Page 2 of The Last


  Nonetheless, there was something down there in that rowboat. Something small and brown, pointlessly attempting to paddle.

  Was that . . . ? I was almost certain: it was a wobbyk!

  “What can a wobbyk possibly be doing in a rowboat?” I asked of no one.

  The noise of pounding surf was huge, but I thought I might have heard a faint but desperate cry for help.

  Which made sense. Because, though I couldn’t quite make out the occupant of the tiny craft, one thing was clear: whether wobbyk or some other creature, whoever was in that boat was doomed.

  4.

  A Plea for Help

  As I watched, a menacing claw of water lifted the boat high. It hurled the tiny craft and its tinier occupant toward the looming cliff.

  I held my breath. I didn’t want to watch. I didn’t want to know. Death was seconds away.

  To my shock, the same sea that had propelled the boat forward showed temporary mercy, drawing the rowboat back and away.

  But it wasn’t far enough. The respite would be brief. Another surge or two, three at most, and the wobbyk—I was convinced that was what he must be—would die.

  Once, when I was very young, my mother made us a dinner of wobbyk. We’d been living on grass and grubs for far too long, and it was the first meat we’d had in ages. If we hadn’t been so hungry, I doubt it would have tasted as good as it did, but even now the memory makes my mouth water.

  Still, despite the fact that wobbyk can make an unsatisfying but healthy addition to a dull diet, I wasn’t thinking about eating him. I didn’t wish his death. (Truth be told, I was a feeble and softhearted hunter. In fact, I’d never actually killed anything, except a few bugs.) Instead I was amazed to find that part of my brain was already busily considering a rescue, analyzing angles, rates of descent, and the probable weight of the little creature.

  Even as I was calculating, the wobbyk looked up at me, desperate, his mouth open and moving.

  I heard a faint “Help!” Or maybe I only imagined the sound, but there was no imagination needed to see the fear, the frantically waving paws.

  “I can’t,” I said, and my words flew back at me like windblown leaves.

  I could use my glissaires, the thin extensions of our coats that we use for brief glides. Maybe, with incredibly lucky timing, I could actually manage to snatch the wobbyk.

  But short of a miracle, I’d never be able to carry him.

  Not far, anyway. Just a few yards. Just enough to . . .

  The ocean sucked back, uncovering a narrow strip of sand in a cleft between rocks.

  No, the timing would be impossible.

  The wobbyk looked at me, speaking unheard words. He was begging for life.

  My father had a saying: “To rush is not necessarily to arrive.” He said it to me often. He meant: think first.

  And so I did.

  On the one hand, I would probably die.

  On the other hand, what a great story to tell around the fire. How impressed my siblings would be!

  On the one foot—but I stopped myself there.

  I’d been so absorbed in the wobbyk’s peril that it took me a moment to register the too-sweet smell of domesticated dogs, followed by the unmistakable stench of horses.

  A third smell hit me, new and unfamiliar.

  Unfamiliar, but not unknowable.

  Only one species traveled with horses and dogs as company.

  A drumbeat of hooves vibrated the pads of my feet. I turned toward the trees and saw startled birds flap skyward.

  How could I have missed such obvious scents? The damp forest, the frantic wind, the distraction of the drowning wobbyk?

  I heard a warning call, the piercing howl we use that signals danger.

  Strange: it hadn’t come from a dairne. The pitch was wrong. Was that a human sound?

  The dense trees ripped open like a clawed hide. Horses emerged behind me. And atop those horses were what could only be humans.

  The men were imposing, their limbs thicker than I’d expected, their shouts more terrifying.

  Could they be the Murdano’s soldiers?

  I flashed on the rhyme Dalyntor had taught us: “If you encounter silver and red, run away, dairne, or end up dead!”

  The clothing these humans wore was motley, a mix of dun and gray. Their weapons were mismatched. Two of their horses carried, instead of humans, roped stacks of furs and hides.

  Poachers.

  The same voice, the one that had signaled danger, was screaming, “No! No! Don’t kill it!”

