The Hundred: Fall of the Wents

by Prescott, Jennifer

  “You do talk a lot,” said Hatch coldly, “but seeing as you know them I had best take you with me. I have to leave, you see, because I helped your friends escape, and the Shrike-force is onto me. They are your friends, then?”

  “Oh, yes! Oh, yes!” spluttered Fangor. “Bestest friends and best of all bests! I will follow them to the ends of the earth!”

  “Fine friends they are to leave you here,” muttered Hatch. “But very well. Can you be of use? Do you make light? Can you navigate?”

  “I know my way around!” said Fangor proudly. “I could make light I suppose if I wished but never tried, but I am useful in all kinds of ways. All kinds! As you can hear, I can sing, and I am small and can hide and listen where others cannot—”

  “Then let’s not hesitate. Stop talking now. Your voice is little but it could alert the rest of the Shrikes. Hide in my feathers and make yourself scarce.”

  Hatch unscrewed the lid of the jar and Fangor jumped out in one quick leap, pushing aside his repugnance at being asked to ride on the body of a Shrike. A Shrike! Terribly disgusting. But at least he was out of the dreadful jar. The light was not so bad now that he was getting used to it. Hatch smelled damp. As Fangor tucked in beneath the feathers on Hatch’s head he thought he could smell a trace of fear as well.

  “Why are you running?” he asked, creeping down toward the face of the Shrike so he could be better heard. “Who is after you?”

  “The rest of them,” said Hatch grimly. “They are meeting in the main chamber to source out the traitor, and it will soon be seen that I am not there to stand and defend myself.”

  “What happens to traitors?” said Fangor, deliriously afraid.

  Hatch did not even bother to answer; he just kept stuffing supplies from the closet into a large sack. Fangor sank down in the feathers, which were warm and not as sharp and oily as he would have guessed from sight alone. Where the feathers emerged from the skin of Hatch’s head it was shadowed and cross-hatched with light, and he clung to one of the shafts and counted himself lucky to have met the right Shrike at the right time. There was warm fur down there, as well, scrubby and dank.

  “I’ve always been a lucky sort!” thought Fangor. “I’ll get out of this scrape, yes. Just see if I don’t!” He thought that it might be nice to see his friends again, as well, although they had always been a bit rude to him and discounted his many gifts and strengths. “I am a good friend! A solid friend!” he thought.

  “I know my way around,” Fangor repeated. “I can navigate. Yes, I can. And I have a fine sense of smell. Don’t you forget it.”

  “Silence,” said Hatch. “For now you must learn to be quiet.”

  *

  Hatch and Fangor escaped from the Shrike stronghold, via an airtube, to the snowy surface. Fluffy drifts that had fortunately not solidified into ice blocked the tube. Hatch was about to start sweeping the snow out of their path when a huge puff of warm air gusted up the tunnel and blew the snow clear, and them with it. Hatch tumbled into the snow and Fangor just managed to cling to a feather shaft with grim strength. If he fell into snow this deep, he realized, he would never be found again. Hatch was his whole world now, his planet. All warmth and sustenance would come from this odd Shrike, who had betrayed its own kind.

  Fangor nibbled gently at one of the feathers and bit off a frond, knowing that the Shrike would notice only a tickle. It wouldn’t take much of the Shrike’s body to sustain him—just a little. Although the taste was unusual, it would have to do. Unbeknownst to his friend Tully, Fangor had also snacked on the Eft’s hair and scales while riding with him. They would be shed anyway, and a louse had to stay alive after all.

  Hatch shouldered his pack and set off through the snow.

  “Can I speak now?” asked Fangor, his mouth filled with chewy feather bits.

  “If you must,” said Hatch sourly.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I do not know. As far away from the stronghold as I can muster. I have no friends out here. I have ruined my chances at anything.”

  “Perhaps,” said Fangor, “we could try to find my friends? They must be your friends, as well, if you helped them escape?”

