Endling #2 Page 5

  An armored knight, his face concealed behind a slitted visor, appeared atop the wall, and beside him a herald. It was the herald who challenged us.

  “My lord Mirob the Mighty demands to know who you are and the nature of your business.”

  “We are simple travelers,” Khara said.

  The knight whispered in the herald’s ear.

  “My lord Mirob the Mighty says to move on in peace. But you may not enter.”

  We were obviously not ready to try to force our way in. But Khara wasn’t done. “If we’re given food and waterskins, we will happily move on.”

  The herald started to answer, but the knight held up a hand to stop him. “We will bring food and water,” the knight said. “But in these perilous times we cannot allow strangers to enter.”

  “Why are these times perilous?” Khara asked.

  “I see you’re strangers to these lands, or else you would know. War is coming. Across the mountains, the forces of Nedarra gather. And on this side of the mountains, the Kazar Sg’drit prepares as well.”

  “Pardon me, good sir,” Khara said. “But I thought Dreyland was ruled by King Marekyn.”

  “He is . . . no more.” The knight shook his head, adding in a lower voice, “I will speak no further of the Kazar.”

  That was that, and the knight withdrew from view. It wasn’t the first time we’d heard rumors of war brewing between Nedarra and Dreyland. But there was nothing we could do about it, in any case. We were a group of five, just five. It was not our problem.

  My quest—our quest—was to find more dairnes. And that was our only concern.

  At least, that was what I told myself as we waited.

  Ten minutes later, two ancient women emerged from the fortified village by way of a small cheat door. They brought us loaves of fresh bread and dried meat, as well as waterskins, and then retreated without a word.

  As we walked on, I noticed that Gambler was behaving strangely. His tail and head both hung low. He still moved with the powerful grace of his species, but I felt certain something was disturbing him.

  “Gambler. Something troubles you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you wish to tell me?”

  “Of course. I hesitated only because I’ve been working through what it all may mean.” He sighed. “That title and name, Kazar Sg’drit? Those are, I’m afraid, felivet words. And dangerous ones at that. Very dangerous.”

  11

  A Valtti Threatens

  Khara stopped short. “What did you say?”

  “Kazar is an ancient title, not a word we would use today,” Gambler said. “Nothing we would be proud to claim. Long ago, a felivet rose to rule all our people, and Kazar was the title he took. It means ‘absolute ruler.’ And Sg’drit is a shortening of a much longer felivet word. It means ‘one who is without compassion.’ A killer.”

  “Well, that’s not encouraging,” Renzo remarked.

  “We felivets have left those times, those beliefs, behind us. They were poisonous. Especially the notion that we are destined to rule all other species.”

  “That’s just what the Murdano wants to do in Nedarra,” Khara said. She glanced at me. “Even if it means exterminating entire species.”

  “If this is true, if Dreyland has fallen for the lies of a valtti,” said Gambler, his tail twitching, “it is a terrible humiliation for all felivets.”

  “Valtti?” I prompted.

  “As you know, Byx, we are a solitary species. We hunt alone. We come together only to raise our young or to study. It is in our nature to be independent, to think for ourselves. But . . .” Gambler sighed. “There are times when a valtti rises—a felivet who provokes hatred of other species and convinces other felivets to join him. Those who will not join are silenced, either by fear or by imprisonment. It is a sort of madness, one that can seize hold of the weak-minded.”

  We marched on, considering the weight of what Gambler had revealed. If it was true that war threatened, what might come from a clash between the Murdano and a dangerous rogue felivet?

  “Gambler, what should we expect from an army ruled by one of these valtti?” Renzo asked.

  “Cunning. Deception. Subtlety. And absolute ruthlessness.”

  “Great,” Renzo muttered. “Let’s find Byx’s island and get far away from this madhouse. Carnivorous or not, it will be an improvement.”

  It wasn’t long before we saw signs of preparation for war. At the juncture of two small rivers, we came upon an army camp, a vast array of tents in neat rows.

  “Tobble, may I borrow your Far-Near?” I asked.

