Darkwing

  “Dad,” he asked, “how did you get to be leader?” He saw Sylph look up and locked eyes with her for a second before turning his attention to their father.

  “Back on the mainland,” Dad said, “when we broke with our colony, we needed someone who would lead our four families.”

  “But wasn’t Proteus the oldest?” Sylph asked innocently.

  “He was indeed,” Mistral replied. “And he would’ve made an excellent leader. Without his guidance, I’m not sure the rest of us would’ve had the confidence to break with the Pact.”

  “Oh,” Sylph said. “So why wasn’t he leader?”

  “I wanted him to be,” Icaron replied, looking at her strangely, as if sniffing out her motivation for asking. “All of us did. But he refused. He said he was too old, that we needed someone stronger and younger to take us through difficult times. He asked me to be leader. To be honest, I wasn’t eager for such a responsibility, but Sol and Barat urged me as well.”

  Dusk smiled triumphantly over at Sylph. Jib’s story had made it sound like Dad bullied and cheated his way into being leader, but he hadn’t even wanted it! Maybe now Sylph would be a little less critical of their father.

  As night came on, the family all settled down alongside one another in their nest. Dusk felt so contented that he was half asleep before he noticed something was wrong. The cloudless sky glowed faintly with the day’s last light, and a gentle breeze scented the clearing—but there was no dusk chorus. “The birds aren’t singing,” he whispered to Sylph. “Maybe there’s a weather change coming,” she said drowsily. “That sometimes make them go quiet.”

  Dusk sniffed and sipped the air. It didn’t smell or taste like bad weather on the way. He could only remember one or two times in his whole life that the birds hadn’t sung at dusk, and the silence now unnerved him. He looked over at his father, who returned his gaze calmly. “Go to sleep, Dusk,” he said. “Everything’s all right.”

  He didn’t think he’d able to sleep, but he did—

  And woke later, the clearing awash in silver moonlight, and everyone on the sequoia asleep but him.

  The sky was still clear, with no sign of a weather change. Dusk hoped there’d been some harmless reason for the birds’ silence, but he worried it had something to do with the felids on the mainland. Were the birds too wary to sing? Were they in hiding?

  From far away came a noise Dusk had never heard before. It was the type of small sound that he imagined could only be heard at night, when noises seemed to carry so much farther. He turned his face towards it—a strange, low chirping, though not something he’d ever known a bird to make. There was an answering trill of chirps and then no more. Only the drone of insects reached his ears.

  The fur on the nape of his neck bristled. What if there was something on the island? What if those carnivorous felids had crossed over? Did felids chirp? It seemed unlikely.

  He wanted to wake Dad and ask him to send out sentries, but he knew it was futile. His father would say there was no need. The birds were just trying to scare the chiropters and drive them off the island.

  Slowly he crawled away from his family, out along the branch towards the clearing. A full moon blazed down, illuminating the forest.

  He flew.

  He hadn’t forgotten how. The knowledge resided in his muscles and nerves and awoke instantly with his first flap. Sails a-blur, he rose through the empty clearing. The moon gave him all the light he needed.

  He would be the colony’s sentry. He was small and invisible in the night, and he could fly away at any time. He almost wished there were some threat on the island, and then maybe they’d see how brave and useful he was, and shun him no longer.

  Within seconds he’d passed the sequoia’s summit. His stomach gave a small giddy plunge as the silver horizons soared out around him. He wheeled, orienting himself. For the first time in his life, he could see the entire island, and it seemed shockingly small. He’d spent his entire life here, on this little hump of forest.

  He’d never seen the mainland before, a glowing wall of trees that ran forever to the north and south. That was where his father and mother had come from. The world was immense, and showed no sign of stopping.

  With his echovision, Dusk saw birds roosting in the high branches, asleep. His dark fur made him part of the night sky. He flew in the direction of the chirping sounds, towards the east shore of the island, and the mainland.