  “I don’t think they will wish to see me,” said Hatch. “My courage failed me.”

  “All the same, where did they go?”

  “They were traveling to meet Pomplemys—an Eft who lives on the far side of the river. He is known in these parts as an oddity, but his powers are great. He has deep magic,” said Hatch.

  “Then that is where we should go, also,” said Fangor.

  Hatch laughed: “Haw haw haw!” It was an ugly sound, rough and bitter, with no trace of real humor. Fangor shuddered as the sound reverberated through his tiny body. “By all the Lice! Please let him not make this sound again!” he thought.

  “Tell me,” said Fangor. “How do we get to Pomplemys? Where does he live?”

  “Out there,” said Hatch, gesturing into the blinding whiteness. “West and south of here. If you can navigate as you say you can, guide my steps to the west, where we will meet the river.”

  So Fangor did, his body carrying a magnetic impulse that told him unerringly where the four directions were. He had not spoken in jest. He had never been lost, nor had his 125 siblings. They marched on, with Fangor squeaking small directions when Hatch appeared to wallow and step blindly in the snow.

  When Hatch was marching straight, Fangor would sing.

  I’ve bitten in the east and I’ve nibbled in the west,

  The north and the south, for I am the best!

  “Oh, do stop,” said Hatch. “Stop the infernal singing!”

  Fangor tried, but he could not. Singing was like breathing to him. He finally took to whispering his songs close to the butt of the feather shaft, but even that tickled Hatch and enraged him. The Shrike began to plod along furiously, wishing the journey to be over. He wished that the awful louse had been left behind, but was also thankful that he had been found. For it was true that Hatch had no friends and nowhere to go.

  Fangor observed and thought: “Good! My singing builds his speed!” So he did not stop, but slyly raised his voice now and then to set the Shrike into a hasty run.

  After a time, Fangor asked: “If you have feathers, why can’t you fly? We would get there much faster if you flew.”

  “Indeed,” said Hatch, stuttering with anger. “I am sure we would. Shrikes cannot fly. Our feathers are left to us from another time when we were some other kind of beast altogether.”

  “Were you flying things?” asked Fangor. “Or were you Squirredges? You look a bit like a mix of both. No wait—not Squirredges, but Gruff-Badgers! Woodhogs?”

  “I don’t care to discuss this with you,” said Hatch.

  “Go left a bit,” reminded Fangor. “You have steered off the west. We are headed too far north.”

  Hatch obeyed, but not without rancor. This awful louse!

  Shrikes may have flown, once upon a time, but Hatch had no deep memories of this. All in all, he thought sourly, Shrikes were useless creatures. They had not the skills of one of their ancestors the birds, nor the wits of their other ancestors, the rodents. They were an evolutionary mistake—doomed to serve a master who depended on their stupidity and capacity for cruelty. Hatch hated his own kind. He would see them destroyed, he thought, before he would go back and face a tribunal for his treachery.

  There was not even love among the Shrikes. They were all bred in pods, with no families as other beings knew, including the Trilings whom he had been taught to hate. Hatch had never had a mother and father, not to mention a Triling family of three. Even this wretched louse had had better than he had. Hatch was filled with hatred and remorse, yet again. If he had been able to better fit into the collective, he could be satisfied now! Dumb, yet satisfied. His complacency would have brought him peace. Jealousy would have been unknown to him; Shrikes considered themselves marvelous and wondrous above all creatures, save their masters. They never even saw t
hese masters but listened to their droning and persistent instructions at all times. Fools! They ought to know that they were used as tools to satisfy a greater desire. Perhaps they did know and didn’t care.

  “A trace more to the right now,” said Fangor merrily, breaking into Hatch’s reveries. “Onward! To Pomplemys! Find our friends!” Fangor paused and added: “Even if you think they will not forgive you, they will. Did you say that Aarvord was with Tully? He had betrayed him, but if they were together, then Tully has forgiven him. And, therefore, I, too, have forgiven him.”

