Beast of Stone

  The fox leapt at him so hard that he was knocked off his feet. He landed almost flat on his back, with the fox on his neck, growling in his ear, its hot breath heavy with fox-stink. Antidote powder fell like snow on both him and the fox. It was standing on his chest now, about to snap its jaws again—

  Raffa shrieked in terror. He was groping blindly at his neck when the fox, like the stoat before it, suddenly sneezed once, twice. It blinked and shook its head from side to side. Then it jumped off his chest and ran west.

  Panting, Raffa lay back in exhaustion. Voices filled the air. Some people roared or bellowed to hearten themselves and their companions; triumphant yells were mixed with cries of fear.

  He struggled to his feet. When his vision cleared, he couldn’t help a wordless shout at what he saw: All around him, animals were fleeing westward.

  We did it, we did it! Where was Garith? And Kuma? Were they seeing this, the animals returned to their natural state, running away to avoid contact with humans? It’s happening just like we thought it would!

  Then Raffa heard a scream.

  “HELP! SOMEONE, PLEASE—HELP—HELP!”

  It was Jimble.

  Raffa ran toward the sound of Jimble’s voice. He had to weave his way through the chaos of what was surely the strangest battle ever waged: stoats and foxes and badgers against humans, most of whom were not fighting back: They were standing as still as statues while the animals attacked.

  But there was still a tumult of motion, as people kept running to put themselves in the way of another creature.

  Motion—and noise.

  Shouts of panic.

  Cries of fear.

  Screams of pain.

  As Raffa ran, images blurred in his vision, a nightmare echo of what he had seen during the river crossing. A man tripping and falling as a badger savaged his ankle. A fox with its teeth clamped on a woman’s forearm. Another man with a stoat clinging to his neck, blood streaming . . .

  The Afters were prevailing. The number of animals fleeing far outnumbered those that were on the attack. Guards were screaming orders and blowing whistles; the animals that had inhaled the powder ignored them completely.

  But still, people were getting hurt—some of them badly. For a long, agonized moment, Raffa couldn’t decide what to do—keep trying to find Jimble? Or stop and help the injured here?

  He was nearing the Forest when he heard Jimble scream again, very nearby. The voice of a friend who needed help was something Raffa could not ignore. He whirled around, searching, searching—

  “RAFFA! HELP ME!”

  Jimble was cornered. He had backed into a copse formed by touchrue shrubs on three sides; he could not move in any direction except forward.

  In front of the copse, pacing back and forth, was an enormous wolf.

  Then the huge creature lowered itself to its belly. It was no longer stalking Jimble. It was preparing to attack.

  Raffa didn’t think; there was no time to think. He simply reacted.

  He yanked the knitted sack off his left wrist. Bellowing at the top of his lungs, he raced straight toward the wolf.

  He was too late. The wolf sprang, aiming for one of its prey’s extremities: Jimble’s leg.

  Jimble screamed as the wolf’s jaws closed around his calf.

  In blind fear and fury, Raffa leapt forward and hit the wolf on the nose with the sack as hard as he could. The sack burst with an explosion of powder. The wolf yelped and released its grip on Jimble’s leg. It shook its head in confusion, snorting and pawing at its nose.

  “Climb on my back!” Raffa said to Jimble, whose eyes were glazing over in shock and pain. “Jimble, NOW!”

  Jimble managed to fling himself onto Raffa’s back. The wolf raised its nose in the air and howled.

  “GET AWAY!” Raffa shouted, and threw the sack at the wolf.

  The antidote had taken effect. The wolf yelped, backed up, and then turned and loped away.

  Raffa staggered into the Forest. He had to get Jimble somewhere safe.

  “Raffa! What happened?” Garith came running toward him. “He was here with me, and then the animals— He ran ahead of me and I couldn’t find him—” He took a now-unconscious Jimble off Raffa’s back.

  “Wolf,” Raffa said, barely able to get the words out. “His leg.” He pointed, but there was no need. Blood still streamed from the wound.

