A Hero's Curse

by P. S. Broaddus

  I nod, drop my pack, and undress, shaking out my pants and shirt, and brushing myself off. My hair is hopeless again. I get as much of the dirt out as possible, and then pull it back into a tight ponytail. I feel better when I dress again. I feel our little pack and find some of the Urodela food; the moist mushrooms and cake are already almost completely dry. I offer a bit of water to Tig, and then take some myself. It’s what I needed. The dirt in my throat finally washes away, and I am able to take a deep breath. We both sit for a few moments, taking in our new surroundings. Tig is still washing.

  “All the same, I hope it made it,” I say. Tig says nothing. “I mean, it spoke!”

  “So supper speaks,” says Tig. “Doesn’t make it not supper. And it really nettled me the way it pulled those dragons over to us and then panicked and ran again.” Then he mutters something about getting us killed.

  “But it did save us, too,” I point out.

  “Accidentally. After it nearly killed us. I call that ‘almost even.’” I sigh and feel in the pack for another mushroom. Even dry, they still taste excellent. I can feel some energy trickling into me again. They’re also chewy and take a long time to go through. It makes me feel like I’m eating more than I really am. Tig growls softly as he chews his mushroom.

  I sit bolt upright. “Did you hear that?”

  Tig goes silent as well, then says, “Sure. Small, rodent, coming from the right tunnel.”

  “No way . . .” I don’t finish my thought. It could be dangerous, so I get up off the floor and brace my hands behind me against the wall. My best defense in this tiny space will be my feet—especially as I’m in boots and armored leather pants. Maybe the pants will hit it with energy if it attacks.

  “Have no f-f-fear,” a thin voice says, “this t-t-time I’m alone.”

  Since we seemed to have skipped formalities due to dragons trying to eat us, I ask the obvious question. “Who are you? And why are you following us?”

  There’s a pause, and then the rodent—which does smell very much like rodent—replies, “I’m c-c-called ‘Chatter’ in Lingua Comma, and I thought you m-m-might not want to get eaten b-b-by d-d-dragons or cooked by the s-s-sun. I mean, we might d-d-die anyway, and it will probably be worse than d-d-dragons, but we can always hope it w-w-will be quick and p-p-painless.”

  “Maybe we want to get eaten by dragons and cooked by the sun,” growls Tig.

  The rodent, or Chatter as it calls itself, ignores Tig and speaks to me. “T-t-tell your c-cat to behave and you c-c-can come further in.”

  “Do we want to come further in?” I ask. The tunnel we are in seems safe enough for the night, and Chatter does reek of, well, it is a tunnel dweller after all although it doesn’t smell exactly like any rodent I have ever come across. I turn toward Tig and raise my eyebrows. Not that he catches the eyebrow message. I still have my bandana on. He must see the look though. “I don’t like following rodents. Unless, you know . . .” he says, loud enough for Chatter to hear.

  “I’m n-n-not a rodent,” Chatter growls.

  “Tig!” I scold. I drop my voice to a whisper. “It speaks Lingua Comma. And we seem to be safe for the moment.” I turn back to Chatter. “You’re not a very brave . . . non-rodent, but we’re glad you distracted the dragons.”

  “Excuse me, but I feel we need to deal with you bringing the dragons to us before we go thanking you for anything,” says Tig. “I’m tempted to eat you for that. Then maybe after dinner I’ll say thanks for momentarily diverting their attention.”

  “Tig.”

  “I do apologize for the d-d-dragons,” says Chatter, “b-b-but you see, they t-t-tracked your scent. You can’t c-c-cross the Gray Wastelands anymore, not unless y-y-you’re a hero who can fight off d-d-dragons.”

  “What makes you think we’re not heroes?” says Tig.

  That makes me snort in quite an unladylike fashion, but since Mom isn’t here I guess it doesn’t matter.

  “Again my h-h-humble apologies,” says the high voice, “had I known you were heroes I m-m-might not have interfered. I noted the d-d-dragons, I saw they were tracking you and would find your camp, and I-I-I panicked. My first intention was to m-m-make contact with you without alerting the d-d-dragons and show you a better p-p-place to hide for the night, here, in these t-t-tunnels, although, even these tunnels aren’t s-s-safe from earthquakes or—”

  “How did you know where we were?” I interrupt.

  “I t-t-told you, I followed you,” Chatter says, “mostly from underground. I n-n-noticed you on your way down the cliffs.”

