by Brandon Mull
The big man fell to his knees as the ram plunged out of sight, following the bear to the valley floor.
Abeke was dumbfounded. Not only had this stranger managed to defeat a Great Beast, he’d just saved her life.
He looked her way, panting. “You . . . you okay, girl?” he asked, holding out a hand to her.
Before Abeke could respond, Zerif lunged forward and stabbed the big man through the back. Abeke screamed, putting a hand to her mouth. The big man pawed weakly at the blade protruding from his chest. The Greencloak with the otter arrived at his side a second later, slashing at Zerif with his sword, but Zerif dodged away, leaving his own sword where it was.
Abeke could hardly believe her eyes. This man, her enemy, had saved her life, only to be rewarded by treachery. A stab in the back. The lowest blow one could deliver. As Abeke drew nearer to her rescuer, Zerif ran to Shane, picking him up. The tall Greencloak got tangled up with an Amayan fighter. The woman’s viper struck at him from behind, but the Greencloak’s otter bit it just below the head. Though the snake thrashed, the otter refused to let go. A moment later, the tall man clubbed his opponent with the hilt of his sword, knocking her unconscious.
Zerif and the others fled up the rock-strewn slope. He carried Shane over his shoulder, with Shane’s saber in his hand. Zerif looked back at Abeke, his eyes frantic. “Hurry! This way!”
Abeke shook her head with a strangely calm certainty. “We’re over! I’m not on your side, Zerif!”
At first Zerif looked stunned. Then his eyes became cold and furious. His jackal was with him, uninjured, but Shane’s wolverine was limping. Some other survivors had joined them, but they were battered and beaten. All but one lacked their animals. Zerif was out of allies.
Abeke set an arrow to the string of her bow. “Go, or arrows start flying.”
After one last withering glare, Zerif turned and started up the mountainside at inhuman speed.
The tall Greencloak turned to Abeke.
“You have the talisman?” he asked.
She took her arrow from the string and fingered the Granite Ram. “Yes.”
“And you’re with us now?”
“If you want me.”
The Greencloak gave a curt nod. “We want you. And we need you. I’m Tarik.”
Tarik moved to the side of the fallen bearded man. The Zhongese girl knelt next to him, as did a smaller, balding man with a raccoon. Jhi sniffed the wound where the sword protruded.
“Heal him!” the girl insisted to her panda. “That’s what you do, right? Or help me heal him. What should I do?”
“Not all wounds can be healed,” the bearded man gasped. “That ram got Jools, but not before my bear gave me one last burst of strength. I’ve never lifted half so much weight.”
Jhi licked the girl, who wept openly. “Save him,” she repeated in soft sobs.
The bearded man held the hand of the balding one. “You were the best company a man could ask for, Monte,” he said, his voice falling to little more than a whisper. “A real friend.” He took a jagged breath. “Don’t forget to tell folks I threw a Great Beast off a cliff.”
“There will be stories and songs,” Monte promised.
“Sorry to leave you early.”
“I’ll be along by and by,” the balding man said, tears falling down his cheeks.
The bearded man looked up at Tarik. As he wheezed, blood dribbled from his lips into his beard. “If it can be managed, dispose of me in a green cloak.”
“Nothing would be more fitting,” Tarik said.
The bearded man tilted his head back and closed his eyes. Monte leaned close, whispering to him. The bearded man’s chest kept hitching in gurgling spasms, then stopped.
“I can’t believe he killed a Great Beast,” the boy with the wolf said numbly.
“Arax is not dead,” Tarik said. “It would take more than a fall, even such a high one. The Great Beasts have too much life in them. Still, if we hurry, we might get away.” Though his tone was practical, Abeke thought the man looked very tired. And very sad.
Monte raised his head. “Barlow’s gone. I’d rather not leave him here.”
“The trick will be getting him to the horses,” Tarik said. “We’ll manage it.”
Uraza snarled in agreement.
“What if they try to ambush us?” the boy with the wolf asked.
Tarik’s expression darkened, and he stroked the hilt of his sword. “I honestly hope they do.”
18 THE FALLEN
CONOR LEANED AGAINST THE HIGHEST PARAPET ON SUNSET Tower, looking west, a light breeze ruffling his hair. The tower provided a lofty vantage point, but the mountains where they had confronted Arax were too far away to see. Briggan sat beside him, nuzzling his hand.
They had made it back to Sunset Tower yesterday afternoon. The group had traveled quickly, chased by the constant worry that Arax might catch up with them or that Zerif might stage an ambush. But nobody had troubled them.
Barlow now rested below the surface of a lovely meadow, wrapped in Tarik’s cloak. Monte had traveled with them back to Sunset Tower, determined to renew his vows. He hadn’t spoken nearly as much on the way back as he had on the way out.
