The Volunteer (The Bone World Trilogy)

by Peadar O'Guilin

  Aagam shrugged. "I am. I would."

  "Go on," said Wallbreaker. "Go home. Your wife is excused work today."

  And there was nothing more to be said.

  CHAPTER 4: Saving The Young

  Clawfolk skittered everywhere along the roads, or hung from buildings by their fifth limb, the one that ended in a bony hook. They ran clumsily, careening off each other and scraping moss from the walls with impacts from their shell-covered bodies. The creatures chittered in voices only a Talker could understand. They climbed over each other and none of the nervous human volunteers had any doubt that they did so in an excitement of hunger and anticipation. The creatures were going to be getting a lot of flesh, after all: there were a good twenty men and women here, limping along as though half-asleep towards the end of their lives.

  The Tribe needed to build up its stores and to leave the slow behind it. Of all the Volunteers, only Whistlenose knew why.

  "They kill easy here," said Fearsflyers. He had been given the honour of leading the escorts. "Everybody says so."

  Whistlenose nodded, but Cleanhair—whose husband he had seen captured by the Diggers only a few days earlier—snapped at the young guard. "And you've been slaughtered by the Clawfolk yourself, have you? You returned to tell the tale? How nice for you."

  "Well... no—I..."

  "Nobody knows how they kill here, puppy," she said. She turned away from him, had probably forgotten the unfortunate youngster already. Cleanhair would have a lot on her mind, even apart from her coming sacrifice. She had left two children behind in the care of a brother.

  Whistlenose tried not to think about his own family. That joyous little boy who had wished daddy luck on "the hunt," not realising they would never play together again; and Ashsweeper, chin high and proud. No tears from her, but no words either from her trembling lips. What would become of them now when the Chief announced his great journey and its mysterious purpose?

  The escorts allowed him to join them in guarding the other Volunteers. It distracted him for much of the day as they walked towards ClawWays. But now as they were coming to the entrance of a huge building with Clawfolk lined messily to either side, their yellow-splotched shells polished and decorated with lumps of moss, he had to hand over his spear to the younger men.

  "It will serve you well," he said to Fearsflyers. He couldn't keep the shake out of his voice. "Give it plenty to drink."

  The young man nodded enthusiastically. "I will make you all proud of me!"

  "We're dead," said Cleanhair. "And the dead don't care."

  "Of course not. I'm—I'm—"

  Whistlenose interrupted him. "Good-bye, Fearsflyers." He gripped the youngster's forearm. Then, he pulled him close to whisper, "The Chief made me a promise. An oath."

  "You told me, Whistlenose. I won't forget. I'll look in on Ashsweeper when I get home. You did the tribe proud, escaping like that."

  "I... I was rescued by..." he was supposed to say "Aagam," but the lie stuck in his throat. And then they had reached the entrance of the huge building.

  Whistlenose had travelled this far once before with a group of volunteers, one of whom had been his own brother. It seemed a very long time ago.

  "We have to turn back now," said Fearsflyers.

  "I know... I... I just want to say... you performed this difficult duty with great honour. You bring pride to your Ancestors." A smile from the younger man, and then he and the other hunters were all gone, leaving the old and injured, the weak, the tired, behind.

  By now, the heat of midday radiated down from the Roof of the world. Whistlenose felt it as a caress on his skin. All around the humans and the gathering Clawfolk, tiny glittering mossbeasts swarmed through the air or landed in impossibly co-ordinated formations on the crumbling walls. The Volunteer followed them with his eyes, marvelling at their freedom, at the flashing colours of their shells. Everything, everything shone so intensely, so suddenly beautiful.

  Except... the Roof. He looked up at it one last time. No Globes hung there now—nobody had seen any for days—but it wasn't that that had drawn his attention. Something was wrong, as if the quality of the light up there had changed. It felt too dim for this time of day.

