Endling #2 Read online

  Dedication

  for Michael

  Epigraph

  The first and greatest victory is to conquer yourself.

  —Plato

  endling

  noun ~ end•ling ~ `en(d)-ling

  the last living individual in a species, or, occasionally, a subspecies.

  the official public ceremony at which a species is declared extinct; a eumony.

  (informal) someone undertaking a doomed or quixotic quest.

  —Imperial Lexica Officio of Nedarra, 3rd edition

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Part One: Feeling Fear

  1. Feel Fear. Choose Courage.

  2. Razorgulls

  3. Attack from the Sky

  4. Good Little Doggie

  5. A Felivet’s Fear

  6. Lar Camissa

  7. The Queen’s Demand

  8. A Masterpiece of Careful Planning and Flawless Execution

  9. An Endless Stairway

  10. The Far-Near

  11. A Valtti Threatens

  Part Two: Strange Encounters

  12. Vallino

  13. Dreaming of Dairnes

  14. An Old Enemy Returns

  15. A Means to an End

  16. The Crimson Forest

  17. The Fall

  18. The Search Begins

  19. Conversation with a Terramant

  20. Our Not-Very-Good Plan

  21. King Tobble

  22. A Gift for the Foreman

  23. Neither Doomed nor Pointless

  24. At Sea

  25. The Island, at Last

  Part Three: Destinies

  26. Elexor

  27. Attack!

  28. The Galley Chase

  29. Dabyrro

  30. The Natites

  31. Grendwallif

  32. A Curse and a Prophecy

  33. Khara’s Dream

  34. Return to Nedarra

  35. The Pass

  36. A Diversion

  37. The Baron

  38. Another Kind of Endling

  39. Khara’s Surprise

  40. Treetop Battle

  41. A Three-Part Plan

  42. Sabito Seventalon

  Part Four: Choosing Courage

  43. In Truth Lies Strength

  44. My First Test as a Leader

  45. Mud and Misery

  46. The Chase

  47. Retreat

  48. Nearing Our Goal at Last

  49. A Treacherous Descent

  50. One of Us

  51. A Roomful of Dairnes

  52. Audacious and Quite Possibly Preposterous

  53. Figton’s Folly

  54. Dreams and Departure

  55. Into Battle

  56. Pathfinders

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Katherine Applegate

  Back Ads

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Part One

  Feeling Fear

  1

  Feel Fear. Choose Courage.

  I’m not brave. Not bold. Not a leader.

  I’m not remarkable in any way, to tell you the truth.

  Unless you count the fact that I may well be the last member of my species, the dairnes.

  An endling.

  I can tell you what bravery looks like, though.

  Bravery is single-handedly fighting off a horde of venomous serpents in order to save a dairne pup and her little wobbyk companion.

  I was that pup. And my savior was Kharassande Donati, my human leader and dear friend.

  I would like to be as daring as Khara, as certain, as fair. But leaders like her are born, not made.

  My father, a brave and brilliant leader himself, loved wise sayings and proverbs. He used to tell me and my seven siblings, “Feel fear, choose courage. That’s what makes a leader, pups.”

  Well, at least I’ve perfected the fear part. I am deeply acquainted with the many symptoms of terror: the rippling fur, the icy blood, the frantic heart, the unsheathed claws.

  My fellow travelers—Khara, Tobble, Renzo, and Gambler—tell me I am braver than I know. And I have, I suppose, surprised myself sometimes these past few months.

  But my little moments of bravado aren’t evidence of real courage. They’re evidence of good acting. If you ask me, pretending not to be afraid is not the same as true fearlessness. No matter what my friends say.

  My strong, loyal, fierce friends. How I love them all! I’ve lost count of the times they’ve kept my spirits high on our quest to find more dairnes.

  We know the odds are long. Just months ago, my entire pack was wiped out by soldiers—soldiers commanded by the Murdano, the despotic ruler of Nedarra, my homeland. And my pack was hardly the first. All over Nedarra, our numbers have slowly dwindled.