  He tasted the air, alert to new odours. He listened hard, occasionally unleashing lightning bolts of sound into the forest to see if there was anything lurking in the branches or undergrowth. He didn’t know what he was looking for. He wasn’t even sure what felids looked like. He assumed they were four-legged, furred. The dense vegetation could conceal almost anything. And he wasn’t prepared to go lower. He liked being up high, out of harm’s reach.

  He was surprised by how quickly the trees ended and suddenly he was soaring out over water. Shards of the moon reflected on its surface. The island was still encircled, separated from the mainland. It was safe. Nothing could come across. He made a slow pass, wondering if it was high or low tide—and then he saw the bridge.

  It was just as his father had described it, a pathway of sand connecting the mainland to the island. It was very narrow, and getting narrower even as he watched. Water lapped at its edges, near the shore washing over it altogether as the tide rose.

  Dusk gave a chuckle of relief. The path couldn’t be visible more than a few minutes at a time. What beast would see it, unless they came right to the water’s edge? And why would they? The mainland shore was steeply rocky; it would be a difficult climb down, and an even harder one back up.

  As he banked towards the island, he sent down a volley of echoes. The water was a sheet of pale silver; the sand bridge a speckled path of even more intense light, etched with paler patterns. Dusk frowned, dipping lower and casting out a tighter burst of sound. The sandy path flared once more in his head.

  On the path’s soft surface were countless footprints of a four-toed paw.

  There were so many that they all melded together, dissolving even as they filled with lapping water. They all pointed towards the island.

  CHAPTER 11

  THE MASSACRE

  Carnassial stalked on silent paws through the undergrowth. His pupils, fully dilated, drank in the night, rendering the forest in luminous purples and greys. The moon was bright. It was a perfect time to hunt. All around him, great trees towered overhead. Every few steps he paused, ears pricked, his paws alert to any vibrations in the ground. Trailing behind him on either side, the rest of his prowl kept pace, guided by the occasional hunting chirps he made high in his throat.

  This island would be a perfect hunting ground. It was cut off from the mainland, and the beasts here wouldn’t have heard of them. Carnassial and his prowl could fill their bellies on easy prey. And after they’d lost the advantage of surprise, the water would keep the beasts from escaping. As the hunted became more wary, the hunters would become more skilled. It would prove an excellent training ground.

  All around him Carnassial heard small groundlings rustle through the undergrowth, going about their night’s business. He was not interested in them right now. In his nostrils was the scent of carrion. He’d picked it up almost the instant he’d set foot on the beach. It lured him deeper into the forest. The smell excited him; its strength meant it came from a large animal. It meant easy food. But even more important, the carrion might be a lure for other scavenging beasts, and Carnassial and his prowl could lie in wait, and observe what kinds of creatures lived on this island.

  Up ahead was a clearing drenched in moonlight. The smell was stronger, and Carnassial proceeded more cautiously, knowing that even the rasp of a leaf against his fur might alert other creatures. He sniffed, lapped the air with his tongue, and found the source.

  At the edge of the clearing, a giant wing dangled lifelessly from a redwood. It seemed so out of place in the forest that Carnassial had to s
tare a few seconds, just to make sure it was really there. It was a quetzal wing. He crouched low in the scrub, chirping for his prowl to do the same. He slithered on his belly for a better angle, and saw, silhouetted by moonlight, the quetzal’s bony head, decomposed to its skull, the eyeballs long since claimed by insects. Carnassial crawled slowly forward. The meat of the saurian’s body had already been stripped. All that was left were the membranous wings and the cartilage, rotting and sending up the stink that had lured Carnassial. There was nothing left worth eating, and his stomach yowled indignantly.

  He peered across the clearing at a massive sequoia. He’d never seen a tree with such a thick trunk. His eyes lifted higher. Even the branches were huge, especially in the tree’s mid-region. If the moon hadn’t been so bright, he probably never would have noticed them: the hundreds of dark little shapes nestled in the niches along the sides of the mighty branches. One of the forms stirred in its sleep, flaring its sails briefly.

