I heard the faint sound of horses stamping their hooves impatiently. Nearby I heard two sets of feet—human, I thought—plodding through the underbrush.
Two bearded men came into view on either side of the boy. One was short and heavyset. The other, tall and gaunt, I recognized as the leader of the poachers. They were dressed in cast-off bits of armor over leather jerkins. Each had a sword, a bow, and two knives.
“What was it, d’ya think?” asked the leader.
“Thought it was a wolf, or a dog, maybe,” said the other. “But the way it practically flew right off that cliff? I’m thinkin’ it had to be a dairne.”
“Never seen a dairne in my life. Never met a soul who’s seen one.” The leader leaned against a thick pine tree, arms crossed. “Boy, what d’ya think it was?”
“I’m not sure,” the guide answered. “S’pose we’ll never know.”
“They say dairne fur’s the softest and warmest in the world. One pelt’d feed us all for a year, and then some,” said the short man.
“True,” said the guide, “but I daresay a dairne would fetch far more alive, rare as they are.”
“Cursed creatures.” The short man spit. “My grandfather saw two back when he was a boy. Claimed their noses were bewitched. They can smell a fart a hundred furlongs off.”
The leader grunted a laugh. “Here’s hopin’ where there’s one dairne, there’s more.”
“If we do catch sight of one,” said the boy, “please don’t kill it.” He paused when the leader sent him a dark look. “I just mean to say it’ll be more coin in our pockets if we can capture it.”
“Worth plenty dead, and quicker by half,” the leader grumbled. “Speakin’ o’ which, I ever hear you scream, ‘Don’t kill it!’ in the middle of a hunt again, and it’ll be your pelt we’re takin’ to market.”
The boy looked at the ground. “Yes, master.”
“Where to, then, boy,” asked the leader, “seein’ as you’re so clever?”
The guide turned, then stood still as stone, staring into the trees.
He was looking in our direction. Despite the thick cover of the billerberry bush, I sensed that he saw us.
The men fell silent.
The guide closed his eyes.
“He’s catchin’ the trackin’ spell again,” the first man said.
“Then shut your gob and let him at it.”
The guide’s eyes opened. In spite of the distance between us, I could see that they were deep brown, heavy lidded and thoughtful.
“Head north,” he called to the men. “I’ll grab my mount and catch up with you.”
The older men moved away. The boy waited in silence, taking in the scene. Then he, too, departed.
But before he disappeared into the trees, he stopped and glanced back toward us, and I thought, though I could not be sure, that he was smiling.
8.
Three Tails, Three Saves
As soon as the danger had passed, my stomach began to whine, as if it had been waiting to complain until things were safe.
Tobble startled. “What was that?”
“My stomach. I’m hungry.”
“My stomach growls when it’s hungry.”
“Ours whine.” I stood carefully, nosing the air for any sign that the poachers hadn’t actually left. “That guide,” I said. “I feel certain he saw us.”
“But why wouldn’t he have said something?”
“I don’t know.” I shook my head. “It makes no sense.”
I realized at that moment that I was utterly exhausted. The mad leap off the cliff, the impossible glide, the salt water followed by rain, the cold, the fear: I just wanted to be home, safe in the huddle of my sleeping family.
I’d been curious enough for one day.
I looked at Tobble and wondered what to do with him. I didn’t know much about hunting. But I had the feeling you weren’t supposed to converse with your prey.
Tobble seemed to sense what I was thinking. “You do realize you cannot eat me until I return the favor of saving your life?”
Despite myself I smiled. “You’re going to save my life?”
“What I lack in stature I make up for in spirit.” Tobble dusted wet dirt off his rear end. “Besides, it’s Wobbyk Code. You saved my life; I must save yours three times.”
“Why thrice?”
“Because that’s the rule.”
“But why is that the rule?”
“Because I have three tails.”
I frowned. “But that doesn’t make any sense.”
“I don’t make the rules. But I do obey them.”
A noise like thunder rumbled again in the distance. We both flinched, worried the noise might now signal returning hooves rather than angry sky.
“There’s no need to thank me,” I said. Especially, I added silently, since under different circumstances I might well be feasting on you for dinner.
“So. Where to?” asked Tobble.
“You’re not coming with me. My pack has been living on worms and bark for weeks. They’ll eat you in a flash.”
“That’s a risk I’ll simply have to take.”
“You may not come,” I said firmly, surprising myself with the voice my parents so often used on me.
“And yet I shall.”
I decided to try logic. “You’ll slow me down. And you’ll make too much noise.”
“If you think I’ll make noise on the ground, then let me ride on your back. I’m too big for your pouch.” Tobble jutted out his fuzzy chin. “Three times,” he said. “Wobbyk Code. You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”
“I could if I ate you,” I muttered, trying to sound intimidating.
Before I could say another word, Tobble climbed up onto my back. “I do hope you don’t mind,” he said.
“That there’s a furry meal hugging my neck?” I asked. “As it happens, I do mind.”
“It seems I’ve neglected to ask your name,” Tobble said, ignoring me.
I sighed. Loudly and with feeling. “It’s Byx.”