  “We heard you,” mutters Tig, a little aggressively.

  “How do you speak Lingua Comma?” I ask. Even though I expect it, I’m still not prepared to hear the king’s name again.

  “King Mactogonii p-p-placed his magic on me nearly a year ago so I c-c-could lead him through these t-t-tunnels and across the Gray W-W-Wastelands.”

  “Across?” I ask. Before Chatter can answer my mind races through the new information. This confirms part of what the Urodela thought. I figured the king would have been trying to find the daemon somewhere in the middle of the desert or go around it back home, just like us—but across?

  Aloud, I prompt again, “Why was he crossing the Gray Wastelands? Alone?”

  “That is a story that d-d-deserves more than a s-s-summary telling . . .” Chatter pauses, “but I don’t know your name.”

  “Right. I’m Essie, of the Kingdom of Mar,” I say, “a subject of King Mactogonii,” I think to add.

  “Really!” says the high voice. “I w-w-wondered if you might be somehow c-c-connected to the k-k-king when I saw you coming down the c-c-cliffs. Of course I f-f-followed you to see who you were and what you were d-d-doing and if you might be d-d-dangerous. King Mactogonii called me Chatter b-b-because he couldn’t p-p-pronounce my own n-n-name, and he said it f-f-fit somehow. If you are a s-s-subject of the k-k-king I humbly offer my own s-s-services, s-s-small that they are, unless we all d-d-die first.”

  Tig growls. I kick at him. “Chatter, huh?” says Tig. “King Mactogonii wasn’t too imaginative with names, was he?”

  “He’d probably name you ‘Annoying Bigheaded Cat,” I mumble.

  “I doubt it,” says Tig. “He seems to like shorter, easy to remember names that correlate somehow to the subject. He’d probably just call me Tig.” I kick at him again. A muffled roar reaches us through the claustrophobic tunnel behind.

  “P-P-Please, these are the outer r-r-reaches of the tunnels,” says Chatter. “There are s-s-safer and more c-c-comfortable nests farther in, although they are s-s-small, and I doubt you’ll be very c-c-comfortable in them.”

  I suddenly feel very weary and nests, even uncomfortable ones, sound good. It has been a long day, and it must be the middle of the night. “How much farther in?”

  “A fair p-p-piece.” Chatter pauses, seeming to calculate. “Perhaps an hour or m-m-more if any of us become w-w-wounded or p-p-poisoned or m-m-maimed and have to t-t-travel slower.” I feel a tiny tremor from above run through the ground, even this deep.

  “Okay,” I sigh. Tig lashes his tail. I turn in his direction and hiss, “Do you think it’s safe?”

  “So it seems, for now. She’s a pretty scrawny pessimist.”

  “She?”

  “Scrawny,” he says.

  “So am I,” I say. “And I can still send you across the room.”

  “Okay, let’s go,” Tig snaps. I drop my hand and find Tig’s sleek back and let him act the guide as we make our way into the right-hand tunnel. I get my bearings fairly quickly, so I let go of Tig but keep him close in front of me. I feel his tail lash just in front of my legs almost the entire way. At least the tunnels we are in are bigger now. I can walk at a stoop for most of the way. I wonder if King Mactogonii came through these tunnels. If so he must have been uncomfortable in the extreme. These aren’t warrior-sized tunnels.

  We arrive in another central hall that has four tunnels leading off in several directi
ons according to Tig. That makes me uneasy. I hope this not-rodent doesn’t lose us in here. We pass a tunnel with a rank odor that smells like rats. This place needs some fresh air, I think. The tunnel widens into a chamber, and I am able to stand up. I know Tig will be glancing around, giving the place the cursory review. He gives me the description.

  “You probably already got dry, sandy floor, but there are some stacked rows of,” Tig pauses, “. . . supplies? In the corner it looks like she has a nest. We’ve just come in a tunnel that has run due northwest. There are also black holes leading off to the left and right, apparently tunnels to who knows where.”

  I sniff again. It isn’t rat. “Excuse me,” I say, “I asked who you are, and you said you weren’t a rodent but what are you?”

  “I am a r-r-ringtailed c-c-cat,” says Chatter from the center of the room.

  I hear Tig give a derisive hacking cough and begin to wash his paws. Between toes he speaks. “No cat smells like a rodent.”

  “I’m not a rodent. Neither am I a c-c-cat.”

  “Then don’t try to steal the name ‘cat,’” Tig says, pausing his bath.