  The Clawfolk didn't care. They pushed in to surround the Volunteers and Whistlenose felt a gentle pressure at his back. "All right, all right." His stomach started churning, but he moved forward into the darkness. Cleanhair was at his elbow and, as they moved around some shadowy corner, the last of the light disappeared and the smell of blood grew ever more pungent. He felt the woman grip his arm, although she said nothing. A few of the other Volunteers spoke nervously among themselves or muttered prayers to the Ancestors to accept their spirits. A few of them repeated the well-known story of the Clawfolk killing quickly. "They'll line us up and it'll be over and we'll be looking down on our children. You'll see..."

  "How strange," he said to Cleanhair, although he couldn't see her now. They had been walking for a few hundred heartbeats. His own voice sounded strange to him. Instinctively he knew they had come into a vast, empty room. He couldn't stop himself talking. "A roll of Clawfolk meat—that was always my favourite food. And now—"

  A man screamed—really screamed—hard enough to break something inside. The skittering of claws was suddenly everywhere and Cleanhair's grip, painful on his arm, tightened even more. But then, the skittering became louder. Something barrelled into Whistlenose, throwing him from his feet to roll on ground covered in stinging brick dust and cement.

  "W-Whistlenose?" Cleanhair had been torn from his grip. "A-are you there." But then she yelped, as though her husband had playfully poked her in the side. It turned to a shriek, however. Something snapped in the darkness and she was whimpering and crying and begging. And all the while, he lay there, winded, stunned, shocked. It was supposed to be quick! His hand found a stone. He would not attack the Clawfolk with it—even if he could see one. They were Volunteers, after all. Volunteers for the future of the Tribe, for Ashsweeper; for a beautiful, nameless boy.

  But his last act, he swore to the Ancestors, would be to finish off Cleanhair, whose sobs had yet to end. He scrambled onto all fours and reached for the source of her whimpers. He found her head with his left hand and raised the stone, but luckily, she had already gone to the Ancestors. "She had a thousand days left in her," he whispered, wondering when they would come for him, whether he would scream as much.

  In a distant part of the building, a man cried defiance. He must have run, he must be trying to fight, attracting hungry beasts from all directions and away, it seemed, from Whistlenose. He strained his ears. There's one behind me right now. He imagined it standing perfectly still, its hanging claw poised above his head.

  I can't run. Must stay. For the Tribe. Not that there was anywhere to run to, he knew.

  His eyes were finally adapting to the dark: enough that he could discern the grey shapes of Clawfolk shooting over and back across the space and sometimes, too, the sight of their human prey, evading them, it seemed, all too easily.

  He had seen the shelled beasts hunting many times in the streets of ManWays. As a child, he and his friends knew no greater entertainment than the watch them stalking Hairbeasts strong enough to smash through shell with a single blow of their bone clubs. But the Clawfolk were agile enough that they won more often than they lost. Nor had they had never been particularly cruel with their kills. So, why had Cleanhair, and at least one other, been made to suffer so much?

  It took Whistlenose a few moments to understand the difference between the Clawfolk he had seen in the past and those before him now. They're children, he realised. This was where they learned to hunt. Safely. On prey that was too weak or injured or confused to do them real damage. Cleanhair's slow death could be explained by nothing more than a lack of experience.

  Through the palms of his hands, he felt the ground tremble. So strange was the feeling, but so slight that he couldn't be sure it had been real. Like the way the light of the Roof dimmed be
fore we came in here.

  Then he forgot all about it, because three shadows had coalesced out of the gloom around him: juvenile Clawfolk. They stood no more than waist high to him, their forelimbs waving hypnotically, embedded with the rocks or shards of old metal they used to kill. He should have stayed put and let them put an end to his worries and his bad leg forever. Instead, he was running suddenly towards the centre of the building, weaving and ducking as new figures popped into existence around him.

  Up ahead, the room brightened. There seemed to be a door there and his feet took him in that direction, for all he knew that he would never betray the Tribe by actually escaping. Still, he ran, ignoring the growing, familiar ache.