  The leader of the poachers, a great bow in his left hand, rode a towering black-and-white horse. Both man and beast stared at me with deadly intent.

  With his right hand, the man plucked an arrow from his quiver. He fitted it to the string in less time than an eye can blink.

  “No!” I cried.

  My heart banged madly in my chest, all rhythm lost.

  I watched in horror as the man’s muscles strained and the bowstring drew back.

  His eyes saw nothing but me.

  I saw nothing but the glittering arrowhead. The fingers that released. The string that snapped.

  And then I leapt.

  5.

  Rescue at Sea

  Dairnes cannot fly.

  We can glide, but we can’t defy gravity. We can only soften it, turning plummeting falls into slow arcs.

  I spread my forelegs, exposing my glissaires. With all four inches of my deadly back claws digging into crumbling stone, I kicked myself away, thrusting toward the boiling clouds.

  Arrows sliced through the air like deadly rain.

  I caught the wind.

  The knife-sharp tip of a Shark’s Tooth grazed my tail, just as the blustery wind filled and lifted me.

  Panting horses pranced and reared at the cliff’s rim. I saw furious human faces glaring down at me. Hard, experienced eyes planned trajectories.

  An arrow shot past, faster than a diving raptidon. It flew so near that I could see the color of the feathers, the design painted on the shaft, the trident head. And the thin filament that would allow me to be hauled back.

  A poacher’s arrow.

  I let go the wind from my glissaires, gathering speed, and risked a midair cutback.

  Far below me and almost as far ahead, the wobbyk stood in his boat, waving, mouth open, eyes wide.

  The boat was rising on the biggest wave yet. I banked left, aiming at this moving target.

  I felt the swift passage of time and distance as the boat smashed into a pillar of black rock, shattering the wood and splintering it.

  The wobbyk screamed. This time I had no trouble hearing him.

  He leapt upward. Not a great leap—wobbyks are stout little creatures—but enough.

  Maybe.

  I was gliding faster than I had ever done before. Between us an arrow shot past. I dodged beneath the filament as the wobbyk began to fall away.

  I spilled more air and surged like lightning.

  The wobbyk reached desperately.

  “Here!” he cried.

  I snatched one paw.

  The effect of his weight was like hitting a wall. Dairnes cannot carry anything heavy in a glide.

  I somersaulted through the air. I wobbled and plummeted. But momentum carried us forward as the sea retreated and there, there it was: the narrow, V-shaped patch of sand.

  We plowed in a tangle through bubbling surf that grabbed at us both, tugging at our feet as though willing us to fall and be carried away into the depths.

  But one foot somehow found a fragile grip on wet sand. Another foot, and to my amazement, I realized that I still had hold of the wobbyk’s paw, and he had hold of me.

  I staggered and we fell into the surf. I sucked salt water into my lungs and coughed.

  I wondered if I was going to die.

  I wondered if my parents would be mad at me if I died.

  The waves were quickly returning, gathering strength to crush us against the cliff face. The first fa
t drops of rain fell.

  “Up!” I gasped. “Climb!”

  Black rock lay before us, rock that in a second would be underwater, but we were all frantic claws, scrabbling, fighting for every handhold, slipping, banging elbows and knees.

  I pushed the wobbyk up and away.

  The wave crashed around me. I was helpless against its power. It lifted me, holding me as I paddled futilely, all sense of direction lost.

  This was it.

  This was how my life would end.

  Foam covered me. Water filled my mouth and forced its way down my throat.

  But then I felt it.

  Something grabbing the fur at the back of my neck.

  It was a tiny paw, a weak grip, and yet it was enough to buy me a moment more.

  In the extra second I’d been given, I found a handhold and then a foothold. I windmilled hands and feet, panicked, indifferent to bruises and cuts, and my head came up and out of the water.

  Air. Yes. Air.

  I climbed. Just ahead of me the wobbyk climbed.

  “Look out!” he yelled, and an arrow clattered against the rock, so close it parted the fur near my ear.