Conor tried not to dwell on certain thoughts. He tried not to picture Barlow or Jools. He tried not to imagine how he would feel if something happened to Briggan. He tried not to guess at all the danger awaiting them, and the other friends he might lose along the way.
Conor stroked the thick fur on the back of Briggan’s neck. “I can’t believe we’re back here. It hasn’t been that long, really, but it feels like a lifetime.”
The wolf licked his palm. Briggan had only started licking him like that since the battle on the cliff. Conor knelt down and stroked his wolf with both hands.
“Be patient with me,” Conor said. “I’ll practice with that ax. I stayed alive, and I distracted some of our enemies, but I can do better. Next time you won’t have to come rescue me so much.”
Briggan nuzzled Conor’s forearm.
“That tickles.”
The wolf nudged him with his nose.
“What are you doing, boy?”
Briggan stared at him intently.
“Oh,” Conor realized. “What do I do?” He had seen the others hold out their arms, so he tried that.
With a flash, Briggan became a tattoo on the back of his forearm. The image burned for a moment, as if his arm had brushed against something scalding. But the searing pain faded quickly.
“I saw that,” said a voice from behind him.
Conor turned to find Rollan coming through the door to the top of the tower, his bandaged arm hanging in a sling. Meilin and Abeke were with him, wearing their green cloaks.
“How long have you been doing that?” Rollan asked. “Were you hiding it to spare my feelings? I don’t need pity.”
“First time,” Conor said, showing him the mark. “Really.”
“Good job,” Meilin said.
“Thanks,” Conor replied, feeling shy. Direct conversation with Meilin tended to fluster him. She was just so . . . incredible. And hard to figure out. “I don’t think Briggan wanted to become dormant while we were out in the open. My guess is he feels safer here.”
“I wonder if Essix will ever feel safe?” Rollan said.
“Give it time,” Abeke recommended.
“Where is she?” Conor asked.
Rollan squinted at the sky. “Where she always is — flying around. She likes it when I let her do her own thing. I can respect that.”
“She’s probably mad because you won’t become a Greencloak,” Conor said.
“No.” Rollan shook his head. “I think she understands. Don’t take it the wrong way. I respect you three for joining. I really do. Especially you, Abeke. You’ve been through so much. But I’m just not sure yet if it’s for me, taking official vows and all that. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll still help out. And who knows, maybe eventually I’ll wear the costume.”
�
�Now that we made it back here, what comes next?” Meilin asked.
“I guess we train,” Conor said. “We try to be worthy of our animals. And we find the rest of the talismans. At least, that’s my plan.”
“Have you dreamed about any new animals lately?” Rollan asked lightly.
Glancing down at his mark, Conor turned away, gazing out at the countryside. “I think we’ve earned a break.”
“You didn’t answer the question,” Rollan pointed out.
Conor looked down. “Fine. I haven’t mentioned this to Olvan yet, or Lenori either, although she gave me a funny look this morning. I don’t want to worry anybody, and I don’t want to mess up our time to relax, but starting a few days ago . . . I’ve had these nightmares about a boar.”
19 the return
OCEANS AWAY, ON THE FAR SIDE OF ERDAS, UNDER A BLACK, impenetrable sky, warm rain drenched a large earthen mound on a barren prairie. Blazing strands of lightning zigzagged across the night, offering brilliant glimpses of the cloud ceiling. In rolling bursts, the roar and crackle of thunder drowned out the patter of the raindrops.
The searing flashes of light revealed hundreds of wombats, perhaps thousands, digging along the edge of the muddy mound, like an army of ants working on their nest. Heedless of the tumultuous storm, they burrowed urgently, paws bleeding.
A lone figure strolled among them, watching them dig in the flickering glare of the lightning. They were close. He could sense it.
In one hand he held the crude key, heavy and carved with animal faces. As promised, it had finally been delivered to him. Years of work would culminate tonight.
The hair was standing up on his neck, on his arms. The air hummed. He took several shuffling steps, then crouched low, put down the key, and placed his hands over his ears.
The lightning struck a short stone’s throw away, blasting wombats into the air. The thunder was deafening even with his ears covered. He felt the shock through the ground. The muscles in his legs clenched painfully, but the jolt failed to knock him over.
The next electric flash revealed at least a dozen dead wombats off to his left. The others kept tunneling industriously. It wasn’t normal behavior for the animals, but these were not normal wombats. They were in thrall to the presence beneath the mound. He served the same presence, but his devotion was different. At least that’s what he told himself.
The figure picked up the key and stood up as the storm raged on. He paced around and around the embankment, the muddy ground sucking at his every step. Eventually, a flash revealed that the wombats had abandoned their duties and massed on one side of the mound.
The figure hastened to that side. As he drew closer, he didn’t need lightning to guide him. The key seemed magnetized, drawn toward its destination by an invisible force.