“Byx,” he repeated. “A fine name indeed for a fine dairne.” He leaned close to my ear and whispered, “If that’s really what you are.”
I twisted my head and sent him a grimace. “Just a jest,” he said with a wide grin. “Don’t mind me.”
“That may prove difficult.”
Circling back meant a longer return trip, but I wanted to be very sure I didn’t accidentally lead the poachers to the mirabear hive.
The sky was covered with clouds and the sunset wasn’t far off. I went east, then north, then at last turned in a straight line toward my temporary home and my permanent family.
Tobble didn’t weigh much, but the question of what I was going to do with him once I got to the hive definitely weighed on my mind. At least he’d provide a distraction from the bigger question of why I’d strayed so far.
In any case, even hungry dairnes are civilized. If I claimed Tobble was a friend, I doubted anyone in the pack would try to eat him. They would, however, want to know why I’d befriended a potential meal.
I tried one more time. “You truly should hop off and be on your way,” I told Tobble.
“I understand your concern.” He ducked his head as I raced through stinging brambles. “But I can fend for myself.”
“With what?” I half hoped he had some unrevealed power.
“With my derring-do,” Tobble said confidently. “Let me just say this: You do not want to see me mad. I am a terrible sight to behold.”
“I’ll remember that,” I said, trying not to smile.
“So where are we headed? Your home?”
“Yes. No. We don’t really have homes,” I said. “We move from place to place. Never too long in one spot.”
“I thought you nested in trees. That’s what I always heard.”
“We used to. Not anymore. My parents taught us how to make nests, though. It takes a lot of practice. We weave silk from orb webs, bog reeds, and willow b
ranches, and line the nests with moss and thistledown.”
“I’m impressed. Of course, it probably helps that you dairnes have thumbs.”
“They’re quite useful.” I wiggled them in the air.
“Show-off,” said Tobble. “I’ll bet you can’t do this.”
I turned my head to see his huge ears spinning like tiny cyclones, twisting and untwisting.
“Intriguing,” I said. “What purpose does that serve?”
“None whatsoever,” Tobble said with a grin.
After a few more minutes I stopped, checking for anything new. I had an odd sense that something wasn’t right, although the wind brought me no useful news. I smelled pine sap and mold. Willowweed and ginger flowers. I heard a crimson owl fussing with her nest in the crook of a spruce.
“Do you hear anything?” I asked.
“Nope,” Tobble said. “And with my ears, I hear everything.”
I concentrated again. Nothing. Nothing I could name, anyway. Of course, that feeling often hit me when I’d made an unwise choice. Only afterward did the risk of what I’d done fully register.
My explorations had, for the most part, been careful. Timid, even. But today I’d gone too far. I was not looking forward to explaining myself to my parents. Still, I wanted to get home as quickly as I could. I’d made a big mistake, a very big one. I wanted to avoid any more.
“We live underground,” Tobble volunteered, perhaps trying to distract me from my worries. “In amazing tunnels. They go on for leagues. I have my very own room. It’s gigantic. And luxurious.”
“That’s nice,” I said as I started walking again, even faster than before.
“I share it with my brothers Blaxton, Roopwart, and Piddlecombe.”
“Hmm.”
“And McGuppers, Jellyhorn, and Bribbles.” Tobble paused. “So it’s not exactly only my room.”
Again I stopped. Something was wrong. Something in the air.
My fur stood on end. My nose tingled.
I shivered, even though I was no longer cold.
I’d been dawdling, indulging my own weariness.
“Hold on,” I said to Tobble.
I dropped to all fours and took off at a gallop.
9.
Fear
I raced through the trees, then across a stretch of exposed rock dotted with tiny purple flowers. Twice I stumbled, but Tobble hung on, his little arms tight around my neck.
“Keep a sharp lookout,” I said, panting.
“I shall, Byx,” Tobble replied with worrying seriousness, and we both fell silent.
The clouds were breaking up overhead, driven inland by the wind. The sky, revealed in patches, had taken on an angry glow as day eased into night.
I was heading back to the mirabear hive from a different angle, but it didn’t matter. I needed no signposts. I moved on instinct, nose set for home, home, home.
I leapt over a small stream and stopped cold.
“What is it?” Tobble asked.
I didn’t move. I froze the way my parents had taught me and took everything in. To rush is not necessarily to arrive.
Ahead of me, I caught the scent of humans. The guide, perhaps? The horses, the dogs, the rest were farther away.
A two-minute run at full pace, home awaited.
“Something’s wrong,” I said, shaking my head as if arguing with myself.
“What is it?”
“Shhh.” I listened, and so did Tobble.
They weren’t there yet, the noises I was searching for. Wasn’t I near enough to hear the movements of my fellow dairnes? They’d be packing up. They’d be looking for me. Were the trees so thick they muffled sound?
We were about to set out on a huge journey. Preparations should have been underway. Food had to be wrapped in poonan leaves, tools had to be put away, the few mementos we carried had to be slipped into pouches.
What I heard was not a sound. It was an absence of sound. A void.
I tried to pin down a fleeting scent. It was almost nothing, almost impossible for me to make out. The wind didn’t serve me well, but from the dark recesses of my mind, an ancient emotion grew.