  I held the tube to my eye and once again saw the miraculous results. Beyond the tents were stables and paddocks containing hundreds of horses. I saw platoons of grooms hauling hay bales. A cooper and his assistant were fashioning barrels. Two blacksmiths hammered horseshoes, while others pumped bellows to keep the fires hot.

  Near the edge of the camp sat a mountain of crates, presumably holding food and other supplies. On the nearest of the two rivers, three sets of docks had been built to receive boats: one for disembarking troops, one for mule-drawn sleds, and one to unload freshly cut logs. At this last dock, an army of humans and some smaller species was busy trimming logs with huge saws.

  I made a quick count.

  “I believe there are as many as a thousand tents, with perhaps four soldiers per tent.”

  “So four thousand soldiers, with more on the way,” Renzo said. “And many of those astride the bridges we need to cross.”

  Khara put her hands on her hips. “You’re the thief, so you tell me: Could you get through that camp and cross the bridges?”

  “Of course,” Renzo said. “If I were very, very lucky. And alone. With you five? Not a chance.”

  “How about passing beneath them?” I asked.

  Renzo shook his head. “You’d still need to get through the sentries and their dogs. Give me that stupid tube,” he said, and took the Far-Near. “I’m no geographer, but from what I know of Dreyland, if we go north, we should find a ford, a ferry, or an unguarded bridge eventually.”

  He sighed a bit too loudly for it to be encouraging.

  “This is a land preparing for war.” Gambler scanned the countryside. “We must remember that if we encounter anyone, no one is counted innocent until they prove themselves to be so.”

  “War,” I grumbled. “Of all the stupid things humans do . . .”

  Renzo laughed. “You are not wrong, Byx.”

  “It seems in this case it is not humans alone,” Gambler said darkly.

  “But what is the purpose?” I asked.

  “Power,” Renzo said. “Men—and, it seems, some felivets—want power. They want to dominate and control. They want to take the power of life and death into their own hands.”

  It was a more thoughtful answer than I’d expected from the young thief. But then, Renzo often surprised me.

  Khara tapped a finger to her lips, considering. “We believe the living island is headed that way,” she said, gesturing north. “For all we know, it may be at the place where the mountains run into the sea. Or it may have moved past that by now.”

  Gambler followed her gaze. “It is a slow-moving thing, that we know for certain. It seems unlikely that it would have gone much past the foot of the mountains.”

  “There’s no other way,” Renzo said. “We must get across the rivers or we cannot reach the sea.”

  “If we cross the rivers, we must still reach the sea, and then travel along the shore, searching for signs,” Khara added. “And the terrain will be rough, as we know.”

  I gave a heavy sigh. Khara saw that I was glum and patted me on my shoulder. “Never become discouraged, Byx.”

  “I’m not discouraged,” I said. “Just worried about all of you, risking this for me.”

  “No, Byx!” Tobble exclaimed. “This isn’t just about you anymore. It began that way, yes. But now we know how important it is to find more dairnes.”

  I
smiled and tousled his fur. “Perhaps we’re playing some great role in the fate of the world,” I said. I was teasing, but Tobble nodded seriously.

  “Yes,” he said. “I believe Hanadru, the great artist who lives in the clouds and paints the fate of all on her great easel—”

  “Really, Tobble?” Khara asked. She wasn’t mocking. But she clearly thought the idea was silly.

  “You may not believe in Hanadru,” Tobble said with quiet dignity. “But she is one of the Pure Spirits of my people.”

  “I don’t believe in fate, whether it’s some god named Hanadru or someone else,” Renzo said. “Fate is for people afraid to take responsibility for their own lives.”

  Khara stared northward. She held out her hand, and I passed the Far-Near to her.

  Carefully she scanned the horizon from left to right. She took her time, but no one spoke. At last Khara said, “This is my advice. We go north because no other direction is possible at this point.” She gave Tobble a gentle smile. “And may your Hanadru paint our path with a generous brush.”

  Part Two

  Strange Encounters

  12

  Vallino

  Hanadru was kind.