  Hatch gave no sign that he had heard, but he did. Capacity to forgive? This was unknown to him. He would try to hope that those he had rescued would remember the first part of his effort, and not the last. He had returned to the stronghold thinking that this was the wiser course. Because, of course, he had fed on the young Went’s mind and could no longer face any of them after that. They would despise him.

  Remembering this, Hatch had the gut-wrenching sensation that he would have to eat again. The little Louse was his only recourse, if they did not find other creatures soon. Despite his antagonism toward Fangor, he dreaded what would happen. The tiny creature would no doubt perish. Hatch could not help who he was, but he was shamed by it.

  After some struggles through the snow, Hatch took off the pack and rooted through it for a heat-candle, which he held near his face so that Fangor could receive some of the glow. The Sand Louse was appreciative. This Shrike was not so bad. Fangor pulled a bit of fluff from the base of a feather and gnawed it thoughtfully. It tasted of mushrooms and grass, with a bit of a moldy flavor—likely caused by the lack of sunlight in the Shrike stronghold.

  After some time they finally reached the river. It announced itself by a wild and turbulent rumbling, from far off, which Fangor at first assumed was the Shrike’s stomach growling in hunger.

  “Hey, why don’t you eat?” he said merrily. “What did you bring in that pack of yours? Is it enough for two? I don’t eat much, mind you, but I do enjoy a tasty bit of flavor now and again.” Fangor smacked his tiny jaws together appreciatively at the thought of a sweet or tasty bit, which would be a welcome respite from the feathers.

  Hatch seemed to recoil at the suggestion. “Not hungry,” he said shortly.

  In another few minutes they were at the water’s edge, looking down at a narrow gorge where the water seemed to fight angrily against itself in its southward progression. Great peaks shot up from the surface of the water where rocks were hidden in the depths. There was no way down to the water, and no way across.

  “We will have to go upstream until we find a bridge or passage,” said Hatch. “I hear tell the river is not so wild further north.”

  “If only you could fly,” mused Fangor. “Have you ever tried?”

  “Certainly not,” said Hatch. “No Shrike can fly.”

  “Then what are these for?” said Fangor, bouncing down from Hatch’s head to land on his lanky forearms, which were covered in stubby feathers and fur. “Feathers, eh! Put there for a reason, no doubt.”

  “No reason,” said Hatch sourly. “My feathers are useless.”

  “Ah!” said Fangor. “You are being hard on yourself. You wouldn’t think that a tiny Sand Louse could do anything worthwhile, but this isn’t true! Let me share with you a song I wrote while I was a prisoner of your people, forgotten and ignored. It is called The Four Brave Companions.”

  Hatch shuddered, but Fangor began to sing:

  First there was a group of three:

  Copernicus, Aarvord, and Tull-eee!

  Then they became a fearsome four,

  With the addition of mighty Fangor!

  Fangor, with tooth and claw of red,

  Fangor fills all enemies with dread.

  He’s the pride of the lice, his heart fair and true,

  In trouble? Call on Fangor! He’ll know what to do.

  “Stop!” said Hatch. “That song is reprehensible. It doesn’t have a good tune.” As a matter of fact, Hatch had rarely heard music before, except for the songs of a few woebegotten prisoners. Fangor’s little song made his skin twitch.

  Fangor, offended, fell into silence. But he could not be silent for very long.

  “Did my song teach you anything?” he asked in a wee voice. Hatch either had not heard or was ignoring him. “Perhaps, yes, you could fly? If you only tried?”

  “To humor you,” said Hatch, “I will try.” He set down the rucksack in the snow. Fangor peered at it, wondering about the sweets and tasty bits that might be hidden inside. Hatch seemed relieved to have dropped it, which made Fangor think that it was heavy.

  Hatch made a muttering noise and then flapped his puny wings maniacally in the air. Nothing happened.

  “Oh good!” said Fangor. “Just the beginning! Flap harder.”