  I alone survived that brutal day. Me, the lowest-ranking member. The runt. The least useful. The least helpful.

  The least brave.

  Although I cling to hope, I fear that I may never see another dairne. It’s a dread that stuns me with its ferocity at odd moments, then dulls to an ache, one that throbs like a broken bone, badly healed. A fear I’ve grown accustomed to, one that travels with me day and night: my ugly, inescapable companion.

  Still, it’s the new fears, the unexpected ones, that take their biggest toll on me.

  Sometimes they come in the dark of night, silent and bloodthirsty.

  And sometimes, like yesterday, they circle the skies, lovely, graceful, and deadly.

  2

  Razorgulls

  All morning, we’d been heading toward icy peaks towering in the distance beyond the Nedarran border—toward our uncertain future, toward my flimsy hopes.

  We’d already been walking for three hours, and it had been tough going. It was cold, and gray clouds encircled the mountains, groping for the peaks. Our breath hovered before us like ghosts from our tangled pasts.

  The unforgiving cliff face we’d been following had widened out into a patch in the shape of a stubby triangle, and we decided to rest there. Snowy clumps dotted the area, and the vegetation was limp and brown. On two sides of the triangle, soaring cliffs rose hundreds of feet high. The remaining side was open to the sea.

  As soon as we paused, a large group of birds sliced through the clouds, wheeling and darting. There were hundreds of them, moving in perfect formation like well-trained soldiers.

  “Razorgulls,” Renzo said. “Keep an eye on them. They have beaks like knives. And they’ll steal anything they can get their claws on.”

  “Kindred spirits, then?” Khara teased. Renzo was an accomplished thief.

  “I had to learn my skills,” Renzo said. He patted his odorous dog, Dog, who was sniffing stones with great studiousness. “With razorgulls, it’s pure instinct.”

  “They’re rather pretty,” said Tobble, the little wobbyk who’d become my closest friend. He had foxlike features in a round face, with a protruding belly, huge oval ears, and wide, dark eyes. His three tails, newly braided—an important rite of passage in wobbyk culture—were tied at the end with a strip of leather.

  We watched, mesmerized by the way the red-and-gray birds wheeled and swirled, circling like debris caught in a whirlwind. “They congregate near mining areas and villages,” Renzo said. “When they snatch a purse or satchel filled with gems, they head south and unload it on pirate ships. In return, the pirates give them fresh catch.” He shrugged. “As a thief, I have to admire their style.”

  “Why not just fish for themselves?” I asked.

  “The same reason pirates don’t work as farmers and merchants,” Renzo said. “Thievery is much more e
ntertaining.”

  “I’d hoped to pause and eat here,” Khara said, surveying the area. “You think it’s safe?”

  “Safe enough,” Renzo said. “As long as we don’t let our guard down. And we do need some rest.”

  “I wouldn’t mind a little avian snack,” said Gambler, following the razorgulls with his pale blue felivet eyes. A sleek black catlike predator, Gambler had delicate white facial stripes and not-so-delicate deadly claws. “Or just about any kind of snack. Think I’ll explore this meadow and see what I come up with.”

  “We’ll have food ready when you get back, Gambler,” Tobble said, and my stomach whined energetically. (Dairne stomachs do not rumble. They whine, which to my mind is much more dignified.)

  “Thank you,” Gambler said, “but I’m hoping to find something better than biscuits.”

  “We have a bit of dried cotchet meat,” Tobble offered.

  Gambler nodded. “Dried means dead. Not the felivet way, Tobble.”

  Tobble, who doesn’t eat meat, wrinkled his nose, and Gambler took off, moving in his distinctive feline way, which seems simultaneously leisurely and quick.

  While I collected twigs and sticks, Tobble unpacked our cooking gear. Soon we had a small fire going, and he was singing under his breath as he retrieved herbs and a small pan.

  Tobble had turned out to be the best cook among us. Renzo was good, too, especially when he deployed the little bit of theurgy—magic spells—he’d begun to learn when he’d turned fifteen this year. It didn’t amount to much, though: a cold stew turned hot, a bland vegetable seasoned. One night he’d tried to impress us by popping tallin kernels. They’d turned into little fireflies and floated away on the breeze.

