System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 100
Outside Ellander, at the Vigen River, Roy squatted on an upturned boulder, rolling a pebble in his palm, his gaze skimming the river’s glittering surface and across to the lush bamboo grove on the far bank that sighed green in the river breeze.
The Vigen runs south through marsh into the Ismena, and north it skirts the Temple of Melitele before joining a tributary of the Pontar. The river was less than twenty feet across; because of the thick growth of plankton, weed and algae the water took on a green sheen in sunlight and visibility was poor.
“How’s it going, lad?” Old Hark, now in a drab change of clothes, fumbled with a crude fishing rod in his hand and asked nervously, “Any particular clue?”
“In a hurry? I’ve only been here a moment. Nothing’s that easy.” The boy patted his hands and rose to scan the bank. “Tell me again, Barshel always fished from this rock?”
“That’s right.” Old Hark nodded. “We’ve come here many times; he never changed spots. Barshel’s a dull, honest lad, once he picks a place, he sticks with it.”
“And Emtyr was found on the rock?”
“Yes.” Old Hark pushed the rod into a hollow under the boulder; it made for a weary-easy fishing spot. “The rod was stuck there.”
Roy pictured the boy, hands behind his head, lying on the stone in the wind, fishing at his ease.
“All right, we’ll search this stretch of bank first...”
“But I already searched the bank top to bottom with some old mates yesterday, found nothing!” Old Hark shook his head, “Searching was useless!”
“If you want to find your son, do as I say and search again.” Roy mused. “Remember, if you find anything like fish scales, bring it to me at once.”
“Fish scales?” Old Hark blinked. “Master, I hired you to find my son, not catch fish. If you want fish I’ll give you one for free — roasted or stewed — and my bread with it. How’s that?”
“What do you know?” The youth shook his head. He had not wanted to alarm the father, but had to be frank. “Drowners have scales too. But their scales aren’t like ordinary fish. They’re thicker, with a small nodular centre, and they smell of rotting flesh.”
Old Hark went pale the instant the word left Roy’s mouth. Everyone near a river had heard of Drowners, and if one attacked, the outcome needed no imagination.
He seized the lead like a drowning man clutching straw and protested loudly.
“But Barshel’s fished here seven, eight years. Never seen a Drowner!”
“All things change; absence before does not mean absence now. If you dawdle two more breaths he might lose a finger.”
“All right, I’ll search!”
If a disappearance by the river wasn’t the work of a man, a Drowner was the likeliest culprit. Finding traces — shed scales, claw marks — would make the matter plain.
Roy was no longer the rookie who had been soundly beaten by a Drowner. His Bag of Holding held Dancing Star, Dragon’s Dream, and a near-ready hand crossbow. Unless a pack overwhelmed him, he could fight.
Reality, however, often refused to match hope. An hour later,
Roy looked tired. They had combed nearly a mile of riverbank. They found a few fish scales, but all from ordinary fish, nothing of a Drowner. No torn cloth or shoes floated on the surface.
Wherever beings pass, they leave traces; he could almost conclude no monster prowled these waters.