The Hundred: Fall of the Wents

by Prescott, Jennifer

  All the Veldstacks moved in a steady pack, heading north, with Aarvord once again riding on Burgess. The two little ones, Henredon and Hoenig, behaved as though it were a grand adventure. They had not seen the horrors that the old silver Veldstack had described. To them, it was a vast game of seek-and-find. They made excited noises until the older Veldstacks hushed them with sharp exhalations and whinnies.

  The pack moved through the snow, with Burgess in the lead. Tully was exhausted, but knew he must stay awake for Elutia’s sake. She clung to him with her thin fingers. He could not tell if her trembling was from fear or from the cold.

  All around him Tully could hear occasional murmurs from the Veldstack pack.

  “Brought danger to our door,” one said.

  “Shrikes hadn’t bothered with us.”

  “So few of us left. Now they had to arrive?”

  “What if the Shrikes capture us?”

  Eventually they all fell silent and he was relieved. He hadn’t felt completely accepted by the Veldstacks—although Hollingworth and Burgess had been welcoming enough—and Tully and his companions probably owed the Veldstacks their lives. The Veldstacks were used to being on their own. The fact that the herd was now in danger because of them—especially the young ones—was a painful thought. The pointlessness of the whole journey, along with the cold, began to seep into Tully’s bones. He felt very tired.

  Suddenly the entire herd stopped, bunched up, and began to wheel in the snow. They gave loud whinnies of alarm. Hollingworth tucked her head down and chivvied the two young ones back while the group huddled together in a protective phalanx. A shrieking sound, at first distant and then louder and more painful, began to fill the sky.

  “Shrikes aloft,” whispered Elutia, and tucked her head down into Hollingworth’s mane.

  “Shrikes don’t fly. Shrikes can’t fly!” said Tully, refusing to believe that the creatures had found a way to defy their own bodies.

  “I know that,” said Elutia. Her voice for the first time held some angry, unpleasant tone. “But don’t you know that they have built machines? They know how to make things. Or, more precisely, to force others to do it for them. What do you think they’ve been doing up here for the last however-many years?”

  Tully shook his head. “I didn’t know,” he said.

  In the moonlit sky above them, dark, squat shapes approached and began to buzz and whir in ever-tightening circles. If it were not terrifying, it would have been beautiful. The aeronautic abilities of the Shrike pilots were remarkable. The dark crafts passed one another with what seemed like inches to spare.

  “They can fly so well!” said Tully, amazed.

  “They?” said Elutia. “It’s not so surprising. They have enslaved Ells as their pilots. Of course their skills are unparalleled.”

  It made sense then. Ells spent almost their entire lives in the air. The tiny beings were gifted at navigation and control, and could hover or move vertically through the air at a moment’s notice.

  “The ships were built by slaves and prisoners as well,” added Elutia. “Fantastic Grouts chief among them. There is nothing the Shrikes do for themselves.”

  The shrieking in the air above was now so intense that the Veldstacks twitched and shuddered, and Tully could barely hear Elutia’s voice through the din.

  “They are trying to frighten us,” she shouted, so that the Veldstacks could hear as well. “Keep moving!”

  Hollingworth heard and she began to nudge the group forward. Their movements were halting and jerky.

  A dark craft swung lower. Tully could now see that each airship was very small—big enough to contain one Shrike only. They whirred over the heads of the Veldstacks with inches to spare. The group stopped again, terrified into submission. One of the craft came so close to Tully’s face that he could see the face of the little Ell pilot beyond the windscreen. Her body was suspended and pinioned in some type of fine wire cage, so that every movement of her body and wings turned the craft in the direction she wished it to go. She did not seem to see him; her face was blank and passive, and intent on her duty. Tully understood that the Ells had not been made to merely pilot the craft—they practically had been melded with the airships, with bulky metal bodies as an exoskeleton. The Ell’s face did not even seem alive anymore. The Shrike that rode inside the craft must be hidden within, and invisible to them. But its presence soon became known, for a hatch opened in the base of the craft. A burst of tiny sparks emerged and landed on the backs of two of the Veldstacks. They screamed in pain and fury.

