Everything tasted of mud.

River mud was in his mouth and up his nose. Water roared around his head and battered his body, but he could still breathe, somehow. Some giant hand must have plucked him from the river.

As he got his bearings, Sters realized he’d been swept into the branches of the fallen sycamore. He tried to climb out of the rushing water, but he was stuck. It took Sters a second to realize he was his own anchor. His right hand was locked around his deck hook, its point sunk deep into the wood. The hook had saved his life so many times. Sters climbed onto the trunk and worked it free.

Their canoe was speared by a jutting branch. Revel was far out on another limb, struggling to rescue El Sha La. The sorcerer’s daughter bobbed up and down in the current on a slender branch, too far for Revel to reach. Sters rushed to help. Even with his hook, she was too far.

In desperation, they made a chain. Sters locked his legs around the limb and held out his hook. Revel grabbed the end of the gaff and waded into the torrent. The river pulled mightily, and Sters held on with both hands. At the very limit of Revel’s wingspan, his fingers closed around El Sha La’s robe. Revel grabbed hold.

With all his strength, Sters strained until his vision tinged red. He pulled them both in, El too spent to climb up on her own. They got her up, and Revel carried her to the shore. She fell to her hands and knees and sicked-up river water.

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“WHERE’S HAT?” Sters howled.

His eyes alit on the familiar yellow hat, caught on a branch. His stomach plunged. Then, he spotted a pair of pale and skinny arms wrapped around a branch. Hat went limp as Sters wrenched him up by the collar. Sters dragged him to shore and went to help Revel with the canoe.

Together, they pulled the swamped boat free and hauled it back to shore. As they did, Sters realized his error. Instead of playing hero, he should have let go and drowned them both.

The flood had undone them. El Sha La was red-eyed and weak. Hat looked like a wrung rag. After the swarm, they had secured their supplies to the belly of the canoe, but much was lost. The rucksacks and Revel’s longsword and armor were all that survived. The canoe herself was mortally wounded; she had a hole in her side big enough for Sters to put a fist through.

Hat whistled at the damage, then seemed to notice he was missing something. His hands shot to the thin wisps of hair plastered to his head, distraught.

“Over there.” Sters pointed to the branch.

With no mind for the crackling thunder and raging river, Yellowhat scampered out onto the slick limbs of the fallen sycamore to retrieve his battered hat.

“I got it!” Hat cried out.

“Finally,” Sters said. “Some luck.”

El Sha La laughed, gagged, and started to hack up mud again.