  Carnassial gave a low chirp and Miacis drew alongside. “Chiropters,” he whispered to her.

  His glands tingled painfully as saliva seeped over his molars, lubricating them for shearing. It was all he could do to restrain himself from charging up the tree, but he was familiar with these creatures, and knew he needed a plan if his prowl were to be successful on this hunt.

  He breathed his instructions to Miacis.

  Her lips pulled back and he could see her teeth wetly gleaming. “Good,” she said.

  Dusk flew for the sequoia with all the speed he could force from his spent muscles.

  Clouds were beginning to scud in front of the moon, and he worried he wouldn’t be able to find his way home. But then he saw a single tree rising ghostly silver above all the others, and knew that must be his sequoia. The tallest in the forest; that’s why his father had picked it. Closer now, and he saw the clearing open up. Angling his sails, he plunged down into it.

  He’d been gripped with fear that he’d return to a massacre, but all was silent as he spiralled past the mighty branches towards his family’s nest. His pulses of echovision showed him nothing but chiropters nestled in the bark, asleep. He’d meant to start bellowing warnings the moment he was close enough, but now felt unsure. Everything seemed so normal. Did he want to start a panic? All he’d seen were footprints. How did he even know they belonged to felids?

  At the very least he’d have to wake his father, there was no question. He landed near their nest, almost gagging with breathlessness. The moon and stars were obscured by cloud now, and it was very dark. He hurried to Icaron, nudging his grey-streaked head.

  “Dad? Dad?”

  For a moment, the nearness of his parents, their scent, the familiar bark beneath his claws made his fears seem ridiculous.

  His father stirred and opened his eyes, focusing them instantly on his son. “Dusk, what’s wrong?”

  “Something’s crossed over to the island,” he panted. “Where have you been?”

  “I went to the bridge.”

  “Have you been flying?” his mother said, rising. Dusk glanced over and saw Sylph was awake now too, blinking and looking a bit bewildered. “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “I saw footprints in the sand,” Dusk said. “Lots of them.”

  “Describe them,” his father said. Dusk did, and saw his parents exchange glances.

  “A bird has been filling Dusk’s head with nonsense about a felid attack.”

  “You never told me any of this,” Mom said.

  “I saw no need. The bird was just trying to make trouble.”

  “Dusk has been talking to birds now?” Sylph asked.

  “You shouldn’t have gone off alone at night,” Dusk’s mother scolded him. “And you know you’re not to fly! What did this bird say to you?”

  “The bird claims,” Icaron explained with deliberate calm, “that a group of felids has been marauding the mainland, attacking birds and beasts.”

  “So were they felid prints I saw?” Dusk asked.

  “Possibly,” said Icaron, “but I’m not convinced there’s any reason for alarm.”

  “The felids have always been peaceful,” Mom said, but Dusk thought she sounded worried.

  “I’ll tell the elders in the morning,” Icaron said. “We should let everyone know there may be felids on the island. We’ve led a sheltered life here, and I don’t want any of our families to be afraid.”

  From the branches below came a chiropter’s shriek. Something flashed past near the trunk. Dusk caught sight of a long body and tail before it disappeared higher up the tree.

  “There’s something in the sequoia!” a voice shouted.

  “Don’t be afraid!” Dusk heard his father call out. “They’re fellow beasts and mean you no harm.”

  A second creature leapt up onto their branch, near the trunk, and Dusk froze. The beast paused for the briefest of moments, just long enough to turn a blunt face straight at Dusk. Its eyes flashed light and Sylph screamed. Then it crouched and was gone, bounding higher.

  “Dad?” Sylph quavered. “Are those felids?”

  “Yes,” said Icaron.

  “What are they doing?” Mom breathed, her voice tight.

  “I’ll speak to them,” said Icaron, “it’s all right.”

  A third felid streaked past, then seconds later, a fourth. From overhead came a growing chorus of surprise and alarm. Dusk was shaking so hard he worried he would slide off the branch.

  “What is that?” someone cried from above.

  “Look out!”

