He wished Leonis and Lianshi were here, then smiled ruefully. Would a good friend wish his comrades imprisoned with him? Probably not.
He reached down to the fast-flowing stream and cupped his hand in the frigid current.
A strand of white cord burst from the water and wrapped around his wrist a half-dozen times, squeezing so tightly that he felt his skin split. Scorio let out a cry of shock as his arm was hauled down toward the current, where he saw a mass of webbing begin to shift and unfurl, detaching from the rocks and rising toward the surface.
Grunting, he pulled his arm back, but then his braced foot slipped off the damp rock and plunged into the water to the knee, immediately snagged by three more milky-white tendrils that wrapped cruelly about it.
Panicking, Scorio yanked at his arm and reached back with his free hand to clutch at another bulge of rock, but failed to find purchase. The tendrils began pulling him into the water, their strength tenacious, each strangely muscular and elastic, so that they gave a little when he pulled, then tightened again the moment he ceased.
He wasn’t going to get out of this by strength alone.
Turning back to the water, he anxiously studied the mercurial surface. Shadows played just beneath the surface. Did this thing have a body? A head? Was it just a mass of decentralized tendrils?
A dozen more burst out of the river to lash around his upper thigh and waist.
Gasping, the freezing water numbing his leg, he lost purchase with his other foot and slid all the way in, the current strong enough that his feet had trouble finding the bottom of the river. Floundering, cursing, he struggled against both the tendrils and fast-flowing water, and pushed away from the bank to stand knee-deep in the middle, his weight helping him plant his feet.
The tendrils were cutting into his flesh, tightening like garottes. Scorio heaved back on them, saw those attached to his arm grow thin against the tension, then reached down swiftly to grasp them in his fist and keep on hauling.
Another half-dozen lashed up out of the water, flinging spray, and one of them wrapped around his neck, or tried to—he dropped his chin just in time to catch it, and immediately felt its abrasive edge cut through his skin.
His anger, which had been momentarily displaced by his panic, came roaring back. He released the tendrils and plunged both hands into the stream, following the tendrils down, dropping to one knee as he did so that the water began to crash about his waist. He felt something rough and soft, like a sponge wrapped in sandpaper, and wrested it out of the water.
He couldn’t tell what he was holding, but it was horrific. It split in two, opening a mouth that was lined with thousands of slender needles, and let out a hissing, gurgling screech as it began to contract its tendrils, trying to bring its nearly translucent and bloated sack-like body closer to Scorio’s face.
No eyes. No features. Just a gelatinous mass that was all mouth and stomach.
Scorio tried to adjust his weight, lost his balance in the current, and fell into the water. He sought to bury his thumbs into its body, to pierce the slick surface, to tear it apart.
But the skin was surprisingly thick, and there was no internal resistance against which he could work. The water washed over his head, and he felt the tendrils binding his limbs together, pulling his legs tight, bringing his elbows to his ribs.
Still, he squeezed, then in a fit of abandon, he shoved a hand into that gaping mouth to crush its innards from within.
The creature spasmed and released him, the tendrils all uncurling at once, but still, Scorio kept kneading and pounding at it. Hundreds of needle-like teeth sank into his wrist as it bit at him, but he refused to stop, a perverse, bloody-minded desire filling him, controlling him.
Gasping, he brought his head above the water level. He floundered some more, finally wedged his legs, and stood. The gelatinous mass in his hand had gone still, its formerly clear interior now a clouded mass, with what looked like hundreds of slender threads hanging from its side into the water.
Shivering, Scorio used his free hand to peel its mouth open, the needles sliding free from his wrist, and was about to hurl the monster away in fury when he stopped.
He’d not come across anything else he could eat.
The thought turned his stomach, but before he could change his mind, he threw the sickening object up onto the bank. He stared mutely at his wrist. A perfect bracelet of holes went all the way round, blood welling up continuously.
Not knowing if it was the right thing to do, he put his hand into the freezing river and held it there for a spell, then clambered out, sat on the silty bank, and tore a strip off his white robe.
Doing so brought memories of the Gauntlet back, of Lianshi, and his very being seemed to quiver with a pang of loneliness.
Carefully, using his teeth as much as his fingers, he wrapped the wound tightly and tied it off, then sat there staring at the rushing water.
Were there more of those monsters? Would getting a drink always prove to be as perilous?
For a while he sat, as if in a stupor, staring at the swift-flowing water, then he recalled, as if it were an academic footnote, that he’d come here to drink. He edged down, cupped the water to his lips, and drank deep of the delicious, mineral-tasting water. He filled his belly, then scooted back once more to sit against the wall.
He had to get up and keep going. But his body felt lethargic, a dull, abused thing. And it was strangely soothing to just sit and stare at the glowing moss. To enjoy how its soft, azure luminescence was being reflected back up onto it from the stream below.
Exhausted, Scorio shifted his weight, found a slightly more comfortable spot in which to rest, and closed his eyes.
He slept poorly. Every few moments he startled himself to wakefulness, expecting lashing tentacles to be reaching out for him. Each time he groaned and resolved to abandon the river and its perils.
But the soft blue luminescence was a lure he couldn’t resist; the thought of returning to the dark was too much. So, again and again, he slipped back into his fitful sleep.
“Down there, look.”
The voice was terse, guarded. Scorio pushed himself upright, having half-slumped over, and bit back a groan at the pain that pulsed in his wrist and the stinging cuts that lacerated his body.
“Not dead, at any rate.” A man’s voice. “Unless he’s in the act of dying?”
Scorio looked across the river and up at the ledge, where two figures stood in the shadows, one of them with a cheroot of some sort clenched between his teeth, its tip cherry red.
“Hey,” he called, but the sound was an unintelligible rasp. He coughed and tried again. “I’m not dead. Not yet, at any rate.”
“What do you think?” The first speaker was a woman. “Strong enough to open the door?”
“Could be, could be,” hedged the guy. “He looks a little worse for wear.”
Scorio grit his teeth and pushed himself up the wall. His wrist was badly swollen, the outline of the bones lost to the puffy red flesh. “What are your names? I’m Scorio.”
“Scorio?” The man moved forward so that the soft blue light played across his face. He was short, stocky, his face framed by a square-cut beard, a rough cap on his head. “There been a reincarnation cycle just now?”
“Yes,” said Scorio, forcing himself to stand straight. “I didn’t pass muster. Something about a Red List.”
The man scoffed. “You and me both. My name’s Havert. Come on up. Careful crossing the water. Lashers frequent this spot.”
“Yeah, I know.” Scorio made his way back to the water’s edge, moving carefully, watching for the dance of webbing beneath the surface. “I killed one before taking a nap.”
Havert let out a low whistle. “Good on you. You get bit?”
“On the wrist.” He took a sharp breath and leaped across the flowing waters. “Looks like the wound’s gone bad. You wouldn’t happen to know how to treat it?”