Endling #2 Page 8

“It’s all right,” he said. “I know you’re as scared as I am.”

  “Maybe more scared.” It was a relief to admit it.

  We set off at a quick walk, hoping it was the right direction, and hastened by the fact that we were going downhill. But this was nothing like the caves and tunnels we’d encountered in the Subdur natite world.

  There was nothing natural about this long slide. The walls were slick, the floor was smooth, and the tunnel was as straight as one of Khara’s arrows. We weren’t in the recesses of nature. We were within a creation of sentient creatures. And there could only be one species responsible: the terramants.

  As a young dairne, I’d been taught from an early age to fear felivets, though in truth the huge felines had ceased hunting dairnes as soon as they’d discovered the Murdano’s plans to exterminate us.

  Natites, we’d learned, ruled the seas and bays, which made them as distant from our lives as the dull lyric poetry we’d been forced to memorize.

  We knew to fear some of the raptidons. Hawks, rock ospreys, and kestriddi considered dairne pups a delicacy. (It was harder to carry us off for dinner once we weighed a stone or two.)

  And of course, we knew plenty about humans from distant glimpses, oft-told stories, and endless warnings.

  But of all the governing species, the terramants had always seemed the strangest, the least like us. They were physically so odd, with triangular heads surmounted by two bulbous eyes and six spiderlike legs. Four additional appendages surrounded a gnashing mouth, and each of those shortened limbs ended in a wickedly curved claw. Terramants had nothing of the familiar or reassuring about them.

  My parents often reminded me and my siblings never to judge a species on the basis of its appearance. And Dalyntor, the wise packelder who’d been our instructor, had spent many hours lecturing us on the immutable law of “pacequilibrio”: the need for balance and variety in the natural world.

  Every plant, every animal, every insect serves a purpose, Dalyntor said, no matter how annoying, how ugly, how frightening, or how unappetizing it might be.

  Or, as my father liked to say: “Never doubt that nature has a sense of humor.”

  Still.

  Terramants were hideous.

  It was hard to imagine why the world needed insects the size of horses.

  I feared that our descent might take hours, or lead into total darkness. (I’d had enough of that.) But as we trudged on, it became clear that illumination had been placed at regular intervals, in the form of a glowing green goo set into recessed pools a few feet across. It wasn’t exactly blazing sunlight, but it was better than nothing.

  Long before we reached an end to the slope, the stench of ammonia grew dizzying. But the sound was even worse: a relentless gnashing and clicking.

  The sound of flesh being chewed.

  And then Tobble yelped. “Ahh! Look!”

  19

  Conversation with a Terramant

  It was a terramant. One glowing, multifaceted eye stared intently at us, while the other eye swiveled independently, like a bizarre gem.

  We stood paralyzed with fear, and Tobble whispered shakily, “What do we do?”

  The eye that had been focused on us curved downward, landing on a fat worm that seemed to have lost its way in the stampede. The terramant bent its front legs in a blindingly fast parody of a courtly bow. Two bladed shorter limbs snatched up the worm and nimbly shoved it into the terramant’s mouth.

  I cautiously raised a hand to see if the terramant would take note of us. It did not. I took a tentative step forward and he didn’t react.

  “Let’s go,” I said, not at all sure it was a good idea.

  I walked straight toward the creature, then past him. Tobble kept pace so closely he was practically stepping on my heels.

  “Well,” I said, breathing a sigh of relief, “that went better than it might have.”

  Once past the outlying terramant, we reached a place of branching tunnels. On closer observation we realized they were not true tunnels, but depressions only a few dozen feet deep. In each were three to five terramants, all gobbling worms. As we passed each nest, one or more of the creatures would cock an eye our way and then dismiss us.

  “They’re looking for something, but it isn’t us,” I said.

  “Worms. They’re looking for worms, the disgusting things. The smell!”

  “Are these the mudworms in that song you taught us?” I asked.