  That seems a bit rude. I cut Tig off. “Er, that’s really interesting. You’re kind of both,” I say, trying to be reconciliatory. Waves of disgust emanate from Tig.

  “I am n-n-neither,” says Chatter.

  “Okay,” I say, still trying to keep the peace. “So this is your home?”

  “Yes, and you m-m-must be hungry!” Chatter says. She turns out to be an excellent hostess. She bounds into the right-hand passage and comes back in seconds staggering under piles of what ends up being dried fruit, berries, seeds, and a couple of dehydrated lizards. I decline the lizards, but Tig growls over his for several minutes. I don’t guess his resentment of our hostess extends to dinner.

  Chatter even offers me her tiny nest. “No thanks, Chatter,” I reply. “I have my pack. You’re generous to have us. At least let me help with dinner.” I add a spongy cake and sweet nectar packed by the Urodela to the pile in front of us. It isn’t long before we are sitting around on the sandy floor with Tig recounting our adventures so far.

  “So we decided we would try to go around the Valley of Fire to get to the Kingdom of Mar,” I conclude after a lengthy description of the Urodela kingdom. “We figured that we could make it back in a few days.” Chatter has whimpered, squeaked, and chucked through our entire story. Now she’s clicking to herself.

  Tig leans into my ear. “She’s rocking in a little ball and holding her tail like she thinks I’m going to eat it.”

  Chatter stops clicking. “I d-d-don’t think you’ll eat m-m-my tail, although I s-s-suppose you m-m-might if you were hungry enough.” I poke Tig hard.

  “I f-f-found a human who had been attacked by dragons near here.” I lean forward and furrow my eyebrows. “He killed the d-d-dragons, but he was badly hurt. He had survived a whole day in the d-d-desert before I found him, b-b-but he wouldn’t have made it through the heat of another day. He w-w-would have died. He gave me the ability to s-s-speak Lingua Comma so I could lead him through the t-t-tunnels. I brought him here and nursed him w-w-well again. He said he was King M-M-Mactogonii.”

  “This is starting to be a familiar story. He’s gone then?” I ask. Of course he would be gone, but it would be so much easier to get home if the king could just stay put.

  “Of course,” Chatter interrupts my thoughts, “he was v-v-very determined to cross the G-G-Gray Wastelands. Seemed d-d-dangerous to me, but he in-in-insisted. He said the t-t-tunnels made c-c-crossing the Wastelands possible.”

  “What was he after?” I wonder aloud, unsuccessfully stifling a big yawn.

  “He said he was d-d-determined to kill the d-d-daemon and d-d-destroy something called the Cauldron. He knew b-b-better than to try to face the d-d-daemon alone. He was traveling in secret from what I understand. He even avoided the d-d-dragons. Except he didn’t avoid them entirely. After I f-f-found him he p-p-placed his magic on me, and I b-b-brought him here. He told me a little about his p-p-plan but he didn’t tell me everything—”

  “Of course not,” mutters Tig. “That would have made it too easy.”

  “—b-b-but I did c-c-catch enough to understand that in the Reach Mountains beyond the G-G-Gray Wastelands is a door to the Kingdom Above the Sun. He said he had heard r-r-rumors that the d-d-door had been left unsealed. He said that there w-w-was something there, in the Kingdom Above the Sun that would help him kill the daemon. B-B-But first, he had to get to the mountain, and to do th-that, he needed to cross the G-G-Gray Wastelands. He asked if I could take him through the abandoned t-t-tunnels. I could, and these tunnels lead to others, some nice, some n-n-nasty, that travel all the way to the roots of the R-R-Reach Mountains.”

  I want to know more, but I’m already falling asleep. Tig pats me with a paw. “You need to lie down before you fall over.” I fumble with my pack and grin at Chatter’s yip of fright when I hear Tig yawn and stretch. Too many big white teeth for her. It sounds like the not-rodent part of her isn’t quite as tough as she would like to portray.

  I curl up against the wall with my pack as a pillow, and Tig curls up beside me, purring softly. Chatter scuffles and sighs several times in her nest until she’s soon breathing evenly. I guess her guests haven’t frightened her so badly she can’t sleep.

