What the River Owes: Race Against the Noose
The Stir wanted to carry them the entire way. Kessel's repair held, but the river itself seemed to possess a spiteful sentience: swollen, black, and running faster than Jost had ever seen it. It carried heavy storm debris down from the deep country, battering the hull. An hour in, a half-submerged snag caught the bow exactly where the fresh pitch sat. Jost felt the skiff list hard, his stomach dropping as Janderke swore and leaned his entire weight on the tiller to correct them. They fought to keep the skiff straight between them, wrestling the oars to keep the re-damaged bow pointed downstream, minimizing the water intake to a slow, dark trickle. What should have been a straightforward ride on a fast current stretched into five hours of agonizing, white-knuckle rowing just to steady the boat. Jost’s shoulders burned, the muscles spasming in the cold, while the oppressive, bruised sky of Talabecland offered no encouragement whatsoever. Jost used those grueling hours to tell Janderk...