  “I’ve never exactly seen an actual mudworm. And since these don’t seem interested in eating us, at least not yet, maybe they’re a different kind of worm.” Tobble gulped. “Still. They’re horrible. Disgusting. Awful.”

  “I wonder what the terramants will do if I call out to Khara,” I said.

  Tobble shivered. “I just hope they kill me quickly.”

  I hesitated, well aware that I was not up to the task of making life-or-death decisions.

  “Khara!” I cried.

  The terramants seemed unmoved.

  “Khara!” I raised my voice to a louder pitch. “Khara! Renzo! Gambler! Dog!”

  Nothing.

  “They must have come this way, carried by the rush of worms,” I said. “If the terramants have no interest in us, maybe they let our friends pass unharmed.”

  “What is all this?” Tobble asked as we walked on past dozens and dozens of nests, each filled with clacking, chomping terramants. “This can’t be how terramants live normally.”

  “Why not?”

  Tobble shrugged. “It just feels wrong.”

  It did indeed feel wrong, but I knew too little about the subterranean species to be certain. Surely, if terramants made a habit of planting worm-tree forests around giant pits, I would have heard of such a thing. And if not me, then no doubt Khara or Renzo or Gambler, all well-traveled folks, would have known.

  “Do they speak?” Tobble wondered.

  “I believe that clicking sound is their speech. But they must be able to understand the Common Tongue. After all, there were terramant scholars at the Academy. They had to communicate with other species all the time.”

  “Hello?” Tobble said to the nearest terramant, who was munching a slithering worm.

  No response.

  “Or maybe not,” I said.

  “Some of us speak the Common Tongue.”

  Tobble and I both leapt about three feet straight in the air. We spun in what must have seemed a comical way and came face-to-face—well, face-to-knee—with a terramant.

  “You—you—” I said. I collected my wits and managed a complete sentence. “You speak the Common Tongue?”

  “The question answers itself, no?”

  “Um, yes . . . sir?” I replied with a gulp.

  “What form of creature are you?” he asked.

  I could not make out how the terramant formed his words, for I saw no movement of his mouthparts. How vowels and consonants could be so precisely created with that horrifying, worm-eating maw was beyond me.

  “I am a dairne. My name is Byx. This is Tobble, a wobbyk.”

  The terramant cocked his triangular head to one side. “We have no instruction regarding dairnes or wobbyks.”

  “Does that mean—wait, friend terramant, does that mean you do have instructions regarding other species?”

  “Humans, natites, and felivets are to be taken to the Two and the Three.”

  “Pardon me, but do you have a name?” Tobble asked, ever polite.

  “I am Seventy-Eight of Eighteen Hive of the Group of Thirteen.”

  “Do you have a . . . a nickname?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Ah,” I said. “May I ask who the Two and the Three are?”

  “They are the ones who decide.”

  I was beginning to get the measure of the monster. This particular terramant seemed perfectly willing to answer questions. And not, it appeared, interested in consuming us.

  “You’ve seen no humans or felivets recently?” I asked.

  “No.
”

  “Is it possible that they passed by unseen?”

  “No. They were seen.”

  I felt my heart lurch. “Seen, but not by you? By some other terramant?”

  “Yes.”

  “And do you know where they are?” I asked, trying to keep the urgency out of my voice.

  “Yes.”

  “And . . . and was one dead human also found?”

  “Killed by a defender of the forest.”

  “What was it?” I asked. “This defender?”

  “I know no other name for the species. They are creatures of the Kazar Sg’drit.”

  I swallowed my impatience. “Can you show us where the others are, the living ones?”

  “They are with the Two and the Three.”

  “I see. And may I ask, what are the Two and the Three doing with them?”

  The terramant shifted ever so slightly. “They hold them for presentation to the Foreman.”

  Terramant speech is not expressive, nor are their eyes, but still I felt a slight hesitation on the word “Foreman.”

  “And who is the Foreman?” I asked.

  “The one who feeds us. The one who uses us.”

