Aarvord pulled himself very awkwardly atop Burgess’ back, and fashioned his heels into curving grips that clung to the Veldstack’s broad flanks. His fingers lengthened into long, ropy tendrils that he wound into the shaggy, wild mane of the big Veldstack. The Grout did not feel at all comfortable but he knew that, with his natural gift at bodily adaptation, he would not fall.
The Veldstacks trotted gently through the light snow, not in a hurry, but not dawdling either. Tully and Elutia could feel nervous shimmers of energy flicker across Hollingworth’s skin. Along the way, she kept up a constant patter of talk, her tremulous and pleasing voice vibrating up through her body and into theirs as they rode through the dark forest. She talked of the world when she was younger, before the Shrikes had come to build their stronghold. She and her sisters and brothers had gamboled through the winter snows and played in the icy waters of the River Hollis. In fact, she had been named in a fashion after the river, as she had been born near its banks. So had two of her sisters, Hollis and Hollbrook. In those days, small flowers sometimes peeked through melting snows in the spring and there was hope that the world might not always be so dreary.
Then she and Burgess had watched as the Shrike’s efforts took shape, deep within caves beneath the snow, and fires and black smoke began to darken the air. Their world had been cold—it always had—but crisp and clean and untouched by enemies for many years. Now it was dangerous. She and her kind had been hunted mercilessly by the Shrikes ever since, and many had been taken to work on still more dire projects in the south.
“What is happening there?” asked Tully, interested.
“I haven’t seen,” said Hollingworth. “Those that go there don’t come back, for the most part. But a Veldstack or two has escaped. They have seen Veldstacks chained to great truckloads of rock, pulling it down from a quarry near the sea. The work is endless and the Veldstacks are beaten and starved. And the Shrikes steal whatever happy memories they might have.”
“Rock,” mused Tully aloud. “There is something with rock that they are intent on finding. There was a piece of rock in their dungeon, where they kept Elutia. It had a menace to it.”
“Yes, there is something to what you say,” said Elutia, who had been silent for some time. “I often heard them muttering about ‘the rock.’ But they were sly about speaking in front of me. Perhaps there is a treasure buried there that they seek? But what treasure?”
They were all quiet. None had an answer. In Tully’s mind, a thought had begun to take shape. The Council on the plain of Bellerol had spoken of a rock being split. His memory was not sharp, however, and he longed for Copernicus to recite the prophecy to him once more. The memory worried at the edge of his conscious thoughts throughout the cold and jostling ride through the snow.
Chapter Thirteen: Attack
Copernicus, meanwhile, was thinking of rock as well—but not in any abstract sense. He was cursing the rough brutality of the river rocks for bruising his body and nearly taking his life, as he was swept downstream like a twisting ribbon. He was able to gasp for air a few times and, then, the cruel river resumed its force. Finally, the surge of the rapids ended and he was borne on an eddy into a small back channel of the River Hollis. He pulled himself free of the water and lay on a rock, conscious only of the warm and invigorating sun beating down on his scales. He had never been so grateful for the sun in all his life, for if it had been absent—and the icy winter had still held sway—he was sure he would have died.
After some time, he was able to lift his head and assess the beauty of his new surroundings. There was no doubt that he was in another time and place, or another time of this place. There was not a hint of snow, and the naked earth gleamed with life and pleasant scents. Butterflies, which he at first took to be Ells, grazed among the flowers at the river’s edge. Trees, covered with blossoms and soft green leaves, draped over the water’s edge and cast shifting shadows on the river surface. All around was the buzzing drone of insects at work. The splash of a small fish cast droplets up on Copernicus’ rock, and he marveled at it. Ordinary fish! They had not been seen in ages, and he had certainly never seen one personally. He hung his head over the water in order to see them better, while stretching the bruised kinks in his body.
