Sons of the Oak

Rhianna stared at the retreating backs of the soldiers as the rangits hopped gracefully away, like hares on the run.

Not knowing what else to do, she went to Borenson and studied his wound. He was looking faint, sweating badly, and just holding his guts in.

Fortunately, there were supplies in the boat: a little food and water, some spare clothing, Fallion’s forcibles.

Taking a rag, Rhianna washed off his wound first with water, then disinfected it with wine. She found one of Talon’s dresses, altered to be big enough for Rhianna, ripped off the lower part of the skirt, and gave it to Borenson for a bandage.

The whole time, he just stared at her forlornly, panting.

“Crawl under the boat,” she told him. “I’ll keep watch.”

But he shook his head. “I’ll stay here with you.”

Not that you can do anything, she thought.

She picked up his saber and sat atop the boat, keeping watch.

I’ll last through the night, she told herself. And if I live till morning, I’ll walk south, to town, and find help.

She didn’t know how far town might be. Three miles or thirty.

I’ll run, she told herself. As soon as the sun comes up.

Rhianna heard growls and snarls in the jungle. A stray gust of wind brought the acrid scent of a strengi-saat. Borenson just lay in the sand, fading in and out of consciousness, getting ready to die.

After an hour, the fire began to burn low. Rhianna rushed away from the boat, out into the shadows, and got some firewood. A shadow followed her.

She turned to face it, sword gleaming in her hand, and then walked backward to the fire.

Thus she scavenged the area, forced on each trip to walk just a little farther than she had gone before. And each time that she left the fire, the strengi-saats became more daring and drew closer.

As the night waxed and the temperature dropped, she huddled near the fire for warmth as much as safety, saving her wood, nursing each tender coal. The smell of smoke was thick in the air and permeated her skin.

The most dangerous time came at moonset, when the great silver orb dipped below the mountains. Blackness seemed to stretch across her then, the shadows of the night, and strengi-saats hidden from sight snarled in anticipation.

She dared not go hunting for more wood.

Dawn was still an hour or more away. The stars had not yet begun to fade in the sky.

Rhianna heard growling and looked to Sir Borenson, who lay stretched on the ground, unconscious, his left knee in the air, his back twisted as if he were lying on a rock, seeking to get comfortable. His breath came shallow.

He’ll probably die in that position, Rhianna thought.

One of the monsters hissed, and Rhianna spotted a shadow on her left. She whirled to face it. There was no more wood. She dared venture no farther.

But she was ready for them. She took a log from the fire and set it under the gunwale of the boat, then threw her spare clothing atop it.

Soon the boat was ablaze, creating a bonfire.

Now we can’t use it to get off the island, a small voice seemed to whisper to her in despair.

It doesn’t matter, she told herself. If I don’t live through the night, nothing matters.

So she planted her saber in the sand and squatted beside it, her back to the fire, both hands gripping the hilt of her sword.

Her eyes grew heavy as she fought sleep.

Finally, she decided to rest her eyes for a moment, relieving them from the stinging smoke.

Only a moment, she told herself.

She closed them.

When they flew open, the sun was a pink ball out on the horizon, and the boat lay like the smoking corpse of some beast, its blackened ribs all turned to cinders.

Rhianna heard a cough, peered down at Sir Borenson. It was his coughing that had wakened her.

He was still breathing shallowly, but he peered at her through slitted eyes. “You made it,” he whispered. “Now get out of here. Bring help if you can.”

“I will,” she promised.

She dropped the saber at his side, in case he needed it. She didn’t want to lug the thing down the beach. So she took only her dirk, jogged to the beach where the sand was wet and firm, threw off her shoes, and ran.

Three miles or thirty? she wondered.

She ran, feet pounding the sand, heart hammering, ignoring the stitch in her side and the burning that came to her legs. She gripped her dirk firmly, just in case.

Run, she told herself. Nothing else matters.

Hours later, in the heat of the day, Myrrima, Captain Stalker, Smoker, and a dozen other crewmen marched up the beach. It was hours past noon when they found Rhianna’s blade lying in the surf, half buried in sand.

Myrrima picked it up, wiped it dry, and called out nervously, “Rhianna? Borenson? Is anyone here?”

There was no reply, only the soughing of the wind over the sands.

Smoker inhaled deeply from his long-handled pipe and peered toward the shore. “I cannot feel their heart fires,” he whispered. “They are either dead or far away from here.”

Stalker and the others searched for tracks, but found none. What the tide had not washed away, the morning wind had.

“Rhianna would not have left her weapon like this,” Myrrima said. She grieved, fearing the worst.

So they marched on for an hour, calling for Rhianna and Borenson, the despair gnawing at Myrrima’s gut, until at last they saw the black ribs of the boat lying in the sand, and found Borenson beside it.

He was pale and sweating, looking as if he would die. But he wept when he saw Rhianna’s blade and heard the news.

“Rhianna left just after dawn,” he told them. “She waited for daylight, so the strengi-saats wouldn’t attack, and then ran for help.”

With a heavy heart, Captain Stalker whispered, “My guess is that she did not wait long enough.”