  “Where’d it go?”

  “I can’t see!”

  “It’s coming!”

  “Jump!”

  Then the screaming began, the kind of terrible, high-pitched sound beasts make only when they are in peril or frightful pain. Dusk looked at his father, hoping for some impossible explanation. Vicious snarls raked the darkness. The felids were hunting.

  The maelstrom of noise intensified and boiled closer. Claws scrabbled furiously on bark; parents cried out the names of their children. From the clearing Dusk heard the whisper of sails filling as chiropters leapt blindly into the darkness to escape. His nostrils flinched and his eyes watered as the air was shot through with the thick musk exuded by the felids in their frenzy.

  His father was shouting something at him, but Dusk could scarcely hear him, he sounded so far away.

  “Dusk, Sylph, get ready to jump!”

  Near the trunk, a felid had pulled itself onto their branch, and this time it did not move on. It was long and sly, twice his father’s size, with a grey, black-spotted body and a long tail banded with white. Sharply pointed ears folded back against the sweat-matted fur of its head. Its jaws seemed small until they opened and became huge, rimmed with thin, sharp teeth at the front, and thicker ones at the back.

  “Dusk!” his mother shouted, but he could not turn away.

  “Dad, come on!” he wailed to his father.

  “Go, Dusk!” Icaron said.

  He watched in awe as his father reared up on his hind legs and flared his sails, seeming to double in size.

  “Stop this!” he roared at the felid. “We are allies! This must stop!”

  Amazingly, Icaron’s voice carried above the din, and for a strange moment, the snarling and shrieking seemed to fade away. The felid at the end of the branch tilted its chin in surprise, ears twitching. Dusk felt Sylph tugging at him, but he could not leave his father.

  “We are all united as beasts!” Icaron shouted. “We have survived the saurians together. We have shared the earth in peace.”

  “Are you the leader, then?” The felid’s low growl seemed to emanate from his belly.

  “I am Icaron, the leader of this colony. What is your name?”

  “Carnassial.” The felid’s lips pulled back as it answered, revealing large, four-crested teeth at the rear of his jaws.

  “And where is the leader of your prowl?” Icaron demanded.

  “I am he.”

  “Then you must k
now Patriofelis.” Dusk saw the felid flinch in distaste. “We have parted company with Patriofelis.”

  “He is a wise ruler.”

  “He has doomed himself to extinction. The world has changed, but his appetites have remained the same. Ours have not.”

  “Does Patriofelis know you are hunting fellow beasts?” Carnassial made no reply.

  “I implore you to stop this,” Icaron said. “Stop this barbaric thing, and let us live in peace. It has always been the way.”

  “No more,” said Carnassial—and he sprang. Icaron jumped backwards, but the felid caught him in his paws and brought him crashing down against the bark.

  “Dad!” Dusk cried out.

  “Fly! Fly!” his father shouted to him, even as he thrashed to free himself.

  Dusk saw the felid’s jaws part, saw the wet flash of teeth in the dim light, and then his mother shoved him hard and he was falling off the branch. He unfurled his sails and flapped. The air was filled with frantic chiropters, gliding across the clearing to the safety of the far trees. “Mom! Sylph!” he cried.

  “Stay with your sister,” he heard his mother shout, and realized she’d remained on the branch to help his father.

  Hovering, he looked back at his parents, furiously tangled together with Carnassial. What should he do? He heard his sister anxiously call out for him, and he swivelled and flapped after her. He was shaking so hard he felt he would come apart at the joints. He staggered through the air, casting out sound to see better, and caught up with Sylph.

  “Where are Mom and Dad?” she panted.

  “They’re …” He didn’t know how to say it. “They’re fighting with the felid.”

  Her voice trembled. “I can barely see, Dusk.”

  “I’ll be your eyes,” he told her. “We’re almost across the clearing.”

  All around them were other chiropters, trying to stay together, calling out to one another in the pitch dark. Dusk wished he could shut out all their chittering, for it was a terrible echo of his own frenetic thoughts.