The fish moved like silvery lights in the water and nosed up to see if he might be food for them. Copernicus smiled as his tongue flicked out and tasted the warm air. He had almost forgotten the loss of his friends in this new, warm environment; but then it came back to him sharply. They might as well be millions of miles away. Perhaps they were millions of years away. They had not been born yet. Nothing he knew had been born. The loneliness struck him so forcefully that he thought he might stay on this rock forever in the sun and die quietly.
But Copernicus had never been one to give in easily to despair, not through the difficult days of his childhood when his brothers and sisters had tormented him, nor through the ordeal at the Shrike’s stronghold. There was always hope, wasn’t there? He was still himself. Tully could shut the lid of the box and bring him back. But he knew that something must have gone terribly wrong or Tully would have shut the lid of the box already. Copernicus would not be here; he’d be back in the cold world of the future.
And if there could be no way out of this world, then perhaps there might be other snakes here. Snakes like him. He knew that they had existed long before his own time. Snakes had been on the planet for a greater time than many other creatures, and their memory was long.
And, then, there was Nizz. Somewhere in this world, there was the bee. If Copernicus could find him, they might together be able to scheme a way back. Finding a bee in this great, verdant landscape seemed as hopeless, however, as finding a single drop of water in the river. At this, a thought occurred to Copernicus. Insects flew back and forth through the air. Maybe they could send a message.
He spoke aloud “Hello? I’m looking for help. Can anyone hear me? Can anyone understand me?” The insects continued to buzz around him, unconcerned. He raised his head and flicked his tongue at one; it leapt away through the air as if stung.
“I’m not trying to hurt you,” said Copernicus. “I’m looking for a friend. A bee. His name is Nizz.” Copernicus pronounced the name with a hissy slur on the Z so that it sounded more like an S: “Nissss.” But it didn’t matter. He realized how pointless it was to speak to these foolish, dumb insects. They did not pause at all in their labors, nor even indicate that a sentient creature had spoken to them. They hadn’t the sense of the lowliest Sand Louse. The prattling, ignorant Fangor was a genius next to these bugs!
Copernicus would have to find his own way and hope that something else that lived here had the gift of language. There were those children that Nizz had mentioned. He could look for them.
Slowly and painfully he inched himself off the rock, realizing that movement would help ease the ache in his body before he seized up completely. Tomorrow would be a bad day indeed. He paused to eat up a few of the stupid insects (normally he would have sought vegetarian choices, out of respect for other intelligent creatures, but the rules did not apply here). The insects were so very foolish that they didn’t even attempt to escape his snatching mouth. After his snack, he felt somewhat guilty and troubled, and his innards hurt. Meat eating was not in his nature, even if the little flying things he ate hadn’t the barest whisper of sense. At least these bugs were tastier than the little stink-insects he had found in the Shrike stronghold.
Fortified by the protein, he made his slow way up the bank, pausing to look out across the way for any signs of life. Always he searched the air for Nizz, but it seemed hopeless. The Dull Bee wouldn’t be much bigger than the puny bees that lived in this world, so couldn’t possibly be spotted from afar.
The day wore on. His progress was slow. Suppose that there were no beasts here that spoke, he thought. How lonely he would become! He did, however, continue to enjoy the warmth and soft breezes that caressed his bruised body.
As Copernicus we
aved his way through a patch of grass, a sudden hiss stopped him. He froze. Directly in front of him was another snake. It looked as if it could be one of his brothers; it was marked with thin black lines over a green body. Its bright black eyes watched him, and its tongue darted out.
“Hello,” said Copernicus carefully. “Hello, brother.”
The other snake seemed perplexed. It came closer and sniffed at Copernicus. Copernicus allowed the intrusion, although snakes not of the same family were rarely so intimate. Snakes, having been around longer than many creatures on the planet, had developed a highly organized code of ethics and behavior. They were, in fact, some of the more intelligent creatures—a constant point of pride for the young Copernicus. This snake, however, seemed a dumb cousin. It gave another hiss and Copernicus tried to hiss back in what he hoped was a friendly tone. It was not a language that he knew, but maybe there was a way to communicate.
Before the other snake could reply, its head was trapped roughly to the earth by a forked stick, and another stick had pinned Copernicus just as neatly.