  Tully suddenly knew what had to be done. He shouted to the Veldstacks. “We must use light. We must bring them down.”

  Bright lights could easily blind Ells; it was one of their few weaknesses, besides being small and relatively frail. Their speed and agility in the air made up for what they lacked in strength. Their wits were keen. Ells also had great endurance. It was bred into them as many years ago they had been the creatures to bring the life-giving pollen to the earth-bound Wents across the seas.

  Tully, Aarvord, and Elutia had their heat-candles, but the light from these was warm rather than piercingly bright.

  “Aarvord!” screamed Tully, as another shower of sparks was deposited on the Veldstacks from the flying craft. One of the Veldstacks had to roll into the snow to douse the flames. “Aarvord! Can you make light?”

  Aarvord had made light before from the wand on his forehead. Now he used all his strength and concentration to power the light into a bright and blinding beam. He flailed his head around wildly, trying to send the light directly into the approaching craft. He succeeded in sending it into the eyes of the Veldstacks and his companions, who winced and ducked. Then it hit one of the targets and the Ell inside was illuminated. She froze. The craft went plunging into the snow, tipped end over end, and was still.

  The Veldstacks, maddened with pain and fear, rushed the craft and began to rear and stomp upon it, while the remaining crafts buzzed higher and out of the harm of the fierce light. Aarvord still sought them, now training his head and the light like some terrible gun.

  The fallen craft was built sturdily, and merely dented by the pounding hooves.

  “Bring out the Shrike!” yelled the old silver Veldstack. “Bring him out so that we may destroy him.”

  What crawled from the craft, however, fluttering and shaky, was its Ell pilot. She flicked her wings and made as if to fly off into the night sky, but she had been injured. So she hovered on the edge of the craft, shimmering and shuddering as if she could lift herself up by sheer will. The Veldstacks would have crushed her, but Aarvord had focused the beam of light on the pitiful creature. Tully called out “No!” and they stopped short, realizing that she was not their true enemy.

  “Bring out the Shrike,” repeated the old Veldstack. He held his head close to the little Ell, menacing her with yellowed teeth worn down by age and hard use.

  The Ell shuddered and her wings fanned frantically, but it was no use.

  “There is no Shrike,” she finally said. “Not here. Not here.”

  “Who then,” said the old Veldstack, “is inside there, attacking us and our young?”

  Tully had dismounted from Hollingworth and pushed through the snow to reach the craft, concerned that the old Veldstack, in his anger, would hurt the Ell.

  “Come,” he said, leaning down over her with a protective hand to shield her from the stares of the Veldstacks. She was only slightly bigger than his palm. He could see out of the corner of his eye that the other Shrike crafts had returned and were drawing closer. He nodded to Aarvord, who turned his attentions to the sky once again. Without the beam of light on her, the Ell seemed to relax slightly. Tully could see her face, heart-shaped and with enormous black eyes and furry antennae, in the light of his heat-candle. Her wings were iridescent blue. She was dressed in a simple, silver shift.

  “Come,” he repeated. “What else is inside the craft?”

  The Ell turned her large eyes to him and mouthe
d: “No one. Nothing.”

  “Surely you don’t have to protect whatever it is,” said Tully.

  “I won’t,” said the Ell. “I can’t.”

  Tully was suddenly infuriated with her dodging of the truth.

  “Enough!” he shouted. And he beat and tore at the side of the fallen craft, but no mysterious hatch opened. No Shrike emerged. But one must be hiding inside. Then Tully could see that even a Shrike must be hideously cramped within such a small craft. Even bent over double with its beak tucked down to the floor, a Shrike would not fit. It did not make sense. Yet even he could sense their scent. The Shrikes must have outfitted the dark craft and sent them aloft, and their leathery smell was all around.