  My breathing slows, and I think about the Kingdom Above the Sun. I’ve only heard about it in the games the kids from the market at Nob play, or from the old folks who say that back before the drought if there was a bad storm you could hear music from the Kingdom Above the Sun come down with the rain. But now it’s hard to tell if it’s myth or not. I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone refer to it as a real place. I’m asleep in minutes—the last thing I hear is Tig’s rumbling lullaby. I know he is only dozing, one eye slightly cracked on the tunnels, the door, and Chatter, watching, waiting. He’s protective of me. I appreciate that. Not that I would ever tell him. Not that he would ever admit it to me. But I promise myself if we get home in one piece maybe I’ll say “thank you.”

  Chapter 16

  I dream of home. Mom is there. I can see. She is wearing the red dress and laughing with Dad. Dad is laughing, too. That’s how I know it’s a dream. They are about to sit down to eat dinner, but there are only two settings. I look around for my corner, my bed and chest of drawers. It isn’t there. Nothing of mine is in the room. I don’t exist. I try to reach up and tug at Mom’s sleeve, but I can’t move. I can’t yell. Dad laughs at something Mom says. It is a full, deep laugh. A wonderful laugh. I wake up with a start, breathing fast. Tig is asleep. I can feel him twitching and murmuring. I gently stroke his silky fur and drift back into oblivion.

  A full night’s sleep makes the world a different place. I feel like we might make it. Chatter’s first comment after breakfast is therefore startling.

  “Not that I would r-r-recommend it, but I s-s-suppose you’re going to follow King Mactogonii?” Chatter asks in what I am beginning to understand is her usual breathless excitement.

  “I’m sorry?” I say.

  “Well, I assumed th-that’s why you were here, to f-f-find and assist King Mactogonii, although that w-w-will probably end in pointy teeth or boiling p-p-pits.”

  “Not at all,” I say, not disguising the surprise in my voice. “We told you, we were chased into the Valley of Fire a week ago by mercenaries, thugs really. We barely escaped rock basilisks, and we’ve been in the Kingdom of Crypta for three days. We’re just trying to get home.”

  Chatter is silent for a rare moment. “That’s wise. B-B-But you say home? To the K-K-Kingdom of Mar? It’s still th-there?”

  I shake my head, confused by her comment. “Of course it’s still there. Why wouldn’t it be? I mean, it’s a little dry and there’s the rebellion, but our kingdom is still there.”

  Chatter clicks her teeth and scampers around the room twice before stopping in her original spot. Then she continues in a shrill voice. “I think it was r-r-rid
iculous but the k-k-king didn’t troop all the way out here for nothing. He knew the K-K-Kingdom of Mar was about to collapse, and I don’t m-m-mean a rebellion, or even the d-d-drought. Although I’m sure b-b-both of those things will make it much w-w-worse before it’s all over. The d-d-daemon is using the Cauldron to b-b-build an army. A couple of weeks ago things started m-m-moving in the Gray Wastelands, big n-n-nasty things. I thought maybe the d-d-daemon had started the attack. Mactogonii said the army w-w-would march around the Valley of Fire, so w-w-without overthrowing the d-d-daemon, you won’t have a home to r-r-return to. At least not for l-l-long. That’s why I asked if you were here to h-h-help the king somehow, except I would have th-thought you’d have been b-b-bigger, and possibly more of you,” she says, without taking a breath.

  “I wish we’d been bigger and more of us, too,” I whisper out of the side of my mouth to Tig. “That just confirms it then,” I say. “We have to get out of here and back to Mar. We can warn them.”

  “That’s the s-s-spirit! Except you c-c-can’t survive up there,” says Chatter. “Nothing s-s-survives the wind, even if the d-d-dragons wouldn’t get you. The d-d-dragons wouldn’t even be here if n-n-not for the d-d-daemon. Not that the wind b-b-bothers them. It’s because of the d-d-daemon. If the d-d-daemon didn’t feed them there j-j-just wouldn’t b-b-be anything to eat.”

  “If dragons can survive out here so can we,” I counter, hoping she gets the point. We are going home; nothing can stop that.

  “What courage, but l-l-listen,” says Chatter in what she must think is a patient voice but instead comes across as whining. “There’s no w-w-water in the desert, but if there is it steams and b-b-boils in the sun. If the trees hadn’t been t-t-turned to st-st-stone they would have b-b-burned a long t-t-time ago. Only the d-d-dragons or desert wyrms and a few other c-c-creatures, none of them very p-p-pleasant, can survive in the G-G-Gray Wastelands.”

  “Mmm, I agree that nothing around here is very pleasant,” says Tig. I ball my fists and press them against my forehead.