The Downs by Kim Fielding Page B

clouds to appear. He could almost feel them watching. His fingers sank into the gritty soil, and his nails cracked and bled. Stones dug into his palms and his knees. Dust caked his skin, made his dry mouth taste like iron, coated his lungs.
    When he reached the top— the edge of the Reach— his mind didn’t register it, and he continued to creep across the ground. Only when his arms and legs gave out and he collapsed completely did he realize that his face was buried in stubby grass, not bare earth. And his prone body lay completely, blessedly flat.
    Enitan began to cry. Sour tears ran from his eyes and soaked at once into the parched ground. Why not? he thought brokenly. He’d already watered the Reach with his blood. He told himself that he sobbed with relief at surviving the climb out of the Downs, but he knew it was a lie. Fine then. He cried at the memory of what had been done to him in this place, the abuses those three men had inflicted on his body and his soul. Surely those memories were reason enough to weep. And then there were the losses he’d suffered. His father, his freedom, his friends, his home.
    Any other losses he’d had? Those were his own damned fault and gave him no excuse to wail like a baby.
    He eventually rose to his feet, though his legs wobbled and he knew he wouldn’t last long. The blue sky had darkened to indigo, and the sun had disappeared over the edge of the Reach. Perhaps a few last rays still shone on parts of the Downs. But here, night was falling.
    He knew he wouldn’t find shelter, a thought that terrorized him until he remembered that he need no longer fear the fog. He could sleep safely— if not very comfortably— right where he stood. The only real risk was that another poor wretch might be transported across the Reach and the three sadistic keepers would catch sight of Enitan. But that was unlikely. And besides, he could see the route the wagon and the yaley-beasts had made through the grass. He chose a sitting spot well away from it, but not so far that he’d be unable to find the path in the morning.
    He took out the waterskin, swooshed a bit of liquid inside his dry mouth, and swallowed. Then he ate half of the remaining meat. He’d go hungry at least a day before arriving at the city, but that was all right. Rig had kept him well fed, and a day without meals wouldn’t starve him. On the other hand, he needed to conserve his water, so he drank only a few more sips before replacing the stopper.
    Enitan stood, and like a dog settling down to sleep, he turned in a circle a few times, hoping to press the grass down a bit. The ends were prickly, but if he could lay the blades flat, they might cushion the ground. The grass was tough, however, and resisted his bare feet.
    He sighed and cast one final look through the twilight in the direction of the Downs. And saw the outline of a human figure approaching.
    ****

Chapter Eleven
    Enitan had nowhere to hide, and he was far too sore and weary to run. But he could still fight. Gods, he could always fight. So he stood his ground, his legs planted firmly and his hands balled into fists. If this was one of the men who’d brutalized him before throwing him over the edge, Enitan would not be so helpless this time.
    But the half-moon had risen, casting enough light for Enitan to discern the shape of the approaching man. Tall, broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, long-legged. He recognized the silhouette long before he could make out the face.
    “Rig,” Enitan said when the man was close enough. It was hard to get that single syllable past his tight throat.
    Rig stopped just out of reach. He was breathing heavily, and Enitan could smell him: dust, woodsmoke, sweat. But Rig didn’t say anything. He simply stood, as solid as the Reach itself.
    “Why?” Enitan finally managed to ask.
    “Did you think I was just going to let you go? What if you fell?”
    “What if you fell?”
    Rig shrugged— a small movement of a dark shape against the