Date: March 15, 541, from the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored
The forest, which had become almost home over the last few weeks, reluctantly released him. A clear, boundless sky showed through, and in the fresh, cool air hung a damp, beckoning smell—the smell of great water. With every step, it grew stronger, making Dur's insides clench into a familiar, cold knot. But now this knot was not an all-consuming fear, but merely an anxious foreboding, something he could fight.
Soon, a low, continuous rumble reached him, and the forest trail led him to a high, steep bank. Dur froze, his hand instinctively reaching for the reliable wood of the bow on his back.
Before him, a river raged. It wasn't wide, perhaps twenty or thirty paces across, but all its power was in its wild, furious speed. The water, dark and foaming, roared between rocky banks, crashing against black, slippery boulders protruding from the whirlpools like the fangs of an ancient monster. Spray, cold as ice, flew into his face, and each drop made him flinch. This was not the calm stream near the orphanage, nor the creek by Torm's hut. This was an element, fierce and indifferent.
"Don't be in a hurry to die. The forest won't appreciate it." Torm's words echoed in his memory with such clarity, it was as if the hunter stood behind him.
Dur stepped back, inhaling deeply the air heavy with water dust. His first impulse was to walk along the bank, look for a ford, a fallen tree, any loophole. He walked several hundred paces upstream, then downstream. Nothing. Only the raging torrent, whose depth, judging by the water's color and the current's power, was up to his chest, maybe even his neck. To go around would mean losing days, perhaps weeks. He looked east, at the hills blue in the distance. His goal was there, on the other side of this roaring barrier.
He shrugged off his pack and squatted down, studying the flow. Torm had taught him not to panic, but to analyze. He looked for narrow spots, chains of stones, any kind of foothold. In one place, slightly downstream, he noticed something that looked like a possibility. Several large boulders, though covered in moss slick with water, formed something of a clumsy bridge, broken in the middle of the river by a wide, swift channel. It wasn't a gift from fate, but at least a chance.
Returning to his pack, Dur began to prepare. He wasn't mad enough to jump into the water empty-handed. He unhooked from his pack a long, sturdy rope that Torm had once given him "just in case." This was that case. He carefully coiled it and slung it over his shoulder. Then he examined his clothes: strong leather pants, a windproof jacket, boots he had thoroughly treated with fat. All of this could drag him down if the water hit with force.
He went back to the edge of the ravine, found a gentler slope down to the water, and slowly, clinging to roots and rocks with his hands, descended to the very edge of the raging water. The rumble had become a deafening roar. The cold wind born of the stream beat against his face. He stood on a wet, slippery stone, and spray immediately soaked his boots, sending ancient alarm signals to his brain. His heart hammered, his breath caught.
"You are not afraid of water," he told himself firmly, aloud, shouting over the river. "Here, on the surface, you can fight."
He took off his bow; the string could get wet. Carefully, wrapping it in his cloak, he tied it to the top of his pack so it wouldn't be swept away if he fell. Then he picked up the long, sturdy pole he had found back in the forest—his main tool for today.
Taking one last deep breath, Dur stepped into the water.
The cold was shocking, suffocating. It pierced his flesh with thousands of icy needles, trying to paralyze his muscles and will. Dur gritted his teeth, forcing himself to take a second step, then a third. The current immediately grappled with him fiercely, tugging at his legs, trying to knock him over. He braced the pole against the bottom, finding a rocky foothold, and shifted his weight. The stone under his foot was slippery; his foot slid, but he held on.
His world narrowed to this seething torrent. There was no past, no future, no East, no orphanage. Only "here" and "now." Step. Brace the pole. Check the foothold. Shift weight. Another step. He wasn't moving towards the opposite bank, but towards the next stone. His consciousness was stripped by fear and concentration to a primitive, animal level of survival.
He reached the first large boulder. He clung to it with his wet, already numb fingers, pressed himself against the rough, cold surface, allowing himself a few seconds of rest. His heart hammered in his throat. He looked back. The five steps he had taken seemed like a whole mile.
The next section was harder. The stones were farther apart, the current between them stronger. He stepped into the water again, now up to his waist. The water slammed against his chest, trying to tear him from the bottom. The pole trembled in his hands. He probed for the next stone with it, took a step, and his foot slipped. He lurched forward, banging his knee on a rock, and for a moment icy water rushed over his collar. Panic, black and sticky, rose from his stomach to his throat. He almost felt that bottomless darkness from his dream, ready to swallow him.
"NO!" he screamed mentally, and with his last strength, he braced the pole, pushing himself back onto his feet. He stood, chest-deep in the water, trembling from cold and adrenaline, but he stood. This was his personal war, and he had just won a small but important battle.
Finally, he reached the last large boulder before the wide channel. Here he had to use the rope. He tied one end to his belt, the other to a projection on the rock. This was his safety line. The final push was the most dangerous. The channel was deep and fast. Dur threw away the pole—useless here—and, holding the rope, stepped into the boiling water.
The current snatched him like a splinter of wood. For a moment, his feet left the bottom, and he hung from the rope, defenseless against the power of the torrent that hurled him against rocks hidden beneath the surface. Pain shot through his thigh, but he only clung tighter to his safety line. He worked with his hands, pulling himself like a climber, fighting the furious onslaught of water, desperately kicking his legs in search of the bottom.
And then his boot found purchase. Another step. Another pull. And he tumbled out onto the opposite, shallow edge of the channel, crawling away from the water on all fours like a wounded animal.
He lay on a pile of wet pebbles, trembling all over, his clothes clinging heavily to him, water squelching from his boots. He was battered, frozen to the bone, but he was on the other bank. He rolled onto his back, looking at the gray sky, and let out a sound somewhere between a groan and a laugh—a sound of pure, primal relief and triumph.
Catching his breath, he got up. His hands shook as he untied the rope. He left it hanging on the rock—as a tribute to the river, a victor not humiliating the vanquished. Then he untied his pack and took out his bow. It was dry. It was a small miracle.
Dur looked across the river to where he had come from. The forest stood as a dark, unbroken wall. Then he turned and looked east, at the hills now so close. He shook off the icy water, feeling an unfamiliar sensation spread through his body—a feeling of complete, absolute self-respect. He hadn't run from his fear. He had walked through it. And now he was ready to go on.