  Something hit him from above, landing hard enough to drive him to the floor, sending him sprawling, scrabbling on torn knees. He had forgotten they liked to hang high above street-level to drop on their victims! He rolled as claws smacked next to his face; felt the wind of another strike pass over his head. And he should have died then, but for some reason the attack stopped and he dove forward, aiming for the light he'd seen before. He should be right at it now, at the exit except... except the door wasn't there any more. Nothing was there. His dark-adapted eyes were suddenly useless to him. He heard... he heard a rumbling sound and felt it through the soles of his feet again. It made no sense: not the complete darkness; not the trembling of the ground. Whistlenose reached out to find himself standing before a curtain of hides. It moved easily under his hands. He opened it to the air beyond, he was sure of that, sure of it. But there was nothing outside either. No Roof, no streets, no houses. Nothing.

  From somewhere high up in the air, there came a strange, screeching sound. The Roof flickered. Then the tracklights came on for a heartbeat, followed by the full, terrible glare of midday. The savage light pulsed once; twice.

  And then, the entire building fell down behind him.

  ***

  A voice said, "Twisted my ankle. Again!"

  Whistlenose groaned, the whole world a blur. He had his back to a building, his various cuts and grazes stinging from contact with the moss growing there. He felt bruised all over and the words he was hearing felt like echoes, or the whisperings of a ghost.

  "Who...?" He coughed, rubbed his eyes and found he was not alone. Dust hung heavy in the air, more than he had ever seen before. He couldn't tell where he was, although he had hunted these streets his whole adult life.

  "Don't know why they still haven't killed us," said the voice. A man. "Probably need us to stay fresh. Don't want rotting meat in an emergency, right?"

  Whistlenose knew where he was now and it didn't make sense. The giant building in which they were all supposed to die, lay in ruins. Walls leaned at impossible angles.

  He had heard of this kind of thing before. Houses had fallen in his grandfather's time and the tunnels of the Diggers were said to have collapsed entire streets. But this was different; terrifying.

  No more than a hundred paces away, a huge shard, like a spearhead made of bone, rose jaggedly from the wreckage of another collapsed building.

  "It fell from the Roof," said the man beside Whistlenose. Charmer. A hunter like himself, beyond his prime and Volunteered now because of a recent injury. He waved an arm. "You can see where it came off."

  Sure enough, shielding his eyes from the glare, Whistlenose could see a black triangle in amongst the panels of the Roof. Other, nearby areas seemed dimmer to him than usual, but it was hard to say.

  "Just as well we're getting out of this, Whistlenose. We can do some good for the Tribe as Ancestors."

  Hundreds of Clawfolk swarmed around the wreckage of the slaughterhouse, pulling bodies free. They made a hissing sound—rare for them. He'd only ever heard it when they were losing a fight with the Hairbeasts. A sound of despair, maybe. Or defiance. Curiosity pulled Whistlenose to his feet. On the far side of Charmer lay another human, a girl whose name he couldn't remember. She looked healthy and he had no idea why she had been Volunteered. He left the other two and walked in amongst the crowd of his hosts, wondering if they would kill him for it, but uncaring. The mad panic that had made him run for his life earlier had left him. What did anything matter if the Roof itself could fall?

  The Clawfolk ignored him, shoving him out of the way. Their long forelimbs were dressed in tubes of shell that humans sometimes fashioned into trumpets for their guards. But the tips, unlike the backlimb that carried the claw, were soft enough that tools could be embedded in them. The creatures made excellent use of them now to pull bodies from the wreckage. Dozens had died: appalling losses for any Tribe. No wonder they hissed, the sound all around him now as he picked his way amongst them.

  To one side, a large group of Clawfolk piled wreckage up against one of the remaining walls, as though making a stair. They must have been working at it for several tenths of a day, for they had almost completed it. How long was I unconscious?

  They finished as he watched. Without pausing for breath, three of them clambered up their new ramp and swung themselves onto the top of the wall with their hook limbs. But there, they halted, hissing and hissing, a whole row of the shelled beasts making a choir of despair.

  Whistlenose followed, up the pile of shaky masonry, two stories high, until he stood balancing on the wall right in amongst them where any could have pushed him to his death.

  He saw now what had upset them so much. A thin arch of stone separated this wall from another with a drop beneath so high, that not even the Clawfolk could have survived it.