With amazement, as he was hoisted writhing into the air, Copernicus heard a voice speak: “Two in one bag! We got two!”
“I saw them first,” said another voice. Before Copernicus could see who was speaking, he was dropped into a thick bag along with the other snake. Tangled together in darkness, they felt the bag spin and lurch as the top was tied tightly. Then they were on the move, the bag banging gently against the legs or body of their captor. It was hot and unpleasant, and Copernicus’ unwanted companion hissed and thrashed wildly. His tail slapped Copernicus in the face many times. There was nowhere to hide or squirm to get away from him.
“Stop! Let me out!” cried Copernicus, but no one heard. So soon after his escape from the Shrikes, he was once again a prisoner.
*
The Veldstacks carried the trio up the river, further north. The darkness was deep and there was no moon. The snow kept falling. Tully and Elutia clung together for more warmth, holding their heat-candles tightly. Hollingworth’s musical and entertaining stories finally ceased altogether. The Veldstacks plodded along.
Suddenly, they could see a small light ahead, blinking in and out through the trees like an eye opening and closing again. They approached a rocky promontory by the river’s edge and they could see a number of dark shapes under its overhang, huddling in a protected rocky place from the wind and snow. Burgess and Hollingworth trotted into their midst. There were a number of other Veldstacks there who now gathered around the new arrivals. There were but ten in total; two of them were young and small. All the Veldstacks had the same shaggy coats and the same giant, liquid eyes. In the center of the group was the source of the light: a hollowed-out bowl of stone with some sort of fiery liquid slurry boiling within it. It gave off an enormous and welcoming heat, and the heat reflected off the walls of the pseudo-cave that the Veldstacks sheltered in.
A flurry of greetings began, led mostly by the two younger Veldstacks. They were delightfully friendly and excited, while the older Veldstacks seemed more aloof and suspicious. As soon as Burgess and Hollingworth had introduced them, however, the other Veldstacks relaxed and offered gentle welcomes.
The companions dismounted, already stiff from their journey. Aarvord was careful to come quickly to Hollingworth’s side to help Elutia down and give her a seat near the hot pool of fire. Tully again felt a stab of jealousy; why wasn’t he big enough to carry her himself?
The Veldstacks brought them big mouthfuls of a sweet grass dug from under the snows, which Tully tried to chew but found too coarse, though he found that there was sweetness to be sucked from the grass stems. Aarvord, with his big flat teeth, was able to gulp down a great quantity of the stuff, while Elutia tucked her feet into the warm soil near the fire-pot. Tully hoped for something else to eat, but was too embarrassed to ask—until one of the young Veldstacks noticed his distress and brought him a flat, round cake of something in her teeth. He ate it gratefully, and found that it was good and fresh. Elutia nibbled on a tiny corner of it, when offered, and smiled her thanks at him.
“We saw one like you,” piped the little filly that had brought them the cake. She was looking at Aarvord. “Henredon and I were playing down by the river and he came out of the woods. Is he a friend of yours?” She tilted her head to the side inquiringly.
“I don’t know,” said Aarvord. “A Fantastic Grout, you say? Here?”
Henredon, the little colt, trotted around from the far side of the fire-pot.
“It was like you, but uglier,” he said. The older Veldstacks shushed him with disapproving whinnies, but he went on. “It had feathers, like a Shrike. And a beak!”
The Shrike-Grout, thought Aarvord dismally. It lived. He would have hated it, but he could not. It was the only thing left of his sister Justice. He would have to find it.
“Where did it go?” asked Aarvord. “What did it do?”
“Oh nothing!” said the little filly. “It wandered around so stupidly, and sometimes it put its head down and cried like a little baby. I think it might have thrown itself in the river.”
“It’s probably dead!” said the colt named Henredon. “And so should it be. Was it a type of Shrike?”
At the second mention of the Shrikes, the older Veldstacks grew visibly agitated.
“Stop this talk,” said Burgess angrily.