  The Ell leaned into him and whispered. “The craft are made for the Hundred,” she said. “Surely you know that? There are no Shrikes here. The Hundred,” she continued, “will take any bodies they can get. Even those made of metal. The ones that were here are long gone. You cannot touch them.” And she cast her eyes up to the night sky, where the rest of the craft shrieked and whined above, still aggressive but fearing to come closer lest they get in range of Aarvord’s blinding light.

  “They will take what bodies they can get,” repeated the Ell.

  Chapter Fourteen: The Last Children

  Copernicus was still trapped in darkness with his mute companion, who had gone still.

  “Are you dead?” asked Copernicus, but the other snake didn’t answer. Whether from fear or fatigue it had simply stopped struggling. At least its awful thrashings had stopped. Copernicus still felt lonely. At least the other snake had been a companion, as dumb and stupid as it was. Perhaps it was dead from fright.

  The bag had stopped moving as well, and Copernicus could tell from his vain struggling that it was tied to something solid, such as a tree. Every time he twisted he could feel it there. The bag was heavy from the weight of himself and the other (potentially dead) snake. He tried to thwap the other creature in the face with his tail, but the darkness made it impossible to tell whether he was striking the face or some other part. There was nothing to be done but wait.

  Finally, after he had drifted into a restless sleep, the bag was dumped out on the ground. Copernicus groaned and moaned aloud “Tully! Aarvord!” half in his sleep.

  The other snake must have been feigning sleep or death, for when the bag was dumped it shot away through the grass and disappeared immediately. Coper cursed his own slowness as the forked stick was wedged securely about his neck, pinning him to the ground.

  “Dummy!” said a childish voice. “You’ve lost our dinner!”

  “I still got one!” said another voice.

  “I should have left you at home. After you burnt it down, I mean.”

  All Copernicus could hear of this exchange was the word “dinner” as he thrashed about and tried to crane his neck to see his captors.

  A fat hand clutched him by the neck and he was raised until he was staring, nose to nose, in the face of a small creature. It had sparkling green eyes and a small, upturned nose, and pink lips pressed forward in an expression of distaste.

  “Yuck, it’s so skinny,” said the creature.

  Copernicus could barely breathe, but he managed to mouth one scratchy word: “Bax?” For surely this was one of the children of whom Nizz had spoken.

  The boy’s expression was almost comical in its alarm.

  “Gosh Natty, it spoke to me. It said my name!”

  “Bax…Natty,” groaned Copernicus.

  “Just like the bee,” said the girl in wonder, drawing closer and looking Copernicus in the eye. “But this time it knows us.”

  Bax dropped Copernicus on the ground as if he were a hot coal. The snake gasped for breath for a moment, then coiled to look back at the two children.

  “I found you,” he said. “Or you found me. Doesn’t matter. Have you seen Nizz? The bee?”

  The children were dumbstruck for a moment, but then Natty spoke imperiously.

  “Where did you learn to talk?”

  “I’m not stupid like that other snake,” shot back Copernicus. Then he thought that the other snake was actually rather wise. Suppose these creatures were hungry enough to eat a talking snake?

  “I learned from my mother and father, same as you, I’m sure,” he added.

  “Are you magic?” said the little boy, bending down so that he could whisper.

  “You know the bee,” said Natty. “The bee helped us.”

  “I’ll tell you if you don’t eat me,” said Copernicus, and shuddered, for there was a small fire burning that had clearly been intended to roast him and his dumb companion.

  The boy’s face broke into a grin and he laughed aloud. It was a happy sound and it caused the girl to collapse in a fit of giggles herself.

  “No, we won’t eat you!” said Bax. “We don’t eat things that talk.”

  “A talking snake,” said Natty. “Next we will hear trees talk! Do trees talk where you come from?”

  “Not yet,” said Copernicus thoughtfully. “I suppose anything is possible, though.”

  It seemed odd to be having a conversation about the evolution of trees with two creatures that had previously been about to roast and eat him.

