A World Without Heroes Read Online Free PDF Page A

full sprint until he encountered a pair of men. They had a long line secured around the thick trunk of a knobby tree that towered over the rushing water.
    “Are you the rescue squad?” Jason asked.
    The short man with one arm answered. “Aye.”
    “Do you intend to rescue them?” The musicians were approaching rapidly on the swift current. Their instruments screeched and hiccupped as the raft pitched on the foamy water.
    “Only if they call for assistance,” the short man affirmed.
    Jason saw that the other end of the slender line was affixed to an arrow held by a slim man leaning on a longbow. The three of them stood approximately fifty yards upriver from the falls. The raft was racing along about twenty yards from the bank.
    “Will your arrow reach, carrying that rope?” Jason asked.
    “Certainly, long as I aim a little high,” the lean man replied.
    “You a good shot?”
    “None better.”
    “Maybe you should just save them. I bet they’ll end up thanking you.”
    “Doubtful,” the lean man sniffed. “They didn’t even want rescuers present. I’ll interfere only at their request.”
    Jason turned to face the imperiled musicians. If he tried to swim the rope out to them, he would be swept away downstream before he got close. The tree did not overhang the river far enough to climb out to them. Time was running short.
    “Try to save them,” Jason insisted. “This is wrong.”
    “Not unless—,” the short man began.
    “I hear them calling for help,” Jason lied.
    “Go away,” demanded the lean man, his wide lips peeling back to reveal yellowed teeth. “The last thing we need is interference from some desperate, aspiring hero. If they really did cry for help, we wouldn’t hear it over your racket.”
    “The sister of one of the musicians sent me,” Jason tried.
    “I don’t care if the king of Meridon sent you,” the lean man said. “This is their decision.”
    The raft would soon draw even with them. There was no time to think. Jason shoved the short man. Caught by surprise, he stumbled back over the steep bank and into the river.
    “What’s wrong with you?” shouted the lean man, dropping both bow and arrow to dive into the torrent after his fellow rescuer. The one-armed man had already washed some distance downstream and could be seen flailing lopsidedly. Even immediately beside the bank the current ran strong.
    Trusting the lean man to rescue his comrade, Jason wasted no time collecting the fallen bow and arrow. He nocked the arrow and pulled it to his cheek, straining against the heavy tension of the string, one eye squinted shut. He hadn’t handled a bow since earning an archery badge at a summer camp two years ago.
    The raft heaved along, twenty yards out, now exactly perpendicular to his position on the bank. Many of the instruments and musicians appeared lashed in place. He tilted the bow upward, hoping he and the lean man understood “a little high” to mean the same thing.
    He released the arrow, and it streaked across the distance to the raft, ending its flight embedded in the shoulder of the man playing the bongos. The percussion stopped as the man sank out of sight. The line on the bank continued to uncoil, paying out as the raft progressed rapidly forward.
    Jason gasped. Had that really just happened? Shooting somebody had not been part of the plan. He eyed the uncoiling lifeline. Was it too long? It looked pretty thin. Would it hold?
    The line pulled taut with a sudden jerk. The raft lurched in response, sending up a spray of water as it swung toward the riverbank. The crowd cried out in astonishment.
    Thirty yards downriver the lean man hauled the short man out of the water. The lean man stood watching the raft arc toward the bank, hands on his hips. Something in one hand glinted in the bright moonlight.
    Whether or not the musicians wanted to be saved, the raft was going to collide with the bank. The wounded percussionist must have become firmly entangled with some of