  “I’ve got him,” Garith said, hoisting Jimble’s limp body in his arms. He looked at Raffa over the top of Jimble’s blond head. “I’ll take care of him. You get back to the fight.”

  Raffa cast a last worried glance at Jimble, then looked at his cousin. “Take care of yourself, too,” he said.

  Wolves.

  It wasn’t that he had forgotten about them. It was more that he hadn’t thought much about them in the first place. He had witnessed the stoats and the foxes in action before, and he’d seen the badgers in the secret compound. But he’d never actually laid eyes on the wolves.

  And then he hadn’t wanted to think about them, and there had been so many other things on his mind. . . .

  Well, I’m thinking about them now, he thought grimly.

  At the secret compound, he had seen two locked sheds set apart from the rest, and according to Echo, each shed had held two wolves. Four altogether. That in itself was remarkable, as wolves were rare in Obsidia. Raffa thought it highly unlikely that Jayney and Trubb, the Chancellor’s men, had been able to find any more.

  Three left, then.

  Raffa had been trotting back toward the battle. He stopped to get himself organized. He took the knitted sacks from his neck and ankles, as well as the strip of leather, and transferred everything to his left forearm. The collars wrapped twice around his arm, each making a double layer. Now his arm was well protected, but at the expense of the entire rest of his body.

  He knew that wolves hunted by singling out the most vulnerable prey, and that, as had happened to Jimble, they often targeted extremities—legs and, for humans, arms, too. He would be using both of those pieces of knowledge.

  “Raffa!”

  It was Fitzer. Raffa quickly explained about the wolves and what he was planning. “I have to track them down,” he said. “I saw how that one wolf attacked. No one else knows what to expect.”

  Fitzer immediately moved all his sacks to one forearm, just as Raffa had done.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  They made their way to the east side of the scrubland, away from the most frenzied activity. Putting several paces between them, they both began affecting limps, moving slowly and hesitantly.

  It did not take long before Raffa heard a far-off whistle, then spotted a pair of purple eyes coming toward him—on an animal far larger than a fox.

  Behind it, two more pairs of eyes.

  All three wolves.

  They were hunting in a pack.

  “Raffa,” Fitzer said, his voice calm but urgent. “Back-to-back.”

  Keeping his eyes on the wolves, Raffa edged his way toward Fitzer until they were standing back-to-back. The wolves drew nearer and began pacing in a semicircle, but made no move to attack.

  “It’s you they want,” Fitzer said.

  Raffa swallowed. “I know.” They always choose the smaller one. Or the weaker. “They’re not going to try as long as you’re so close. I’m going to step away again.”

  “Watch yourself, lad.”

  Raffa put several paces between himself and Fitzer. The three wolves were grouped together, all clearly focused on him. The largest one was enormous, and had a great ruff around its neck. It separated itself from the others and began moving toward him, slowly but purposefully.

  For a long moment, everything seemed frozen in time.

  The wolf charged.

  Chapter Thirty

  RAFFA thrust out his left arm. As the wolf sprang, he could see nothing but its mouth, wide open, with enormous jagged teeth. Unable to bear the terrifying sight, he squeezed his eyes shut.

  The wo
lf struck his arm so hard that he spun around from the force of the blow. With its teeth gripping the knitted fabric of the sacks, the wolf shook its head, hard. It tugged and pulled, snapping its jaws repeatedly. A choking haze of antidote powder filled the air. Raffa heard the wolf snort, and felt it release his arm.

  But to his horror, the wolf did not flee, as the other treated animals had. It bounded a few paces away, then circled around and was now staring at him again, its tongue out, panting and drooling.

  Raffa took a quick glance down at his arm. He was uninjured, but only one of the knitted sacks was still intact; the others had been shredded by the wolf’s vicious teeth. He guessed then that the antidote was taking longer to work because the wolf was so large.

  Panic made him want to run. He took a step back, his gaze on the big wolf. Then he sensed movement to his left.

  “Don’t look at me,” Fitzer said quietly. “Stay right where you are. Keep its attention on you, if you can.”

