Tales of Noreela 04: The Island by Tim Lebbon Read Free Book Online

“Someone seeking help.” The clouds were still heavy and thick, promising more rain, and neither life-nor death-moonlight touched the woman’s body.
    “We should go,” Kel said. “Things will get worse.”
    “How in the Black could they be worse?” Namior sounded almost desperate, and Kel wondered just how close she was to panic. He would have to look after her.
    “Things fall,” Kel said. “Buildings have been undermined. Foundations weakened. The wave has done all the damage, but it’s time that will keep destroying.”
    Namior said nothing. Perhaps she hated the defeat in his voice, but he could not help it. It was the way he had been trained.
    And as they worked their way downhill, past the Moon Temple and toward the lower streets, Kel could not help thinking about his time in the Core, and how it had prepared him for an occurrence such as this. He had learned a lot about survival in the harshest of times and living off the land. They had instructed him on basic medical requirements and demonstrated how wounds could be closed using twisted sheebok gut, a needle and a sprinkling of shredded hedge-hock. He had learned about languages and cultures, the subjects and objects of worship and how death was dealt with by the different races and peoples of Noreela. But the lesson that had been most valuable had undoubtedly saved his life, many times: always expect the worst.
    He was expecting that now.
    They skirted around the Temple, heading down the steep slope toward the road that used to run alongside the river. The lower boundary wall to the Temple grounds had fallen away, and the ground there had been undermined as well, slipping down to add to the chaos left behind by the wave. It was only so close that Kel saw just how much damage had been done.
    Ten steps below them was a sea of mud, rocks, protruding walls, smashed roofs, bodies, cattle and trees. Farther out, the flooded river still poured back toward the sea; but closer to the bank several struggling shapes splashed weakly at the muck, doing their utmost to remain afloat.
    “What’s that?” Namior said, but her voice trailed off. She already knew.
    “Stay here!” Kel said.
    “What? You can’t just leave—”
    Kel ignored her. Slipping to the place where the ground fell away, he tried to glance over, down into the mess now lit by an emerging death moon. There was a slick spread ofmuck beneath him, but to his right a horse’s body had washed against the mud cliff, lying on its side. Kel jumped.
    The horse coughed when he landed on its stomach. He steadied himself, ready for it to struggle, but the creature was dead, the air forced from it when he landed.
    “Help!” someone shouted, voice distorted by a mouthful of mud.
    “Kel!” Namior shouted from ten steps above.
    “Rope!” he yelled. “Blankets! Smashed wood,
anything
, Namior. Find it and throw it down.” He knelt on the horse and felt down into the mud for its saddle, but his hands touched the distinctive ridges along its back. A wild horse from the plains above the valley, likely come down for a drink. Just his luck.
    He looked across the sea of mud at the feebly struggling shapes. He was sure there had been at least four when he jumped down, but now he could only see movement from two.
Shit, shit, shit
, he thought, looking around desperately for something to throw out to them, wanting to offer hope but unable to find either.
    Kel probed at the mud with one foot and immediately sank up to just below his knee. He pulled back, grabbing hold of the dead horse’s mane to avoid being sucked in deeper.
    “Namior!”
    There was nothing he could do.
    He watched another shape going under, crying out a muddy name that he could not identify as they went from night to black.
    “Namior!”
    “Kel!”
    He turned and looked up, and Namior was edging a length of splintered timber down to him. He grabbed it, cursing as splinters bit into his hand, but by the time he’d turned again, ready to throw