  This time I was sure I heard something in his inflection. Dislike? Disapproval? Resentment? What did I know about terramants? How was I to judge his tone?

  The conversation between Gambler and Luca came back to me:

  “I thought the terramants served no one.”

  “They do when they’re starving.”

  “And what will this Foreman do with them?” I asked, watching the terramant carefully.

  “If they are useful, he will make thralls of them.”

  “And if they are not useful?” I asked, fighting the quaver in my voice.

  “If they are not useful,” the terramant replied, “he will kill them.”

  20

  Our Not-Very-Good Plan

  The terramant had answered all the questions we could think of. When we asked how to find the Two and the Three, he used a claw to sketch a map in the dirt.

  We thanked him and moved on, once more ignored by the other terramants we passed. In fact, we were more ignored than before, for now they did not even glance at us.

  “I think they’re expecting us,” I said to Tobble. “Earlier they looked when we passed. Now it’s like we don’t exist.” I had a theory. “I think they can communicate among themselves in ways we do not understand. Ways that seem almost like theurgy.”

  “Like bees?” Tobble asked. “It’s well-known that one bee knows all that is known by other bees.”

  “That seems unlikely,” I said, but Tobble was probably close to the truth. The terramants had been told to look for humans, natites, and felivets, not wobbyks and dairnes. But our “friend,” Seventy-Eight of Eighteen Hive of the Group of Thirteen, might well have been sent to discover just what sort of creatures we were. And now that information had passed to all the other terramants.

  It was good to be ignored. But if we were right, this also meant that every terramant could be given new instructions at any moment. New instructions like “Eat any dairne or wobbyk you encounter.” And that was an alarming thought.

  I had memorized the map we’d been shown, and we walked on, hovering somewhere between nervous curiosity and paralyzing terror.

  At last, just as Seventy-Eight of Eighteen Hive of the Group of Thirteen had said, we reached a tunnel crowded at one end with a mass of terramants all doing what they did best: excavating.

  It was fascinating, if horrifying, to watch. They worked in teams with perfect coordination. At the front of the heaving mass must have been the diggers, cutting energetically. The dirt they dislodged was hauled away by terramants harnessed to narrow, deep wagons. These came rushing past us and off into a side tunnel, where, presumably, they dumped the soil.

  A third group smeared the walls of the tunnel with a slurry made from their own vomit. Finally, much smaller terramants, perhaps juveniles, smoothed and slurried the roof. They were no larger than I, and managed to cling upside down with apparent ease as they worked.

  From our left came a deep bass sound, a single, resonant gong. Instantly, the terramants ceased working and came rushing straight at us.

  “Down!” I cried, shoving Tobble beneath me.

  How many insect legs rushed past us, around us, over us, I will never be able to count. But each leg somehow missed us, though sometimes by the tiniest margin.

  When they’d passed, I leaned down. “Are you all right, Tobble?”

  “Aaah! They’re coming back!”

  And they were, though not the same terramants. Obviously, they were changing shifts, sending some workers to eat while bringing in a new crew to continue the work without interruption. But once again, the terramants avoided crushing us in their insect stampede.

  We stood up shakily, knocked some of the dirt from our clothing, and continued on our search.

  “Khara! Gambler! Renzo!” I called, but there was no response.

  “What do you suppose that tunnel they’re digging is for?” Tobble wondered.

  I shrugged. “Who knows why terramants do anything? Maybe this Foreman will tell us. I imagine he’s some sort of terramant king.”

  “We’re just going to walk right up to a terramant king and demand to know what’s happened to our friends?”

  “It does sound ridiculous when you put it that way,” I admitted, feeling a bit defensive. “But what other choice do we have? Do you want to just abandon them?”

  Tobble grabbed my elbow with sudden fervor. I stopped and found myself staring down at an uncharacteristically serious wobbyk face.

  “Never,” Tobble said with force. “Never, Byx.”