  The calm in Fitzer’s voice steadied Raffa. Holding his breath, he stared into the wolf’s eyes. Look at me look at me look at me. . . .

  Fitzer dove in front of him. The wolf reached Raffa at the same moment, knocking him to the ground. Fitzer and Raffa and the wolf were all tangled up, arms and legs, tail and snout, the wolf growling, Fitzer grunting, Raffa gasping, the breath slapped from his lungs.

  The wolf’s growl changed to a whine. Then Raffa saw that one of its front paws was snarled in the knitted sacks wrapped around Fitzer’s forearm. As Fitzer started to stand up, the wolf tried to flee. It jerked so hard that Fitzer was yanked off his feet and fell forward. The knitted sacks stretched out: Fitzer bellowed a curse as his arm was twisted and wrenched. Raffa heard a sickening pop from Fitzer’s shoulder.

  Finally the big wolf managed to free itself and ran away.

  “All right?” Raffa asked.

  “Not a scratch,” Fitzer said but with a grimace, and Raffa knew that he must be in terrible pain.

  There was no time for worrying over it now. Raffa jumped to his feet to see the last two wolves pacing uncertainly, turning their heads back and forth to look from Raffa to the west, where their companion had disappeared.

  No no no—not yet, you two, don’t you dare leave yet—

  He had to stop them from fleeing! If they weren’t dosed with the antidote, they might attack someone else, or end up sick or dying in the wild.

  He took his one remaining sack in hand. “Stay down,” he hissed at Fitzer.

  He began moving slowly toward the wolves, keeping low to the ground, using a hobbled, hesitant gait. He was trying to appear as vulnerable as he could.

  Look, wolves. See how small I am? You could—you could eat me for breakfast.

  He couldn’t help shuddering. If these two attack me the way the big one did, I’m a dead dog, Raffa thought. Dead dead dead—

  And then he knew what to do.

  “Stay down,” he repeated to Fitzer.

  He limped a few paces closer to the wolves. Then he began making crying, whining noises, as if he were in pain. When he was certain of their interest, he fell to the ground, turning to land on his back with his hands on his chest.

  He lay as still as he could, except for his fingers. They were working furiously, untying the end of the sack he held.

  The wolves approached slowly. Raffa kept his eyes half-closed, watching them without meeting their gazes. For this to work, he would need them to be almost on top of him.

  Come on, he begged silently. Closer, closer . . .

  The next few moments seemed to last years. Would the wolves ever get near enough? Raffa strained against himself: If he moved too soon, it might not work—and he wouldn’t get a second chance.

  NOT YET NOT YET NOT YET, he screamed inside his head.

  Finally the wolves were only a step away. Raffa sat up and threw the sack right at them. Untied, the sack sprayed its powder as it flew through the air, while Raffa immediately curled back up into a small tight ball.

  One wolf growled, long and low. Raffa had never known that a quiet noise could be so frightening. Head in his arms, he could not see what the wolves were doing.

  The growl ended abruptly—in a sneeze.

  The wolf sneezed and sneezed and sneezed. Raffa uncurled just enough to take a peek. He saw the wolf pawing at its nose. It whimpered, then put its face in the dirt, rubbing vigorously. Finally it threw back its head and shook it hard before trotting off to the west.

  The other wolf yipped twice. Raffa turned to look at it, and knew at once that it had not inhaled any of the antidote. It hadn’t sneezed or pawed its nose, and more than that, it lacked the almost indefinable quality of the animals that had been treated: Simply put, they acted wild again.

  Raffa tensed. He was now defenseless, having used up the last of the sacks.

  “Do you have any sacks left?” he asked Fitzer, keeping his voice low.

  “They’re all torn,” Fitzer answered, “but there’s some powder left in them—”

  The last wolf let out a long howl, followed by a series of yips. Then it began running toward the west.

  Raffa leapt to his feet. “No!” he cried out. He started chasing after the wolf, but had taken only a few paces when he realized that he would never be able to catch it.