  The land around the volcano’s base was vast and open. Small farms and villages dotted the area, but we were able to make our way through the snowy fields without anyone seeming to take notice.

  “How do wobbyks fare in the cold, Tobble?” I asked as we trudged along.

  Tobble shrugged. “We’re seafaring folk,” he answered. “I’ve seen my share of ice floes in the North Tara Sea. Snow doesn’t bother me much.”

  “How about you, Gambler?”

  “Like all felivets, large or small, I prefer warmth,” Gambler replied in his husky voice, which always struck me as half whisper, half growl.

  I smiled. How often had I seen Gambler stretched out in a shaft of sun, his eyes slitted so that only a hint of pale blue was visible, his long tail twitching like a black serpent?

  “But we are adaptable creatures,” Gambler continued. “Our coats are thick, our paw pads tough. I, too, shall be fine.” He looked at me. “Of course, my fur is no match for Byx’s.”

  It was true. Another thing that separated dairnes from dogs was our coveted silky fur: incredibly warm when the weather was cold, remarkably cool when the heat was intense.

  “My toes are getting numb,” Renzo complained good-naturedly. “I miss the horses.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he slapped his forehead. “Khara,” he said, “I’m sorry. I—”

  She waved her hand, brushing away his apology as if it were a pesky gnat. “We all miss the horses. Especially Vallino. But we needed to sell them. There’s no way they could have handled the terrain in Dreyland. No way at all.”

  I’d begun my relationship with Khara’s horse, Vallino, unhappily, as a bound captive slung over his back. For a while I’d assumed horses were nothing more than “wagons with tails,” as Gambler had once put it.

  But when I’d found myself facing certain death, it was Vallino whose speed and cunning had helped me stay alive. I owed him my life. And I knew Khara felt the same way.

  “Still,” I said, “I wish you hadn’t had to make that sacrifice.”

  “We’re all making sacrifices,” Khara said. “And we’ll be making many more before this is over.”

  Khara had sold two of our horses to a hunting party near the border with Dreyland. We’d all agreed that the route ahead of us was not a place for even the most agile horse. But she’d held on to Vallino, maintaining that she would know when she found the right buyer.

  It was rare to see a horse in those parts—mostly it was sturdy pack animals like mountain yariks—and rarer still to see one of Vallino’s quality. But despite offer after offer, Khara had ignored them all. Privately, Renzo confided to me that he was afraid she wouldn’t have the heart to part with her beloved steed.

  That very afternoon, we’d passed a young girl, her face ruddy in the cold. I guessed by her size that she was a bit younger than Khara. But I hadn’t spent much time among humans, so I couldn’t be sure.

  We were close to a small village, so I was trotting along on all fours, pretending to be a dog—not one of my favorite pastimes, but one I sometimes had to endure. If I were to be identified as a dairne, I might be captured or even killed.

  “He’s beautiful,” the girl said, approaching Vallino. She pulled off a worn gray mitten with her teeth. “May I?”

  Khara nodded. The girl scratched Vallino just behind his right ear, his favorite location. “He’s a Ravenno trotter, yes?”

  “You know horses.”

  “Wish I knowed more. I ain’t seen one this grand since I saw a big herd roaming the Nedarran plains.”

  “How’s the hunting in these parts?” Khara asked, nodding to the bow and arrows strapped to the girl’s back. They resembled the ones I had seen Khara use to great effect.

  On me, in fact.

  “Been better.” The girl gave Khara a shy smile. “Been worse, too, I reckon.”

  “And the snow pack?” Renzo asked. “Past the Noordham Ridge?”

  “Higher than usual for this time o’ year.” The girl reached into a torn leather pouch. “He likes sugar, does he?”

  “Renzo?” Khara asked, nodding at him. “He’ll eat anything, and more than his share.”

  The girl laughed. “I was meanin’ your horse.”

  “Vallino’s his name,” Khara said. “He loves anything sweet.”