  “And where are you from?” pressed Bax. “Don’t run away, please. We won’t hurt you.”

  “I am from the same place as the bee,” said Copernicus. “I suppose you would say that magic brought me here. We were looking for a way across the river.” He glanced at it now as if a bridge would magically appear. Not that it would have done him any good.

  “Why?” asked Natty.

  “It’s hard to explain,” said Copernicus. “But I will try.”

  So he told them the story of their journey, their capture by the Shrikes, their escape, and finally his descent into and through the box, which had brought him into their world. They listened very seriously and quietly, occasionally looking at each other with big eyes and pursed lips, as if they didn’t believe a single word of what the snake was telling them.

  “Well,” said Natty. “What are you going to do now?”

  Copernicus gave his best impersonation of a shrug, which was just a slight ripple of skin near his ears. He started to answer but was interrupted by Bax.

  “You didn’t mention kids like us, where you come from. Where are all the people?”

  “They’re aren’t any,” said Coper.

  “Not…any?”

  “You mean they’re all…missing?” asked Natty.

  “Worse than that,” gulped Copernicus, not sure how much to tell them. “People—whatever kinds of creatures you are—well, I’ve never met or seen any. They don’t exist.”

  Natty tried to laugh but it came out somewhat choked.

  “That’s impossible!” she said.

  “I am from the future, like I told you,” Coper said impatiently. “Did you think talking snakes were impossible before today? Well, I thought people were impossible before today. You are as magic to me as I am to you.”

  “There are plenty of people, now!” said Natty. “They wouldn’t just go away, no matter how long it took! We are the smartest things on the whole entire planet. Nothing else even knows how to talk.”

  “Until you and the bee,” piped Bax.

  “If you are so many,” asked Copernicus, “then where are the rest of you?”

  To that Natty and Bax had no answer. Natty ducked her head and her face was hot and red. “They went away,” she said sullenly.

  “Even our parents,” added Bax. “And there weren’t very many of us, no matter what she says. We were the last left of them.”

  “Who was them?” asked Copernicus.

  “The ones who made it,” said Bax. “The ones who found the way through. The great ones. The scientists.” He shrugged as if he could not explain further. “It all happened before we were born,” he finished.

  “There were twenty of us,” said Natty. “They said that there might be more, across the oceans even,
but we never met any. Our parents and their friends saved themselves, and then they came here, far away from the cities, to start a new life.”

  “Twenty-one,” corrected Bax. “You forgot the new baby. You forgot Hope.”

  “Yes,” said Natty, and turned her head so that the others could not see her eyes, which burned with tears. “The people who survived didn’t have much, our mother said, but everyone in the group was smart—like all people. They knew how to start fires and grow food. A few years later, I was born.”

  “And then me!” said Bax.

  “We were safe and happy,” continued Natty. “There were no bad things here.”

  “And what happened to them—to your parents?” asked Copernicus, although he already knew the answer, from what Nizz had told them, and dreaded the retelling.

  “They were all eaten by the shadow,” said Natty, her eyes haunted. “They didn’t leave us. They were disappeared. We waited days and they never came back.”

  “We were hiding,” said Bax.

  “And then the shadow tried to eat us, too, but the bee—your friend—he saved us.”

  The snake’s mind was troubled as he tried to make sense of it all. Surely the children were the very last of their people. Maybe with their wits they would make it to old age, keeping together in companionship. But then there would be the end. When they went, so went the whole race of creatures like them. Unless there could be others like them somewhere, still surviving. But Copernicus did not think that very likely. Though he had just met them, he was sad for their loss. Just imagine, he thought, if there were no one else like me left at all.

  And he realized that, of course, that was true. He was all alone in this world. He was the only talking snake, to be sure. There were other dumb snakes like his erstwhile friend, but little comfort would they bring. He and these children were meant to be together. They could be friends in the coming years. He would see them grow old and stooped, or perhaps they would outlive him. He had no way of knowing how many years such creatures lived. Perhaps they could become old like Efts.