“The Suhl are of Nature born, like the rising sun, or unfurling leaves, or a mounting ocean wave.”

THE GRUESOME SCALY FACE was drawn back in a snarl, baring a mass of tiny, sharp brown teeth. A strange clucking noise rose from the back of its throat as it panted over him, smothering him with a horrible stench of rotten fish. Its slimy hands tightened round his neck and its black, glassy eyes widened gleefully, its pink tongue running over its pale upper lip.

Sylas thrashed wildly, trying to push it away, but his hands slid off its slippery shoulders. It lowered its face towards his and tightened its grip still further.

“Die!” it hissed. “Die like the res-s-s-st of them.”

Sylas flicked his head up, catching the Slithen on its snout and making it rear backwards. It held on to his neck.

He was starting to struggle for breath when a look of surprise came over the Slithen’s face and suddenly its grip loosened. Without warning, it was wrenched away and Sylas looked up to see Bayleon grasping it by its ankles. With a quick rotation of his massive shoulders, he swung it high into the air and over the side of the boat. The creature squealed until it was silenced by a distant splash.

“That’s for Fathray!” roared Bayleon after it, wiping his sticky hands on his trousers.

He turned to Sylas. “Anything broken?”

“No, I don’t think so,” said Sylas hoarsely.

He took Bayleon’s hand and drew himself upright, glancing about to see what was happening.

Ash was busy beating another creature clear of the boat.

“Back, you haddock! Eel spawn! Sea slug!” he yelled, punctuating each insult with a fresh crack of the paddle.

Although his frame was small and lean, his gangly limbs were strong and he had soon fended off the latest assailant.

There now seemed to be more Slithen than ever, but there was something strange about the way they moved. They were still arching out of the water as they snatched glances at the boats, but they appeared to be struggling to break the surface as if something was holding them back. The river around them was rising and swelling into a great wave, lifting them higher and higher on a wall of granite-grey water until Sylas could no longer see the mill or the townhouses far behind. He shot a questioning look at Bayleon who was once again sitting at the oars.

“What’s happening?” cried Sylas.

For the first time he saw Bayleon smile. His white teeth glimmered through his dark beard. He nodded towards the other boats.

Sylas looked across the line of vessels and there he saw Filimaya standing tall in the prow of her boat, one hand held out in front of her. At her bidding, the water ahead of the boats had fallen away leaving a great trough the full width of the river, and the water behind had risen to compensate, forming the towering wave. The boats were now tilted downwards and were surfing at increasing speed down the side of the wave. He felt the wind in his hair as their own boat gathered pace. Bayleon no longer rowed, but instead allowed the oars to scud over the surface of the foaming waters.

The bow was soon bouncing over the surface and sending spray high into the air and Sylas crouched down to keep his balance. Looking behind, he saw a large white crest forming on the wave, then tumbling down towards them. But it never quite reached them, for as fast as the wave moved, the boats surfed ahead of it.

The Slithen were not so fortunate. Sylas saw those that were closest drawn into the churning heart of the wave, until moments later they were catapulted out of its crest, their gangly limbs flipping over and over before they dropped out of sight behind the foam. His heart thumped in his chest and he turned and grinned at Bayleon, who was once again wielding the oars, breaking the surface of the water to steady and steer the boat.

“Sylas! Over here!” cried Ash, sitting on the stern, leaning forward to stop himself from falling. “We need to balance the boat, or we’ll flip over!”

Sylas clambered backwards over the bags and boxes and carefully took a seat next to Ash. Instantly the bow lifted a little and it started to surf more lightly over the surface.

From here he could see the whole dramatic scene: the long line of boats careering down the great wave, the vast mountain of water and foam behind them and the expanse of river ahead.

But just as his spirits began to rise, he recoiled. Only a short distance ahead of them a huge stone bridge spanned the river, supported by five immense arches. Somehow the entire flotilla of boats would have to pass beneath it.