  Seconds more, and all at once we were over the top of the rocky spur, falling down the far side where no arrow could touch us.

  The poachers couldn’t reach us there, not without running their horses down the greensward and across a deep-cut channel.

  A burst of lightning lit the sky. The black clouds ruptured, pelting us with icy rain.

  I looked at the wobbyk. The wobbyk looked at me.

  We breathed.

  6.

  And You Are a . . . ?

  “Greetings,” said the wobbyk. “You’re so very kind to rescue me.” Wobbyks are known for being remarkably polite.

  I was not feeling polite.

  I was soaked, cold, trembling. And feeling far from safe.

  I shook my head. I tried to focus.

  The cliff. The poachers. The arrows.

  My rattled brain replayed the details of my desperate dive. I had the feeling I would relive that scene many times in dreams, the kind that wake you up at night, gasping and sweating.

  The downpour drenched us while lightning carved the clouds. Thunderclaps drowned out the sea’s roar.

  I blinked away rain and stared at the wobbyk. He was small, perhaps a third of my size, and comical looking, especially in his waterlogged state. His silver-blue fur was bedraggled, as were his three tails. Huge white oval ears extended from his head like giant wings.

  Everything else about him was round: round head; round, protruding stomach; round eyes, big and shiny as river plums. Even his paws—white, like his ears and muzzle—were round as lily pads. The lower half of his face reminded me of a fox, with its black nose, long whiskers, and upturned mouth that looked perpetually amused. He wore a leather belt low on his sizable belly. Attached to it was a small drawstring pouch.

  “We have to hide,” the wobbyk said. “They may still come after us.”

  With a sigh, I forced my body, leaden with the dulling effects of fear, upright. The wobbyk was correct. We had to keep moving.

  We picked our way down the rocks onto a stretch of sandy beach.

  “Walk in the surf,” I suggested. “It will cover our tracks.” We dairnes are experts at concealment.

  “I wonder if I might . . . if I might inquire as to whether you have a plan?”

  “My plan is to avoid arrows!”

  The wobbyk fell silent, head drooping. I felt a bit guilty, so I added, “Let’s make for the shale ahead. Hopefully, our tracks won’t show quite as much there. We’ll climb where the cliff has collapsed and make our way through the forest. I have to get back to my family.”

  “I don’t see anyone following us.”

  “And I don’t smell them,” I replied, panting. “But this rain masks sounds and smells as well. We need to get out of here as quickly as we can.”

  “My name is Tobble,” said the wobbyk. “I am most grateful to you. And I don’t wish to be a burden.”

  “Too late,” I said, only half joking.

  I reminded myself that the wobbyk hadn’t brought the poachers.

  On the other hand, he certainly had tried to row a boat into a cliff.

  “How, by all the Ancients, did you end up stuck in a rowboat?” I asked.

  “I was taken prisoner by a pirate ship.”

  I blinked. “Did you say—”

  “Pirates,” the wobbyk confirmed.

  “And how does a wobbyk end up with pirates?”

  “The usual way.”

  “The usual way?” I asked. “How can there possibly be a usual way to be captured by pirates?”

  “If you’re fishing for sticklers and have a full coracle, well, pirates are certain to want your cargo,” Tobble said. He gave a little shrug. “Even pirates like grilled stickler.”

  “Do they?”

  “Indeed! My brothers managed to leap off the coracle, but I was tangled in the net and they left me.” He didn’t seem upset by this fact but, seeing my disapproving frown, added, “I’m the youngest. My brothers often overlook me.”

  There we had something in common.

  Tobble studied me. He tilted his head so far to one side, it nearly touched his shoulder.

  “Would it be impolite if I were to inquire as to what kind of animal you are? You look like a dog, but you walk upright and you can speak—”

  “Dog?” I repeated. “Are you joking?”

  “So what are you, then?”

  “Hungry, for one thing. Cold, for another. And wet.”

  “I, too, am hungry. I am also a wobbyk.”

  “And I am a dairne. Of course.” I said it with all the pride I could muster.