  Beyond the arch, on the far wall, a full dozen youngsters hung by their clawlimbs. They were smaller even than those that had chased Whistlenose within the building. Perhaps they had been left there by their elders to witness the hunt and learn from it. But they had been hanging for several Tenths of a day already and, as he watched, one of them lost its grip. It slid down the wall, tumbled and smashed itself amongst the debris below. More hissing. Several of the adults sidled up to the arch of stone leading across, but the human could see their bodies were too wide, too rounded to balance there.

  "I'll do it."

  Of course, they didn't understand and wouldn't get out of his way. He had to lower himself back onto the stair they had made and climb across until he could push up in front of them. Only when he stood at the arch, did they seem to get the idea and finally made room for him. The hissing stopped at once.

  "What are you doing?" Charmer called up, but Whistlenose ignored him.

  The light of the Roof was dimming now, but in a natural way, with the approach of dusk. He lay flat and pulled himself up the arch, wondering at the damage it had suffered and thinking it must surely collapse under him. "I'm already dead," he muttered. No need for his pulse to beat so insistently in his ears; no need for all that sweat. "Already dead. Food for the Clawfolk so the others can make it Home." For the first time in his life, he wondered where Home actually was. Aagam knew, the horrible stranger. Earth, he had called it, whatever that meant. Oh well. Whistlenose would learn the answer soon enough, when he became an Ancestor.

  Another of the Clawfolk children tumbled, sickeningly into the rubble, and another. The hissing started up again and the Roof continued to darken. mossbeasts flew in around Whistlenose's body, tasting it, flying off again. He reached the top of the arch, slid forward on his belly, squealing in terror like an infant as he slipped sideways and hung with legs dangling over the abyss.

  "Nothing to worry about, no need to hiss for me. I'm there now." Painfully, he pulled himself back up, until he sat on the far wall, the first of the "children" already within reach.

  After that, it went quickly. The shelled bodies were much lighter than they looked and far from stupid. The first of those he rescued, moved out of his way and began pulling its fellows out of danger until all stood on the wall, their claws digging into its surface for balance. Then, it was half a night of waiting until the Clawfolk working at the front of the building had finally cleared a way through from below.

  Wh
istlenose found his way back to the surviving two humans. "Thought they'd eaten you already," said Charmer. "Here, they gave us a few skulls of water. Look like you need some." Whistlenose did. More badly than ever he had in his life, although the Roofsweat had cooled him down as he waited on the wall. He collapsed beside the other hunter and the strange, silent girl.

  ***

  "Wake up!" Whistlenose felt a dig in his side. The Roof was brightening again. He was stiff and cold, his leg aching. He dimly remembered feeling the pain in a dream. "Unless," said Charmer, "you prefer to die in your sleep?"

  "That would have been a favour," said Whistlenose.

  "Suppose so," said Charmer. "Sorry. Didn't think of that."

  A dozen adult Clawfolk were gathering before the last Volunteers. They had sharpened bits of stone and metal embedded in their forelimbs. "They look hungry," said Charmer.

  "I'm afraid," said the girl out of the blue. Her voice sounded hoarse. "I'm so afraid." And yet, she stood up. There really was nothing wrong with her. No limping, no shattered limbs. She strode right over to the nearest beast. And then, she was on the ground, gurgling and bleeding out.

  Charmer was gasping now too, but from fear. "Wish... wish..." He couldn't walk, of course, with his injury, so the Clawfolk came for him. "I," he said. "Maybe—?" A creature shattered his skull with an embedded rock.

  Whistlenose surged to his feet, breathing hard, heart hammering, desperate for life. He realised he wasn't as brave as the girl had been, that he couldn't look his fate in the eye. So, he lowered his head and forced himself to step forward. It was like walking with stones tied to his feet. Every part of him hurt. Even his eyes stung.

  He jumped as he felt a brush of shell against his skin. He was hiccoughing with terror, ready to be sick. Another touch, a shove this time, and he stumbled forward. Another push, and yet another.