Riverkeep by Martin Stewart

simply run him down—scurrying through the trees and the gnarled roots of the forest floor like skirrils.
    Wull focused on the tiny star of the final lantern and rowed through pain and fatigue and the tearing of muscles. Wind whipped the backs of his ears as the flame’s star winked out until eventually, in the darkness of a fireless night that seemed to hold the world in its fist, the bäta rocked and a feather-cloaked figure said:
    â€œSlow
down
, li’l man. We’s a-caught you.”

9
    Those who travel know that bandits are chief of all dangers, accounting for many more deaths per annum than collision-induced trauma, hypothermic complications, or loss of direction combined. The roads leading to and from Oracco are dangerous at night, and there can be few coachmen who travel without the company of a loaded barrel; but the shorelines of the Danék positively bristle with soot-blackened steel, and the bradai who stalk them are fearless in their disregard of both animal predation and the elements. They will strike at any time, night or day, as like from beneath the current as from the great swinging boughs of the oaks that line the banks. Some wear the skins of animals they have slain; others cloaks sewn with grasses and leaves. In all cases their victims’ last sound is one of surprise.
    â€”Wheeldon Garfill,
A Path Trod Well: Journeys of My Life
    Â 
    Wull’s chest was heaving. He stopped the oars’ movement but kept them high in the water.
    â€œThat was quite a turn o’ speed, li’l man,” said the bradai. “We’s nearly puffed out us-selves. It’s rude to run, though—an’ you knows we’s goin’ to catch you eventually.”
    He stood and stretched, the feathers on his cloak fluttering. Beneath it he wore black clothes that were invisible in the darkness and belts from which Wull heard the light chime of weaponry: blades, Pappa had told him, blackened with soot. Wull said nothing, allowed his breathing to return.
    â€œWhere’s you goin’ in such a mad hurry?” said the man. “Don’t you know it’s bad manners to run from the gentlemen o’ the river?”
    â€œThat’s herons,” said Wull. “Herons are the gentlemen o’ the river. You’re jus’ thievin’ scum.”
    The bradai turned his head to one side and raised an eyebrow.
    â€œPeople who says a thing like that is usu’lly bold or daft. Which are you, long boy?”
    â€œNeither,” said Wull. “I’m jus’ not interested in talkin’ to you while I’m waitin’ for you to rob me.”
    â€œAn’ ain’t that a fine way to talk. What’s the hurry?”
    â€œThat’s my business,” said Wull. He looked at Pappa, the big head lolling.
    The bradai laughed. “What’s your name, boldly-daft-hurrying-long-boy?”
    â€œWhat’s yours?” said Wull, meeting the black-painted stare.
    The man laughed. “Hear this?” he shouted to his companions. “He wants to know our names! Well, I’m Kenesaw—on the skiff there’s Garnet an’ Happy. Now, what’s yours?”
    â€œWulliam,” said Wull.
    â€œUh-huh, an’ who’s your silent friend here?”
    â€œThat’s my pappa,” said Wull. “He’s the Danék Riverkeep.”
    â€œNo, he ain’t,” said Kenesaw. “I saw the keep ten days ago—he’s a fat lump with a neck like a log. Why would you need to be pretendin’ to be someone else? You on the lam?”
    â€œHe is the Riverkeep,” said Wull hotly. “Look at his face! An’ I’m nearly sixteen. I’ll be the keep in a few days!”
    â€œGood for you,” said Kenesaw, “an’ happy birthday when it comes, but you ain’t puttin’ nothin’ over on us. The keep does us plenty favors, breakin’ up the ice an’ all, but this