crack it let her go, spilling her from its hard fingers, and she bounced off rock and fell again for a bewildering long moment until there was sudden water, so cold that it shocked her more than anything so far. She had not heard a splash.
But she knew she must not breathe it in – the instinct to breathe seemed to have stopped in any case during the fall – so she thrashed and thrashed and willed the water to let go, to give her up as the bushes had.
It did not want to. But then she found the surface, or the water freed her. There was air. With her first gasping breath she recognised where she was and what had happened to her foot.
Her brain began to work, after a fashion. The icy water might help to slow the bleeding. But she had to get out of it. When she tried to stand, her left foot met a stony bed. She realised that she was very close to shore.
But then the water swept her up and away again in strong cold arms and it wasn’t until a rock hit her that she was able to stop herself. She realised that her pack was still strapped to her back and could not remember why. She clung on to the projecting rock and tried to stand again – no, that was stupid, not enough feet – so she threw herself towards the bank and found herself sitting in the shallows. With her arms and her left leg she levered herself further out.
Not far enough. Further, further. The river dragged at her. She shuffled higher onto the narrow stony shore above the water’s roar and rush. As she felt herself starting to shiver she thought, No, no, not yet, not yet, there are things I have to do!
Back-pack. Get it off. Open it. Don’t look at your foot yet, it’s not there anyway, unbuckle, unstrap, that’s it. Now. Find the samples. Any of them. That one. Fold it. Fold again.
Her fingers were cold and clumsy but they managed to obey. Then she allowed herself to look. Blood was pulsing but not leaping from the new end of her leg. It was a clean cut apart from a ragged flap of skin that had been left dangling underneath. This flap she took hold of, and pulled over so that it covered the stump. Nothing hurt much yet. That must be the cold, or shock, or some wonderful decision by her body.
Now the cloth. She pressed the folded woollen cloth over and round the stump and tried to tie it. Her fingers fumbled. Done, sort of. Now fold another strip: no, no, something else first. She tipped up the pack and her pots of salt and honey tumbled out.
Salt. She threw it at the cloth-bound leg. Most of it missed. She put her fingers in the honey and smeared it round the edges. She still felt nothing. Extraordinary. Now fold another sample.
It was harder this time: she was beginning to shiver badly. Not only her fingers had grown clumsy but her hands, her arms, her shoulders: none of them wanted to do anything. Somehow she managed to fold the cloth and make a pad. Another strip to hold it on: she wound it round and over. Tie. Tie. Tie. Her hands would not do it.
Yet at last it seemed to be done. At least, the strip did not fall off. Her fingers were sticky and she fell back with relief and licked them while she could still move. Delicious.
She scooped the remains of the honey from the pot, dipped them in the remains of the salt, and licked again. It was odd licking honey from her own fingers. It might help, though. Salt and sugar.
Water. There was plenty of it if she had the energy. She could feel herself weakening fast now, all her muscles seeming to go into spasm. Her leg was stinging and everything was starting to hurt much more, not just her leg but hips, knees, elbows, back, her whole body. She reached out with the empty honey jar and dipped it in a pool of water. Drank. Cold, too cold, but necessary. Dipped and drank again.
Her mouth was numb now, with the cold or something else. She hoped that everything would go numb as it had been before. But it refused. It was getting worse. Her leg was fiercely angry and growing angrier, as if a lion were biting off her foot. But there was no lion. She had imagined the lion although she thought she heard it growling. No, that must be the river. She turned her head and looked at the water to make sure. Thought of reaching out to touch it although her hand did not respond.
But now she had done everything necessary. She felt almost exultant as she lay and let the shivering take over. She was shaking uncontrollably, despite the exultancy. But the shivering would pass. The pain would pass. Everything would pass.
Then she must have slept, because it was twilight, and then a little later on it was fully dark. She wasn’t sure how that had happened. How long would the night be? Would there be a morning? The shivering had stopped but she was cold and achy yet she couldn’t move. She felt helplessly limp and there was a dense burning pain somewhere. Try not to notice.
But now it resolved into a clear pain of the mind as she thought of Rothir and the others high up on the cliff. Would they be able to see her from up there? Would they still be there to look? Or had they…
The thought of them also falling, cut down, was too dreadful. That made her sob in anguish until she told herself not to be so stupid. She had seen how they could fight. Whether they would be in any state to find her was another matter.
In any case she was not sure that she could be found. With the cliff towering above her on one side and the stars above and the rush of water past her on the other side, she was surely untouchable. Inviolable. Pristine.
There was something that she ought to have done, that she had missed out. What was it? She remembered, and said Oveyn. She wasn’t sure who for. Maybe it was for herself. Some of the words seemed to have changed and she hoped it wouldn’t matter.
The pain seemed further off now. It was walking away with her foot. She stared up at the stars that were shining high above her, a slice of them visible at least with the blackness of the cliff trying to shoulder them aside. But it could not do it. The stars moved but they could not be moved, they were faithful, they were always there. Thank you, stars. She stared at those pale points and felt herself hurtling upwards to meet them, pierced on their thin spears until everything was light.