Ash nudged him and pointed to the water’s edge. A column of dark figures approached the bank, their bodies thrown forward in a full sprint, their powerful canine legs moving in perfect unison. They bounded with impossible ease, taking quick, loping strides that carried them swiftly over the uneven ground and, despite their speed, their angular heads remained entirely steady as they watched the boats and scented their prey. Snapping at their heels came the two giant Ghorhund, straining at their leashes, baying in their frenzy. Despite their wild movements, Scarpia steered the chariot with effortless skill, steadying herself as she clasped the reins with one hand and directed the chase with the other. Still she smiled her triumphant smile, relishing the thrill of the charge, sweeping her hand across the ranks of Ghor, driving them forward as one. The long train of her crimson dress flew out behind her, catching the afternoon light, snapping and cracking in the wind like a standard of war. As she saw the bridge, she let out a shrill, chilling cry, and at once her troops lowered their shoulders and lengthened their stride to run even faster.

The boats were now moving at an astonishing speed, but there seemed little doubt that the Ghor would reach the bridge first. Sylas glanced at the other bank and saw another troop tearing along the towpath, running further ahead of the wave.

Filimaya saw them too and raised herself even further in her boat. It was a marvel that she did not fall. The wave grew with her until it was a deafening maelstrom of foam, lifting the boats high above the river. They surfed at such an angle that Sylas had to lean back over the spray to keep his balance, and Bayleon too struggled to stay in his seat as he carved the water with his oars, keeping the boat on course. The other oarsmen were also fighting to keep control and he heard yelps of surprise and a clash of wood against wood as two vessels struck each other. To his dismay, he saw that Simia was in the rear of one, being hurled this way and that, clinging desperately to the side. Both boats leaned over so far that it seemed certain that they would flip over, but as they started to pitch their cargo into the river, the oarsmen plunged their oars deep into the water and managed to steady their path.

Simia clambered up and seated herself in the stern, peering ahead of the wave. For a moment she stared at the bridge, seeming to consider something, but suddenly she began shouting at the oarsman. Sylas could not make out her words, but then she started jabbing her finger towards the centre of the bridge. Suddenly he realised what she was saying.

“Simia’s right!” he shouted to Ash. “We’re all going to have to go through the middle arch –the Ghor will reach the others before us!”

Ash looked across to Simia and saw her wild gesticulations, then glanced at the banks, where the Ghor were already nearing the two entrances to the bridge. He nodded, waved to Bayleon and held his hand up in the direction of the arch. Bayleon lowered one of the oars so that it trailed through the water and immediately the boat changed direction, traversing the face of the wave towards the middle of the river. The hull rolled alarmingly as it ran against the flow of the water and Sylas and Ash braced themselves against the sides. They stayed as low as they could and watched as all of the boats started to converge ahead of the arch.

It looked impossible – the archway would barely fit ten boats abreast in low water, let alone when they were riding high on a wave and travelling at speed. But there was no other way.

Their boat crashed into the side of another, sending shards of wood into the air and almost snapping the oars trapped between, but somehow both stayed afloat, the occupants exchanging frightened looks as they sprang apart and then crashed into each other again.

“Hold them together!” cried Sylas, stretching a hand out towards the other boat.

The other passengers scrambled to the side of their boat and, as they came together again, they reached over, grasped Sylas’s boat, and pulled it tightly against their own. He clamped his arm over the side and held on as best he could. The other boats were doing the same and, as they drew nearer and nearer to the archway, he could hear the loud crack of timber on timber and the cries of the passengers as they tried to take hold of each other’s boats.

He dared not look around – his eyes were on the bridge, which the Ghor were already beginning to cross. Some leapt up on to the stone balustrades and started bounding along them at impossible speed, while others charged through the pedestrians in the middle, brushing them aside with the cruel sweep of a claw.