  They were impressive, all right. Just not edible.

  “Theurgy,” Tobble had grumbled as we watched the fireflies head skyward like baby stars. “A good cook doesn’t need magic.” Right then and there, he’d whipped up a batch of kitlattis—a biscuit-like confection that his great-great-great-grandmother had taught him to make. It was like eating little clouds, if clouds tasted like honey.

  Wobbyks like Tobble didn’t perform theurgy. Only the six great governing species—humans, dairnes, felivets, natites, raptidons, and terramants—did. (Although I’d rarely seen dairnes practice it. We were too busy trying to survive.)

  “We’ll have hot tea in a jiffy,” Tobble announced.

  “Thanks, Tobble,” I said. “I’ll tell Khara and Renzo.”

  I joined the two of them near the meadow’s edge, where they were staring out to sea. “More razorgulls,” Renzo said, pointing.

  We watched them swoop. “They don’t seem to be getting any closer,” I said.

  “I’ve never seen birds move with such precision,” Khara said, brushing away a stray lock of wavy, dark hair teased by the wind. Her eyes were dark and thickly lashed, intelligent and wary. As was often the case, she was dressed in simple peasant clothes like a poacher, her former occupation, the color just a shade lighter than her soft brown skin.

  At times, Khara found it easier to pass as a boy on her journeys. Apparently, some humans have limited expectations when it comes to the abilities of females. I don’t understand why. In the dairne world, females and males are treated equally.

  Or perhaps I should say “were.”

  But then, there’s much about human behavior that I find baffling.

  Hanging from Khara’s side was a rusty blade. It was a most pathetic-looking weapon, but we’d all seen that blade in action and understood its hidden powers. That bent sword was the Light of Nedarra, a weapon with an illustrious history.

  “How far do you think we can travel before dark?” Khara asked Renzo.

  Khara was our leader, but for this part of the journey, Renzo was guiding us, since he was the only one who’d ventured into this mountainous part of Dreyland, one of two countries bordering Nedarra.

  He glanced behind him at the looming cliffs. “Hard to say. Terrain will just get more treacherous. And it looks like it may snow.”

  “Let’s stick to the plan as long as we can,” Khara said with a determined nod.

  That plan, uncertain though it was, involved heading north and skirting the coastal mountains, in the hope of sighting a moving island called Tarok. We’d considered trying to search by boat, but we didn’t have the resources to pay for even the humblest craft. And there were few available, in any case. This frigid time of year, even pirates kept their distance from the rocky coast of Dreyland. The tides were perilous, the ice floes unpredictable.

  Why a sentient island like Tarok would head north, we didn’t know. But what we did know, what kept my heart alive on dark nights, was a legend about a colony of dairnes who’d once lived there.

  I still recalled the poem about it, the one I’d had to learn as a young pup:

  Sing, poet, of the Ancients who dared forth—

  Brave dairnes, o’er mountains treacherous and cruel,

  Who crossed the frigid waters of the north

  To Dairneholme, living isle and floating jewel.

  It had seemed impossible. And yet, after much travel and pain, I’d caught sight, just days ago, of what appeared to be a fellow dairne on the island, gliding from treetop to treetop.

  At least, I thought I’d seen one.

  My stomach whined again. “Tobble says there’ll be hot tea in—”

  I stopped midsentence, silenced by the whirring sound of wings.

  The razorgulls had changed course with startling symmetry, moving like angry bees heading for a target.

  My heart tripped as my old, unwelcome friend—fear—returned.

  We were the target.

  3

  Attack from the Sky

  “They’re coming this way!” Renzo snapped, moving even as he spoke.

  “Byx! Tobble! Flat on the ground!” Khara yelled, drawing her sword.

  “Grab a torch instead,” Renzo said. He dashed for Tobble’s little cooking fire and snatched up a burning log. “They hate smoke.”

  Khara sheathed her sword and took up a sizzling stick.