  “I have but this one bit. I was saving it for somethin’ special.” The girl presented a small, misshapen lump of sugar on the palm of her hand. Vallino gobbled it down with evident delight.

  “That’s very kind of you,” Khara said.

  “Mailley’s my name,” said the girl, giving Vallino another ear rub.

  “And I am Khara.”

  “I, as you may have gathered, am Renzo.” Renzo gave a deep bow. “Along with Tobble, Gambler, and our two dogs, Dog and”—he gave me a little smirk—“Byx.”

  Mailley patted Dog’s head, then turned her attention to me and stroked my back.

  It was rather nice, I hated to admit. I wagged politely.

  Mailley shrugged. “Well, I should be on my way. Safe travels to ye.”

  “And to you,” said Khara.

  We watched as the girl trudged away. “Mailley reminded me a bit of you, back when we first met,” Renzo said. “Only she’s far less grumpy.”

  I waited for Khara to react to Renzo’s teasing. But she merely took Vallino’s reins and headed on with a sigh.

  Renzo patted my head. “Come, doggie,” he said, just to annoy me.

  I looked up at him, considering my options. Then I raised my rear leg and relieved myself on the toe of his leather boot.

  Sometimes there are advantages to playing dog.

  We walked perhaps a quarter league more before Khara stopped in her tracks and spun around without explanation.

  Quickly we backtracked, and moving at speed, we were able to catch up with Mailley.

  “I thought you were heading north,” Mailley exclaimed when we reached her side, all but Gambler panting a bit.

  “And we are,” said Khara. “But Vallino”—she took a deep breath—“is heading south.”

  Khara whispered something in Vallino’s ear. Then she handed the reins to Mailley. “He likes meadow oats,” Khara said softly.

  “But I don’t understand—” Mailley stared at the worn leather looped over her mitten.

  “And apple slices,” Renzo added.

  “He’s stubborn when it’s cold in the morning,” said Tobble.

  “And fast as the wind when he’s happy,” added Gambler.

  I couldn’t say what I wanted to add: that Vallino had saved my life. That he was a good and decent friend. That I would forever owe him.

  Instead I whimpered softly. He nickered in response.

  “But . . . ,” Mailley began again, her eyes glistening.

  “Don
’t let him eat too many sweets. And watch for burrs in his tail. He hates that.”

  Turning on her heel, Khara paused. “And he loves ear scratches. Especially just behind his right ear.”

  After that, she never glanced backward, but I did. I saw Mailley, her face buried in Vallino’s mane, sobbing.

  “Why is Mailley crying?” I asked Gambler under my breath. Dairnes cry, but only in profound moments of grief.

  “Those are, I believe,” said Gambler, “tears of joy. Humans cry for many reasons.”

  I glanced at Khara. I saw no tears. But I felt certain the pain was there.

  I knew all about grief.

  13

  Dreaming of Dairnes

  We were lucky enough to find not only food, but lodging with actual human beds. They were far too large for me or Tobble, so we shared one. Khara and Gambler took one room, while Renzo, Dog, Tobble, and I slept in the other.

  Down in the tavern, we ate wonderful bread and cut up a roast of some unfamiliar but delicious animal, piling our plates high. We drank cider and even shared a suet pudding that Gambler disdained as “too sweet” for any self-respecting felivet to eat.

  Afterward, we took a pitcher of cider up to our room, and I began to ply Renzo with questions. Where had he been born? (He wasn’t entirely sure.) Who were his parents? (No known father, and his mother had died of Rasp Fever.) And how had he become a thief?

  This last question elicited a more complete answer: “Once my mother died, I was alone.”

  “That must have been frightening,” I said, knowing all too well how he must have felt.

  Renzo shrugged. “I didn’t have time to be afraid. I was hungry. I was ten years old and alone. No one was going to be offering me work, so I started stealing food from stalls. Sometimes I got away clean. Other times I had to leg it.” He laughed at a memory. “Once I had to leap from a twenty-foot wall into a moat. I could have been killed. Instead, I ended up in mud up to my waist. They caught me, naturally.”