  Tobble warbled a high-pitched laugh. Even wobbyk laughs are comical. “Yes, and I’m a four-headed wood sprite.” He narrowed his eyes. “Wolf family? Perhaps. But your fur is golden, much finer than a wolf’s coat. Hmm. You can glide, like a flying squirrel. You have a pouch, like a marsupial. You have hands with thumbs, but doglike paws for feet. You stand erect, and you’re a female.”

  “Thank you for stating the obvious.”

  “There’s almost a human-ish quality to your demeanor.” Tobble circled me as we walked. “On the other hand, I just watched humans try to kill you.” Another head tilt. “Still and all, humans are well known for killing each other.”

  “I’m a dairne,” I repeated firmly. “And you’re a wobbyk. And for the record, dairnes eat wobbyks.”

  Tobble snorted. “There are no dairnes,” he said, as certainly as if he’d just stated that water is wet. Which was certainly proving to be true.

  “And yet here I stand before you, wet and cold and hungry. I’ll admit there aren’t as many of us as there used to be. But I can assure you that I know what I am.”

  We scrambled up the fallen cliff face and plunged at last into the shadow of the trees. The rain still fell, but the canopy of branches overhead kept most of it from hitting us.

  “I just don’t understand,” Tobble continued. “Dairnes are . . . no more.” His voice was low, as if he were telling me a scary bedtime tale. “My father said so. My grandfather. My great-grandfather. You’re, if you’ll excuse the word—I realize it’s a bit harsh—you’re extinct.”

  I stopped moving and stood as tall as I could manage. At full height, I towered over the little wobbyk. “Now I’m certain I’m going to eat you.”

  “You saved my life. You can’t eat me.”

  “Setting aside the fact that I don’t exist and so cannot be held to any rule, why is that?” My own whisper was too loud, and I reminded myself to be quiet.

  “It’s just not done. It’s impolite.” Tobble twisted his head around, raised one of his tails, and licked it. “So who was that trying to kill you?”

  “Poachers,” I said. “You’re changing the subject.”

  “And now I shall thank you for stating the obvious.” Tobble smiled. “Poachers don’t
bother wobbyks much.”

  “Probably because you taste like turtle.”

  “I don’t know whether to be insulted or relieved.”

  “They kill us for our fur,” I said.

  “May I?” Tobble asked, pointing to my arm. When I shrugged, he timidly patted my shoulder. “Even damp,” he marveled, “you are remarkably soft.”

  I shrugged. “My father says the whole world is trying to kill dairnes these days.”

  A branch snapped, and Tobble grabbed my arm.

  We froze in place.

  I studied the air with my nose. Tobble’s left ear swiveled like the head of a skittish owl.

  “There!” He pointed. “They’re waiting for us!”

  7.

  The Poachers Return

  I motioned for the wobbyk to stay low—unnecessary, given that a wobbyk standing on tiptoes is still shorter than a dairne creeping on all fours. Leading the way, tree trunk to tree trunk, I calculated each step for silence.

  The scents of human and horse and dog grew stronger. I strained my ears but heard nothing but my thudding heart.

  It was the dogs I feared. The nose of a dog is almost as talented as a dairne’s. But the breeze was my friend, blowing them to me and concealing us. One human was nearer, I was sure of it. The others were farther back with the horses.

  With movements so slow and cautious that I doubted any predator, human or otherwise, could detect them, I pushed aside the brambles of a billerberry bush.

  And there he was.

  He stood alone near a fallen log in a small clearing, intense concentration on his face. Slender and tall, he was dressed in simple peasant clothes: a faded brown shirt beneath a leather jerkin, fastened with a belt, woolen trousers, and tall buff leather boots.

  I knew almost nothing about human emotions, and yet I sensed, somehow, that this one was anxious.

  No, more than that: he was angry.

  “Did ya ever catch sight of it again, guide?” It was not the slender boy but a yell from deeper in the forest.

  “No, master,” the boy called back. “Drownt in the sea, most likely.”