“That creature is related to me,” said Aarvord. “If you see it again, you will tell me?”
The two little Veldstacks nodded their heads gaily, as if they had been given an important mission.
“What relation?” whispered Tully, but Aarvord shook his head.
“I would call it my nephew, but cannot,” he said sadly. “The Shrikes bred it for some awful purpose. As an experiment, I think. Don’t make me talk about it.”
Tully recoiled from Aarvord’s despairing tone, and turned to Elutia with a gesture of dismay and confusion.
All she said was: “The Shrikes did and made terrible things.”
The Veldstacks heard this, and many bent their heads thinking of all the ill and injury the Shrikes had brought to their group. They were ten free Veldstack left alive in their group, with only two young ones to carry on the line. Tully could see their unhappiness, and he gathered the courage to speak.
“I will tell you now that a big and powerful Grout—a cousin of the one you see here—sent us here on a mission,” he said. “The first was to find our Wents, who have all been taken. Elutia is one of their kind. The other was to find and destroy the ones that the Shrikes work to protect: the Hundred.”
“Hundred!” muttered one of the big stallions. “What do you know of the Hundred?”
“They cannot be seen, let alone destroyed,” whinnied a russet-colored mare.
“Especially by ones so little and weak,” said an old, silver Veldstack, who stood off to the side outside the protective warmth of the fire-pot. He was bent over by what seemed to be a wasting disease. But Tully realized it was simply old age that hobbled his great legs and crooked his neck.
“We may be small,” said Tully, “but we were told that we alone held the key. I don’t know what that is. But we don’t intend to give up. Except…” and here his voice caught. “One of our group is already gone. Copernicus, a snake.”
The Veldstacks quieted and nodded in sympathy.
“We have lost many,” said the russet mare.
The aged silver Veldstack beyond the fire snorted. “A friend. A little snake! Once you have seen your children and your grandchildren slaughtered by the Shrikes and wasted by their masters, the Hundred, you will no longer think a puny snake is much to grieve.”
“Grandfather!” said the little filly. “Please do not say such things.”
“I am not your grandfather, Hoenig!” shouted the old Veldstack. “My own children are gone and, with them, their children, and their children’s children. Stop trying to make things as they are not!”
The little filly went silent an
d looked ashamed. The other Veldstacks turned their heads down to the fire. None wanted to argue with the old silver Veldstack.
Elutia looked up suddenly and her feet tore clean out of the earth in a sudden, jerking motion.
“Shrikes!” she whispered. The Veldstacks’ heads all went up, their ears pricked in the dark night.
“They are coming,” moaned Elutia. “I can smell them. They want to take us back.”
“Are you sure?” nickered Hollingworth. “How can you tell?”
“I know,” said Elutia.
The Veldstacks were disconcerted. They had learned to smell the Shrikes themselves, but none had caught the scent. How could this little Went have better senses than they did?
But the old silver Veldstack had made the scent of Shrikes a bitter thread of his memory, and he lifted his nose high to the wind.
“She is right,” he neighed. “It is faint, but they are coming indeed. And a number of them.”
“How did they follow us?” said Tully, as he was helped onto the back of Hollingworth once more.
“Perhaps our so-called savior turned us in,” growled Aarvord. “I knew his tribe would get the better of him. Or else they have their own foul means of finding prisoners who have escaped.”
Aarvord hoisted Elutia to sit behind Tully, and she was trembling with fear. So troubled was she that a blossom from the side of her face detached itself and fell, turning gently in the breeze, hooking itself into Hollingworth’s mane. Elutia would grow a new one to replace the loss, but she touched her head as if the empty spot burned her. When she was not watching, Tully closed his hand over the blossom and gently, by inches, unhooked it from the mane and tucked inside his vest, deep into one of the inner pockets. He was sure she had not noticed. As Hollingworth bucked forward through the snow, he touched the blossom again and again to make sure it was safe, although the velvet-like petals were fragile and surely destined to fall apart.
The Hundred: Fall of the Wents Page 16