Heirs of the Fallen: Book 02 - Crown of the Setting Sun by James A. West

pummeling, water-black branches floating with him. After going over a low waterfall, he found himself facing upriver. The mountain of muddied water chased after him, falling over itself in great, exploding waves, gaining slowly; its immense power pushed him before it. He turned, doing his best to stay afloat.
    The sides of the gorge narrowed at one point, flashing by, the river’s rage amplified by towering cliffs. Up ahead, the river took a sharp turn. In the outer curve, the waters crashed against the wall of the gorge, rising high before collapsing back over on themselves in a continuous, churning fall thrice the height of a man. All Leitos had taught himself about swimming fled his mind, and panic consumed his wits. He began clawing at the water, trying to get to the inside curve of the bend.
    His efforts were in vain.
    Thrashing and kicking, he flew into the base of the towering wave. Spray hit his face, and the river dragged him under. He struck the rock wall, the force crushing the breath from his lungs. All became a spinning, tumbling confusion. With malicious intent, the flow slammed him against the base of the cliff, set him free, then punished him again. Caught in an inescapable eddy, Leitos banged repeatedly against the wall before a squeezing force pressed in on him from every side. He shot up and up, feeling at once weightless and caught in a giant’s fist. Then, with stunning abruptness, he soared free. He pinwheeled before splashing into the river.
    Bruised, scraped, and disorientated, he struggled to the surface and drew a sodden breath. All was a deafening roar, as the river thrashed him. Leitos fought as long as he could, but rapidly grew weaker and more desperate for a deep breath. His chest burned, but he dared not draw the river into his lungs. A part of him felt sure he was going to drown, but another part refused to accept the possibility. He had survived too much to let mere water destroy him. His anxiety gave way to his own fury, and he cursed the river and the storm, elements so much greater than he.
    His anger gave him some little, momentary strength. He paddled and splashed with all the vigor he could muster, but his effort was short-lived. Far too soon, his arms and legs became leaden, useless. He sank again. This time, he failed to rise.
    Knowing he had lost the battle, Leitos felt an unexpected acceptance surmount his fears. Lost in the swirling reddish murk, he went still and let the river take him. He drew in the extinguishing coolness of the river, quenching the fire in his chest. A suffocating pressure filled his lungs, but he soon moved beyond such physical concerns, as if his spirit and body were no longer one.
    His consciousness drifted, rendering all previous apprehensions impotent. No more would he fear the bite of an
Alon’mahk’lar’s
lash, no more would he suffer hunger or thirst. In the wake of this release he found true freedom, and a sense of expectancy filled him, birthed a surreal peace in his soul. Only the sharp understanding that he had failed his grandfather haunted him. Yet even that concern evaporated, as points of light began dancing before his eyes, multiplying, until he floated upon an undulating sea of pearl white. As the white went to black he decided, with no small measure of relief, that death was nothing to fear.

Chapter 9
    S harp, red pain drew him out of the serene dream and into a raucous nightmare of thundering waters, torrential rains, and driving winds. Something had caught the hair on his head in an iron-grip. It was pulling him from the river, carelessly dragging him along like a carcass over rounded stones, then through sandy mud.
    He opened his mouth to shout a protest, but silty water dribbled past his lips instead of words. All the pain and fear he had so recently escaped crashed back down upon him, and he longed to return to that blessed void. He reached up with arms that refused to work as they should, and clawed with fingers that held no