The precarious raft of boats spanned the middle of the river, twisting and buckling as it surged towards the archway. Somehow it held, bound by the straining limbs of its passengers. Yet, as they drew close, the archway seemed ever smaller and their own strange craft all too large. Sylas was thankful that he, Simia and Filimaya were in boats near the centre, but even there the archways seemed too low. Too close.

Suddenly a cry from somewhere on the raft caught his attention and he glanced across to a disturbance in one of the other boats. For a moment all he could make out was a struggle and raised voices, but then he saw a distinctive flash of red hair and a tiny figure in an oversized coat, scrambling from boat to boat, ducking under flailing arms and jumping over limbs and oars, staggering at one moment and leaping at the next. Already she had crossed two boats, then three, and suddenly she was in the neighbouring vessel. She sidestepped an attempt to pull her back and launched herself into the air. With the great folds of her coat fluttering about her, she landed lightly in the bottom of Sylas’s boat.

“I told you I’d find a way!” shrieked Simia gleefully.

Sylas shook his head in disbelief, then grinned.

“Fool!” growled Bayleon.

She opened her mouth to reply, but suddenly her face fell. She looked past him to the bridge, and shrank back into the bottom of the boat. Sylas turned and instinctively did the same, falling back on his hands. The bridge reared above them, blocking out the sky, bearing down on them, seeming now like an impassable wall of stone. Suddenly they were there, plunging into shadow, the central arch passing just an arm’s reach above their heads.

Their ears were hit by a deafening boom as the great wave hit the bridge, striking with such force that the entire structure seemed to shake and a terrifying blast of air rushed between the boats.

“Hold on!” Bayleon cried.

And then, as they were pummelled by a vortex of water and foam, Sylas felt the next boat being wrenched free. He was about to be dragged into the tempest as his hands flailed over the water, but he felt Bayleon’s arm across his chest, drawing him back to safety. He saw the other boat disappear behind a dark wall of water, rising high into the air as it turned almost to the vertical. The bow of their own boat seemed to be dragged deep and the stern was whipped around, starting a vicious, gut-wrenching spin. He was thrown so hard against the hull that the wind was knocked out of him and he lay stunned against a discarded oar.

He looked up with wild eyes to see a shadowy wave looming over them, its foamy fingers turning inwards as though to drag them down, but just as it threatened to consume the boat, there was a loud crunch that echoed on the inside of the archway. The flimsy vessel shuddered as though it would break apart but, to his surprise, the timbers held firm. The spinning seemed to stop. A moment later they were thrown back out into the daylight.

Still gasping for breath, he glanced about him and saw that, miraculously, Bayleon, Ash and Simia were still inside the boat. They too had been thrown to the floor and were just starting to push themselves up on to their knees, reaching out for stray oars and paddles.

They were surrounded by mountainous waves, but Sylas could already see other boats, some unharmed, some splintered and damaged. Five, six, seven boats appeared from beneath the bridge. He did not have time to see who was safe and who was not, for he heard a shriek of rage and defiance above, and his eyes travelled up to the vast grey arches of stone, then the baying ranks of the Ghor glaring at them from the bridge, and then to Scarpia, rearing back in her chariot, heaving at the reins as she raised her hands to conjure some new horror.

But then she hesitated and looked up.

He followed her fearful gaze upwards to the skies.

He saw no sunlight and no pendulous clouds; instead he saw a mighty overhang of granite grey: a sheer face of water that towered over Scarpia, the Ghor, the bridge and the town.

With nowhere else to go, the great wave had launched itself upwards, rising to the height of many men before thundering back down towards the massed Ghor. It struck with seismic force, shattering stone and crushing all that lay in its path, knocking Scarpia from her chariot as it careered back towards the shore. Hundreds of black bodies were hurled into the air amid lashing foam and many more were swept into the raging waters below. Screeching howls pierced the roar and then were swallowed by the river, drawn down into its cold, suffocating depths. The surface frothed with flailing limbs and jaws as the Ghor struggled to stay afloat, some striking out towards the shore, others looking for something else to cling to.

