Page 40 of Cursed Shadows 4

My legs dangle, water rushing over my boots—thank you, Aleana, for the foresight of waterproof leather—and my hands are flat on the bark.

I turn my weary gaze around.

There is no mudbank this far down the river. No shore, no pebbles, no sand, no stone. The river ends where a forest begins; and all that fringes the seam is grass that reaches up to my waist, even perched on the log.

I frown on the grass for a beat before I squint up at the forest. Rusty brown trunks rise up, the lush green heads of the trees reaching such heights that they seem to graze the clouds.

I could make it across the fallen tree to the tallgrass, get a grip on the dewy earth, then pull myself onto land.

But before I do, I lean to the side and look down at the agitated, foaming waters. Bunches of colours rush under the log.

Riverfish.

Soaring past my boots, swarms of them are caught in the violent current.

I drag my backpack to settle on my lap. My gaze remains suspicious, cautious, as it cuts around the riverbanks and the forest and the tallgrass.

I tug out a bunched-up net from the bag.

It’s silk to the touch.

Lowering the spider silk net to my side, I rattle it apart from its wrinkles. It unfurls into a netted bag. Not too big. I’ll be able to keep whatever I catch in my backpack.

And I must catch something, even just a single fish before the sun goes down again, before another litalf finds me, or several more. I need to use these little hours I have to fish, clean and gut it, cook it, eat it, then find shelter.

I tug the string that pinches the mouth of the netted bag. It opens, wide, and I lean my front onto the log.

I dangle one hand over the foam of the river.

And I watch.

The only thing stopping me from toppling over the edge and into the violent river is one hand gripped onto a sturdy protrusion that must have once been a solid branch, a leghooked around a wet bough, and my aching middle pressed into the thickness of this fallen tree.

I lean far over the edge and watch as fish are thrown into my net by the current. Not many, but I count at least three before I heave the thrashing bag from the river.

I would stay for more, dangle for longer, if I could afford to. But I can’t afford the time, to be out in the open for so long, and physically, I feel like I’ve been shredded inside out.

The netted bag leaks from the bottom in small streams.

Exertion has got me in its firm grip. It’s in the hoarseness of my breaths, the grimace of my weary face, and the sag of my posture as I struggle to push myself upright.

I stuff the net—and the suffocating fish—into the backpack, then hook the straps around my shoulders.

My pace is cautious as I turn to look around at the boulders, the exposed tangled roots of the tree in the sludge of the riverbank, undisturbed tallgrass and silent rust-brown trees that reach up to leaves the same deep shade as damp moss.

Beyond the commotion of the roaring river, silence surrounds me.

If it weren’t for the death-drop-waterfall, this little pocket on the Mountain of Slumber might actually be… pleasant.

It is quiet.

There are no signs of any nearby warriors, not in my scanning gaze. Only the one who chased me downhill, away from the others who landed in that area, but the current took us further down the mountain.

No one else seems to have reached this area.

I consider the hopeful possibility that the river has taken me far from where most contenders landed. It carried me downhill, too far for any other warriors to stumble upon me. If there areany this far down the mountain, then they won’t be this close to the waterfall—they will be further along the river, back the way I came, headed upwards for the summit.

I need to figure out my direction, fast.

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