  “Tobble,” I said with an apologetic smile, “I know that. Of course I do. I was just—”

  “Good,” he snapped, and with that he took the lead, striding purposefully forward.

  I followed, feeling terrible that I’d annoyed him. Tobble was as brave as I. Braver, even. He was as loyal as I. He was clever and kind.

  And he was right that I had no plan.

  “I don’t know what to do,” I admitted, although I wasn’t sure Tobble heard me, since he was several paces ahead.

  “We need a story,” I continued. “But nothing comes to mind.”

  More silence.

  “Tobble?”

  Tobble turned. To my relief, his expression had softened. “Hmm.” He pursed his lips. “Perhaps we are here to inspect the tunnel. We’ve been sent by the . . . what’s his name? The rogue felivet?”

  I searched my memory, summoning up Gambler’s voice. “The Kazar Sg’drit.”

  “There you go,” Tobble said. “We’ve been sent here to assess their progress.”

  “It’s better than nothing,” I said.

  Tobble held up his paws. “Not much better than nothing.”

  “Onward, then,” I said, “with our not-very-good plan.”

  We walked on along a tunnel glowing faintly green. The sounds of the ceaseless excavation grew fainter behind us, while ahead of us, two lines of terramants appeared, seemingly out of nowhere.

  An honor guard? Or actual guards?

  “Stand where you are,” said a terramant voice.

  We stood perfectly still.

  “State your names, species, and business,” the first terramant on our right demanded.

  “I am Byx, a dairne, and I am here on a mission from the mighty Kazar Sg’drit the Merciless.” I added the “mighty” and “merciless.” I doubted anyone would object.

  “I am Tobble, a wobbyk, and I am here on that same business.”

  The terramant let us stand there for a while. I had the distinct impression that he was communicating silently with other terramants.

  “The Foreman doubts your story,” the terramant said at last. “But he will receive you. Proceed.”

  We proceeded, filled with trepidation. My throat was tight, my hands trembling, my stomach tightly knotted. Fear: ther
e it was again.

  We walked another two or three hundred yards between rows of silent, unmoving terramants.

  And then we saw our friends.

  21

  King Tobble

  It was Khara I recognized first.

  Or rather, Khara’s head.

  It was mounted on the side of the tunnel.

  Just her head.

  Sticking out from the dirt wall as if it had grown there naturally.

  Renzo’s head was just a few feet farther on. Just beyond was Gambler’s great head, his ebony fur dusted with dirt. Dog’s head was inches from Gambler’s.

  “Tobble,” I managed, hoping to protect him the way he’d done with me. “Don’t look.”

  But it was too late. Tears were already streaming down Tobble’s cheeks.

  I reached for him and we embraced, slowly sinking to our knees, gulping down huge sobs. Even as we held each other, I felt my shredded heart begin to turn into something familiar and frightening.

  I’d known this feeling before, when my family, my pack, my world had been destroyed.

  “I will kill them,” I muttered, my face buried in Tobble’s fur. “I will kill them, Tobble.” The words poured out of my mouth like lava. “I will make them feel the same pain. I will—”

  “Byx.” Tobble’s warm, round paw squeezed my hand. “Byx. Look.”

  I lifted my head and followed Tobble’s gaze.

  Khara was blinking.

  Blinking!

  She lived.

  Khara lived!

  “Khara!” I cried.

  “Run away, you two! Run!” she whispered.

  I ran over with Tobble. “You are alive,” I whispered. “Khara, you’re alive.”

  “Leave. Now.”

  I ignored her words, instead reaching out to touch her hair.

  Tobble moved on to check Renzo and Gambler.

  Each still lived, though they were quiet and cowed. Each, in turn, told us to run away.

  I simply shook my head, and so did Tobble.

  No, we would not run away.

  Beyond my friends were other heads sprouting from the packed earth. Some were human, some were felivet, though it appeared that no one else was alive. I could not bear to think of the suffering they had endured in this living entombment.