Sylas saw three boats a little further from the bridge: two overturned and broken, a third taking on water, its occupants trying desperately to paddle clear of the writhing Ghor. A number of the Suhl were struggling in the tempest, surrounded by floating papers and parcels, straining to reach the upturned vessels. Salvo clung to a broken piece of timber and Galfinch was being pulled by someone towards a shattered hull, gathering his precious papers as he went. The rescuer’s bald, tattooed head was clearly visible as he moved powerfully through the water. It was Bowe.

Around them the wave was rising again, fed by the deluge of water. It had lost its power, but it was sufficient to push those boats that were still afloat clear of the bridge. Sylas watched in horror as the desperate swimmers rose on the wave and rolled over the crest.

“Bowe!” he shouted helplessly, glancing round at the other boats, willing one of them to turn round, but knowing that they were too far and it was hopeless.

The Scryer had somehow managed to stand on an upturned hull, steadying himself as the waves cast him from side to side, and now he turned to the other survivors. His doleful face broke into a warm, comforting smile. This tiny gesture seemed so out of place, so extraordinary given all that was happening, that in itself it was an act of heroism. Still smiling, he began to speak, gently motioning for his friends to stay calm, to lock arms and draw closer, to make the three wrecks into one life-giving raft. They responded bravely, those who still had their strength helping those who did not, so that soon they formed an intimate gathering: a respite from the storm. And, as they met, they reached out for one another, drew close, held hands and whispered comforts.

Then they waited for the inevitable.

All around them the dark river churned with the writhing bodies of the Ghor. They no longer thrashed the surface, but moved silently, purposefully through the ragged waves and icy surf. Slowly, they converged upon the sinking boats.

Sylas was about to call out again when Simia took hold of his arm and he turned to find her face drained of all colour.

“Look!” she said, pointing to another part of the frothing river.

His heart fell. It was Filimaya. She too had been thrown from her vessel and was being cast about in the great tumult of dark water, her long silver hair floating over its surface, her pale face momentarily hidden from view as she struggled through the surf. She was not as far as the others, and was only now rolling over the failing wave, but she was still some way from the nearest boat. She was swimming strongly, more strongly than Sylas would have thought possible for someone of her age – gaining on the boat, but slowly, too slowly, for as Sylas cast his eyes back to the upturned boats, he saw a new, deliberate movement among the struggling bodies of survivors and the Ghor.

The surface of the river broke in long, advancing lines, as though something large and fast were passing just beneath, coursing through the waves torpedo-like, with absolute precision and purpose. And then the first of them broke the surface: an angular, reptilian brow carving with ease through the turbulence, the glassy black eyes blinking wide as it took in the ragged line of boats, the slitted nose scenting its prey. It regarded them for a moment and then, as it rolled its scaly back and disappeared, another rose, and another and another.

“So many...” said Ash.

Yet even as they came on, even as they closed in on poor Filimaya, the boats had almost slowed to a stop. The wave had died and now drifted out beneath the keels, leaving them stranded. This allowed Filimaya to gain more quickly on her boat, and its occupants were already leaning out, willing her on, offering their hands in readiness to heave her over the side. But if the boats did not start moving within the next few moments, they would all be overrun by the Slithen. A great chorus of cries had risen from the other boats, coaxing Filimaya on, trying to give her new strength, desperate for her to reach the boat. It seemed that no one else could summon the waters.

And, at that moment, Sylas suddenly felt peculiarly calm, because he knew that his friends were lost.

He looked from the great phalanx of advancing Slithen now churning the river white in their expectant frenzy, to Filimaya making her last desperate strokes towards the boat, and finally to his own companions: Bayleon, hunched over his oars, looking down as though he could not bear to watch; Ash yelling Filimaya’s name with a faltering voice; and finally Simia, lowering herself to the floor of the boat, her hands rising to her face, tears welling in her eyes.