A sharp strobe of lightning revealed the gap in the side of the mound. The wombats hung back reverently. The figure entered the gap and splashed down to his knees as the rain poured down on him.
Holding his breath, the figure plunged the key into the freshly unearthed socket. There came a rumbling, but not of thunder. A tremor rattled from below. He felt it before he heard it, but soon it was as loud as a roar.
The next dazzling blaze of lightning showed the side of the hill tearing asunder. An immense, serpentine form arose, its hood spread, its tongue flicking into the air. Unsure whether he would live or die, the figure bowed down. If his time had come, at least he had accomplished his aim. He had served the presence well.
Gerathon was free.
A sneak peek of the next
Book Two
Hunted
By Maggie Stiefvater
THE FOREST WAS DARK AND FULL OF ANIMALS. THE NIGHT between the trees clicked and growled and fluttered.
In the small light of a lantern, a man and a boy stood and stared at a tiny flask. Although the flask itself was unimpressive, the solution inside was remarkable: a powerful substance that could force a bond between a human and a spirit animal.
“Will it hurt?” the boy, Devin Trunswick, asked. He was handsomely dressed, and there was an arrogant, cruel tilt to his chin that fear couldn’t erase. A lord’s son, he would never admit he was afraid of the dark. Even if there was plenty to be afraid of.
The man, Zerif, pulled back the embroidered blue hood of his cape so the boy could see his eyes more clearly. Holding up the flask, he said, “Does it matter? This is a privilege, little lordling. You’ll be a legend.”
Devin liked the sound of that. Right now, he was the opposite of a legend. He came from a long line of Marked individuals — people who had bonded with spirit animals. But when his turn had come, he had failed, breaking a chain that was generations long. At his Nectar Ceremony, the event where children who came of age drank from the Greencloaks’ Nectar of Ninani and hoped for the appearance of a spirit animal, he had summoned nothing.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, his own servant, a lowly shepherd boy, had called up a wolf. A wolf. And not just any wolf. The boy had summoned Briggan the Wolf, one of the Great Beasts.
Devin was stung by humiliation.
But that humiliation was going to end. Now an even more powerful animal would be delivered to him. He had prepared his whole life for this — it ran in his blood. This destiny had only been delayed, not destroyed.
“Why is it called Bile?” Devin asked, his eyes on the flask. “That doesn’t sound great.”
“It’s a joke,” Zerif replied tersely.
“I don’t see what’s funny about it.”
“You’ve tasted the Nectar, right?”
Devin nodded, his face sour despite memories of its exquisite taste.
“Well,” Zerif said, nose scrunching, “you’re about to taste the Bile. Then you’ll get the joke. I promise.”
The boy looked hurriedly over his shoulder as a growl muttered from the trees. Beside him, a spider with a hard, shiny back lowered itself down on a thread. He tried to stay out of its path.
“Whatever animal I call will have to listen to me, right?” he asked. “It will do whatever I say?”
“Bonds with the Bile are different from bonds with the Nectar,” Zerif informed him. “The Nectar might taste sweeter, but the Bile is more useful. We can control much more of the process. For instance, you don’t have to worry about bonding with that spider you’ve been so desperate to avoid.”
Devin bristled, annoyed that Zerif had noticed his
terror. Loftily, he said, “I’m not worried.”
But his eyes darted to the covered cage that waited for them. Beneath that cloth was the animal he would bond with. He tried to guess what it could be from the size of the enclosure. The cage was large, up to his chest. Occasionally he could hear scratching noises from underneath it.
This was the animal he’d spend the rest of his life with. The animal that would make him triumph.
Zerif handed the flask to the boy. His smile was as wide and encouraging as a jackal’s. “Just one sip will do it.”
The boy wiped his sweaty palms on his shirt. This was it.
Nobody would ever question him again.
Nobody would ever doubt his strength.
He was not the Trunswick family’s first failure. He was its first legend.
Through the open top of the flask, the Bile smelled dreadful. Like hair burning.
He remembered the glorious taste of the Nectar, like butter over honey. It had been so remarkable, until it had gone wrong.
Now he raised the flask to his lips, and without another thought, gulped down the Bile. He had to fight hard not to gag — it was like drinking death itself, and the ground that death was buried in. But within that blackness, he felt something coming alive within him — something vast and strong and dark. His body could barely contain the thing that grew inside him. In that instant, he felt no terror. He only felt that he could create terror.
Still smiling, Zerif whisked the cover off the cage.
Copyright © 2013 by Scholastic Inc.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013932302
e-ISBN 978-0-545-52255-7
Map illustration by Michael Walton
Book design by Charice Silverman
Cover illustration by Angelo Rinaldi
Cover design by SJI Associates, Inc. and Keirsten Geise
First edition, September 2013
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