  Tobble, sensibly, decided to lie down flat as ordered, but I wasn’t willing to let Khara and Renzo do all my fighting for me, though I doubted I’d be much help.

  I found an unburned branch and thrust one end into the flames. Grabbing fistfuls of damp grass, I threw them on the fire. Bitter-smelling gray smoke twirled skyward.

  I waved my own feebly burning torch, coughing as the wind veered, and returned to stand with Khara and Renzo.

  The birds were no longer a dark whirl. They were hundreds of missiles flying straight at us.

  They hit us like a hailstorm, slamming into chests and heads, striking with the cruel beaks that had given them their name. In seconds I was cut on both arms, narrowly avoiding a slashing attack that would have opened my neck. I heard Dog yelp in pain as a razorgull sliced through his fur.

  My heart galloped in my chest. The gashes on my forearms burned, and I glanced down to see pearly blood oozing from the wounds.

  “No!” I screamed, thrusting the torch upward, flailing blindly.

  The birds were not giving up. The nearest razorgulls flew away, but swiftly turned to come back at me from behind. I spotted Khara, Renzo, and Tobble through a tornado of wings, yelling creative curses, arms windmilling to no effect.

  As we bled and retreated, putting the smoking fire between us and the birds, they seemed to be everywhere at once, squawking and slashing. They concentrated their efforts on our bags and pouches—no doubt hoping for coins—but attacked any part of us they could reach.

  “To the cliffs!” Khara yelled.

  I understood her reasoning. We were being barraged from every direction. At least if we hugged the rock wall, the birds could only come at us from the front and sides.

  I tapped Tobble on the back of his head and said, “Come on, get behind us!” As if that would somehow keep him safe.

  Already I was exhausted from swinging the torch, and it had d
ulled to a mere flicker. When Khara’s torch died completely, she tossed it aside to again draw her sword, but lost her balance and stumbled to the ground.

  In an instant, she was completely concealed beneath a blanket of piercing beaks.

  “Aaaahhhh!” Tobble screamed. He raced for Khara and leapt into the pile of birds, scratching, kicking, and yelling, “Leave her alone! Leave her alone!”

  Not for the first time, I witnessed the shocking sight of a wobbyk enraged. Enraged and fearless.

  Renzo and I joined the fray, scattering enough of the crazed birds for Khara to shake herself free. She scooped Tobble up to ride on her shoulders, and the four of us, along with Dog, abandoned all dignity and scrambled for safety.

  “Over here!”

  Gambler! I couldn’t see him through the feathered storm, but I heard his voice and pushed myself forward, trying to ignore my stinging cuts and the shrill and menacing squawks of the birds.

  I hit a rock wall and twisted around to put my back against it.

  “Follow my voice!” Gambler cried from somewhere to my right.

  I edged along the cliff, batting uselessly at my attackers. My left foot caught on a sharp boulder and I landed hard on my back, the wind knocked from my lungs.

  A massive paw reached out. Huge black claws hooked carefully around my scabbard and pulled me close.

  “Thanks, Gambler!”

  I scooted past him as he snatched birds in midair with felivet speed.

  Khara pushed through, trying to join me. “Renzo!” she cried, her voice hoarse.

  “I see him,” Gambler said.

  The great felivet plowed straight into the bird cloud, slashing and batting with nearly supernatural speed and accuracy. He caught one unfortunate bird, which promptly disappeared down Gambler’s gullet. Lunch. Razorgull blood streaked the side of his jaw and the birds swirled away as they considered this new threat.

  Gambler found Renzo on his knees, still swinging his torch, blood streaming from a dozen cuts.

  “Grab my neck!” Gambler yelled, and Renzo didn’t need to be persuaded. Dragging Renzo along the ground, Gambler joined us.

  In a flash, as quickly as we’d been besieged, we were free of the birds. I took quick stock of my surroundings. We’d backed into a narrow crack in the rock face: no place for creatures with wings. The opening was closed at the top, and the only light came from the opening onto the meadow. I could see razorgulls patrolling back and forth, waiting for us to return to battle.