Perhaps it was that terrible image of Simia starting to lose hope that gave Sylas a new, inexplicable resolve; a quiet, calm determination. For, as he looked at these people who had been so good to him, who had brought devastation upon themselves to help him, he became sure that it all had to be for a reason. At that moment the chaotic sounds of the tumult fell away – the shouts and screams, the baying roar of the Ghor, the hissing surf of the boiling river – all of it faded, leaving his own thoughts.

They came relentlessly, one after the other. He thought of Mr Zhi’s kindly face and of his fateful words; of the raging din of the Passing Bell and of his safe passage beneath it; of his hand passing over that shining face of the Aquium and the shoals dancing at his bidding; of his fingers stretched out over the stream, the silvery fish leaping as if to meet them. For a moment he dared to believe that perhaps, just perhaps, everything had led him to this moment; that he was meant to be there, witnessing the plight of his friends. And perhaps he had the power to help.

“… You can see all that you are able to be,” Mr Zhi had said.

Sylas grasped the side of the boat and pulled himself slowly to his feet, steadying himself as the vessel rocked and heaved on the churning waters. Bayleon leaned forward and tried to pull him back, but he stepped out of his reach, past Simia and Ash, into the stern.

“What are you doing?” cried Simia, pulling at his coat before she was herself thrown back into the boat by the slap of a wave on the hull.

Sylas was hardly aware of her. He was looking out over the river towards his friends swimming desperately for safety, towards the legions of Slithen gliding through the waters and the dark figures of the Ghor closing upon their prey. He was barely conscious of his hands rising in front of him, of his companions staring at him in confusion and amazement, of the triumphant surge of the Slithen as they leapt as one from the waves before diving deep, deep into the river for the final attack.

He looked into the waters, losing himself in their depths. His imagination pierced fathoms-deep, seeing the great swirling currents surging and shifting, ebbing and flowing, seeing the great shoals of fish gliding, darting, weaving. He sensed them not only in his mind but in his body, feeling their cool in his veins, flowing through his limbs, their watery chill consuming first his chest, then his legs, arms and fingers. He was not frightened but calm; he felt no panic, but instead sensed himself becoming something more, something deep in his beginnings, in his very essence.

And as his imagination became the river, the river became him. He opened his palms and somewhere deep in the belly of the river he felt the currents, the fish, the eels, the weeds gathering at his will, drawing themselves together, heaving themselves with common purpose up and up towards the straining limbs of the Slithen and the Ghor. He moved his hands wider and felt this calamitous torrent rising through the pit of his stomach, charging up through his gut and his chest, launching up, and up.

And so it was.

As a great tumult of all the river’s life they came: swimming things and scuttling things, things from the mud and from the deep, things that grasped and clawed and snapped and sucked, things that coiled and tugged and blinded. And, as the Slithen and the Ghor eyed their quarry above, all this came from below.

Weeds coiled about their limbs, eels slithered about their necks, a maze of silver scales confused their path, sending them far from the surface, down and down into the belly of the river. There they were grasped by the residents of the darkness and the deep and the mud: the crabs and lobsters and catfish and the tangled weeds. And, as these things swarmed in upon the Slithen, Sylas felt them pressing at his ribcage, grasping his lungs; he felt the tangle of limbs, the grey bodies lost in the maelstrom of biting and clawing and sucking; he felt them flailing in the blackness, straining towards the light and the air, letting out drowned squeals of panic.

And then, just as this horror became too much, he felt his boat heave beneath his feet.

He became aware once again of the surface of the river, and saw that it was rising in a new wave, surging on, sending the boats of the Suhl dancing and skipping on its glistening face. He heard the elated cries of his companions and Simia’s shriek of joy as Filimaya rose tall in the rear of her boat, her hands raised, commanding the waters once again.

But she was no longer lost in her magic – she was not even looking at the river – she was looking at him.

As their eyes met, he saw in her beautiful, pale face something between confusion and wonder. For some moments she simply gazed at him, as though seeing him for the first time.

Then she broke into a gentle, knowing smile.