  He watched until he couldn’t see it any longer, his heart pounding. Tears filled his eyes at the vision of what the untreated wolf would face over the next day or so: twitching, shivering, fever, pain, vomiting. . . . There was only a slim chance that it would survive the terrible symptoms of withdrawal from its addiction to the scarlet-vine infusion.

  He knew, too, that there were surely other untreated animals: It was too much to hope that every single creature had inhaled the powder. Heartsick, he let loose a curse of frustration and anger at the Chancellor. Wasn’t there enough suffering in the world for both humans and animals, without deliberately causing more?

  “We have to hurry,” Fitzer said as he got to his feet. “The clearing.”

  As they began to run, Raffa saw that Fitzer was holding his left arm against his side. Raffa had watched his parents treat wrenched shoulders, although he had never done it himself.

  “Your arm,” Raffa said. “I might be able to—”

  Fitzer shook his head. “No time. I’ll be okay.”

  They kept running. When they reached the edge of the Forest, Raffa whistled for Echo. He was relieved to hear the whirring of the bat’s wings almost immediately. Echo landed on Raffa’s shoulder with his usual “Ouch!”

  Raffa picked Echo up and stroked him for a moment. “Echo, listen. I need you to fly toward the river, and see if anyone is coming this way. On horses.”

  “Horse come.”

  “Yes. My mam—remember her? It might be her, and she’ll be with someone else, at least I hope she will. I know it’s your time to sleep, so you don’t have to search for very long, okay? Then come back and find me.”

  “Mam horse.”

  “And don’t forget—stay away from any other people.”

  Raffa gave the little bat a last scratch before releasing him and watching him fly away.

  Fitzer had gone ahead. Raffa tried to resume running, but he felt like he was wading through irongum sap, his legs leaden with exhaustion. The best he could manage was to trot, trying not to fall too far behind.

  He tallied things in his head. It was clear that the guards had saved the wolves for last. By now the squads should have been able to disperse the other animals. Roo had frightened off a good many guards, so there would be fewer of them in pursuit of the Afters. The touchrue thorns had delayed still more guards, and it would take time for them to reach the clearing.

  Have we done enough? Has Mam been able to bring the Advocate back to himself? If he’s not on his way here, all of this will have been for nothing.

  No. Not for nothing. They had managed to treat hundreds of animals and free them from their captors.

  That’s something. Better than somethin
g. For the animals, but also because it shows the Chancellor that we can beat her. Even if we don’t defeat her today, we showed her that she can’t have her way with everything.

  The path was deserted, which made the going easier. Raffa caught up with Fitzer. As they drew nearer to the clearing, Raffa frowned.

  It was too quiet. He should have been able to hear something. Voices, at least. He was about to say something when Fitzer spoke.

  “Too quiet,” Fitzer said, and slowed his pace.

  Raffa thought aloud. “All the squads should have reached the clearing by now,” he said. “It would be easy for them—they know the way. And the guards followed them. And we were delayed because of the wolves, so . . . everyone is there except us?”

  “That would be my guess, too,” Fitzer said. “Just seems strange that it’s so quiet.”

  The squads’ orders had been to retreat to the clearing. They were not to wage battle against the guards: Even with the guards’ numbers reduced, it would be a slaughter. Their objective was to delay the guards as long as possible, in the hope that the Advocate would reach the clearing and rescind the Chancellor’s orders.

  The guards would be trying to remove the Afters from the clearing—either to force them to leave Obsidia or to arrest them. The squads were to be as uncooperative as possible without provoking violence.

  “Sit on the ground with your hands in plain sight,” Quellin had advised the squad leaders. “You can even lie down.”

  “If they pick you up, go completely limp,” Elson had added. “Don’t struggle, but be a deadweight—make it hard for them to move you.”

  “Absolutely no striking out,” Haddie had said. “It will take only one mistake for them to retaliate against all of us.”

  Raffa and Fitzer were approaching the stable area of the camp. Fitzer held up his hand for quiet. They edged up to a large locuster tree. Fitzer was peering around it cautiously when Raffa felt something poking his side. Momentarily confused, he wondered if he had leaned against something sharp. Then—