Dawn of War by Tim Marquitz

Author:Tim Marquitz
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Fantasy
Publisher: Tim Marquitz
Published: 2011-06-30T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty

The river’s fury timid in comparison to that of the oceans of Ahreele during the Great Tumult, Domor could not find it in himself to be pleased by that fact.

He clung breathless to the wooden bench as the water bubbled a frenzy just beneath. Though he had covered himself from head to toe in extra clothing, and had strapped a piece of cloth over his face to keep the searing splashes of river from tearing at his skin, he was soaked to the bone. The hot water sat uncomfortable against his flesh, a constant reminder of the danger should he slip free of the bench.

Jerul had taken a moment to strap Domor’s wrist to the wooden supports, but the wild ride of the River Vel threatened to tear him loose every few minutes regardless. Domor was grateful that he had convinced Jerul to tie his good wrist to the bench as the raft bucked and rocked beneath him. He would have welcomed the boiling water’s embrace had he to endure the agony of his weight, however slight, constantly wearing against his injury. It was bad enough against the good one, the horse-hide rope sawing away layers of flesh as he was bounced about, barely able to keep the slightest control over his movement with his other hand.

Infinitely worse than the pain at his wrist and the scalding heat that boiled him in his clothes, was the nausea caused by the bone-jarring ride. It had begun shortly after they Tumult had begun. Domor clutched to the bench for dear life as the raft was lifted nearly five feet in the air by the tumbling waves, only to be dropped a moment later. His stomach followed the motion an instant later.

With only water, and a bit of wine, in his belly, for which Domor was just as grateful for as he was about which wrist was tied, he coughed and hacked a mouthful of bile into the mask that still clung rancid to his face. Despite the constant barrage of water to douse him, the material at his nose held the scent of his vomit, spurring more bouts in concert with the wild waves.

Jerul had fared much better through the turbulence, or so Domor believed, having little energy for a prolonged examination of his blood-companion. What he had seen as he flopped about the deck, all in quick and blurred glances, was Jerul crouched low at the front of the raft, his own arm tied to the restraining wall. Beneath him sat their meager belongings, upon which Jerul sat to keep them from being swept overboard.

Through the chaos, his thoughts jarred and rattled loose from his skull with every wave, Domor believed he had seen Jerul smiling as the warrior looked out over the violent river. His bond made even dimmer by his pain and discomfort, Domor couldn’t be certain, but he wouldn’t bet against what he’d seen. It would be just like Jerul to enjoy such a thing as a ride upon the Great Tumult, the sanity of the Yvir a tenuous concept at best.

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