Fear.
I sat on my haunches and Tobble slid off.
“I have to go,” I said, and by the time Tobble began to answer, I was already on my way.
I ran, tripping over a fallen branch, slipping on leaves.
I wove. I darted. I plowed through the undergrowth, heedless, eyes half closed to avoid the whipping branches.
Again I stopped.
Lost. I was lost.
Frantically I panted, hating my short legs and weak lungs that never, ever allowed me the pleasure of being the first or the fastest.
The treacherous breeze shifted and it hit me.
A smell so thick and horrible that it crawled down my throat like lava.
I knew before I knew.
“No,” I whispered.
The world was silent, except for Tobble, far behind but gamely trying to catch up.
I saw a hill that I recognized because of the huge, lonely pine that stood atop it. The camp was just over the hill.
I panted and gasped, climbing up and up, and there at the summit where the mass of earth no longer stifled sound, the silence was gone.
I heard.
Howls and screams.
Agony.
Pain beyond words.
Terror and despair.
I ran.
10.
The Unthinkable
It took forever. And yet it came too quickly, the moment when I was sure.
Careening through the trees, I saw the humans in silver and red with their arrows and their broadswords, their drooling dogs and panting horses.
They were mayhem. They were blood. They were darkness.
Not poachers. These men were something else. They didn’t wear motley clothing, they didn’t wield mismatched weapons. They wore identical red-and-silver tunics, revealing arms covered in chain mail. Their heads were protected by conical steel helmets cut with a narrow slit for their eyes. Their boots glittered with spurs. Some men had swords. Others clutched spears.
These were not poachers. These were the Murdano’s soldiers.
The mirabear hive, thirty feet high and twice as long, was golden and slick from the rain. Fires raged inside. Black smoke billowed from every opening.
One of the soldiers leapt off his horse and poked at a mound of fur with his spear.
It was Dalyntor, the elder of our pack. White muzzled, but wise in the ways of humans.
Not wise enough.
And then I saw them.
All of them.
My father.
My mother.
My siblings.
They were piled on the ground like discarded hides, blood pouring, white and pearly, soaking the leaves, eyes glassy and open, mouths open. Torn and stabbed.
They lay in a mound, as if they’d been too late to scatter, my parents on top, protecting as always.
I ran.
I ran to maim, to kill, to exact revenge, growling from some primitive place inside me that I didn’t know existed.
I was almost in the open when something struck me hard in the side. It yanked me onto my back, legs tangled.
I stared in disbelief at the trident arrowhead buried in my right side. The filament attached to it, nearly invisible but capable of restraining a charging vulf stag, was taut.
I tried to pull out the arrow, but the points were barbed. It wasn’t a killing arrow. It was an arrow meant for capture.
I grabbed the filament and tried to break it with my teeth. I raged and kicked.
From behind a tree I heard a voice. “Be still, you fool!”
I would not be still. I would not be stopped. I would go to my mother, my father. I would go to my brothers and sisters, my pack, my—
I heard a rush of feet, twisted too late, and felt a blow on the back of my neck.
But I felt it for only a second, maybe two, before I
was lost in swirling darkness.
Part Two
Captives
11.
The Guide
In my mind I was moving, but I could not move.
I could see.
I could smell.
I could hear.
But I could not move. I was restrained, held in place.
I was hanging, stomach down, over a saddleless horse. I rocked forward and back as the beast navigated a stony path. Somehow I didn’t slip off. Was I tied to him, as well as bound hand and foot?
My face bounced against the horse’s side. The stink of him—sweat and dung and weariness—was suffocating.
I was a carcass, dangling like a dead mouse in the jaws of a woodcat.
What was happening? My thoughts came slow and thick as mud.
My head lolled and snapped with each jerky step. When I strained to raise my head, I saw pine and bulla tree branches low to the ground, their tangy needles scratching the horse’s legs.
I realized with a shock that we were in sunlight. Evening and night had come and gone. Had I been unconscious that long?
I saw hard-packed dirt and sharp-edged rocks.
I saw dappled gold and black horsehair rippling over ribs.
I saw a pair of legs, cloth-covered, feet bound in leather, striding surely, just ahead. A boy. I remembered him, at least I thought I did.
The boy. The poachers’ guide.
Memories assaulted me. Poachers and arrows. Water and terror. A strange little wobbyk.
And something else . . . something terrible. So terrible my mind shut down.
The guide murmured softly and the horse halted.
With his hand on my shoulder, the guide steadied me. He lifted me up a little in order to see my face.
High above me, light stabbed through the thick overhang of branches. I felt it on my back. I saw the short noon shadows it cast.
I twisted my throbbing head and saw the rope holding me in place, the fat knot. I turned my head the other way and saw the horse’s ears twitching. His mane was a tangle of shimmering gold and black.
The guide put a waterskin to my mouth. Just a bit to wet my lips, but I couldn’t swallow well at that angle. Gently he wiped away the drops slipping down my cheek. Cupping his hand, he poured water into it, and I lapped like a dog. I was desperately thirsty.