  Hatch snorted with derision, but did as the louse had asked. His wings became a small blur, but Hatch did not rise from the ground even an inch.

  “So you see,” said the Shrike sourly. “I cannot fly.”

  Fangor, however, was thinking hard.

  “You are trying it as Ells try it,” said Fangor. “They can lift straight up from the ground, with almost no effort at all! But you are not an Ell. I think your way to fly would be to glide. You must start from a high place and go down. Then, yes, you will be able to fly. For example, down over the river.”

  “Nonsense!” said Hatch. “No Shrike has ever been able to do this. It would be suicide.”

  “No Shrike has tried!” shouted Fangor. He was inordinately excited by the thought of coaxing the Shrike into flight. How his name would be known in song then! How famous he would be! He thought of composing a song about it right then and there. It would begin: The Shrike was earthbound ‘til the day, when Fangor spoke—they flew away!

  Hatch looked out over the river and Fangor could feel a twitch of excitement in the Shrike’s skin. Then Hatch turned to look at the rucksack and slumped a bit with disappointment.

  “I cannot leave our supplies,” he said. “Not even for this death mission that you propose.”

  “We will eat the supplies!” said Fangor excitedly. “What do you have in the pack, eh?” Fangor hopped down off Hatch’s head and onto the pack. The opening gaped wide, with plenty of space for a louse to slip in and take a peek.

  “Stop!” said Hatch. “You can’t look at that!”

  It was too late. Fangor had bounced right inside the pack, sniffing for tasty treats. It did not smell of anything good in here at all. In fact, it smelled of nothing. Fangor pushed past a stack of heat-candles and encountered something hard and cold. Hard as stone. It was a stone. Nothing but a big, ordinary rock! Its coldness seemed to reach out and touch him in his very core. He felt violently cold. He backed out of the pack as quickly as he could and gazed up at the Shrike with an expression of distaste.

  “You brought a rock for our supplies? A rock and no food? A worthless old stone?” Clearly this Shrike was as stupid as he was ugly.

  “The rock, as you call it, is very important to my comrades back at the stronghold. So I stole it,” said Hatch simply.

  “Let’s see here,” mused Fangor. “They are all after you for your traitorous release of my friends. So you stole something that was very important to them, so that they would have yet another reason to come after you and find you! And that something was a rock.” Fangor spluttered with rage as he completed his sentence. He hopped back up Hatch’s arm and nestled into his neck feathers, for he had become very cold. Now there would be nothing to eat—nothing tasty, anyway. Stupid, stupid Shrike!

  “It’s not just any rock,” muttered Hatch. “It is not really rock at all, but perhaps some type of metal. It may have the power to save life, bring immortality. To eat it would bring you eternal life.”

  “Faugh, it would make my teeth hurt!” retorted Fangor, tearing off a bit of feather in a rough way so that Hatch winced and made as if to slap him. “I’m sure your rock is very special,” the Louse sniffed.
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br />   As Fangor chewed the feather, he happened to glance back in the direction from which they had come. He saw them, then. Two large Veldstacks—horrifyingly huge beasts—pulling a sledge on which were a bevy of Shrikes. They had followed the progress of Hatch easily through the snow, and were drawing ever closer. The Shrikes had a catapult fixed to the sledge, and from it they flung hot, fiery missiles.

  “Take your rock and throw it into the river,” said Fangor, hopping to Hatch’s ear to make sure the Shrike did not miss a word. “We have been followed. If there is any time to learn you can fly, it is now!”

  Hatch turned and saw the Veldstacks approach. One of the missiles from the catapult burst in the snow very near them and began to give off an awful fume. The fiery odor made Fangor feel faint.

  “Hurry!” he shouted.

  Hatch did exactly as suggested. He picked up the rucksack and with one mighty heave tossed it over the cliff into the river below. Fangor could see it fall and tumble, and disappear beneath the water. At least that worthless piece of baggage had been discarded. Maybe some fool would eat it, but it wouldn’t be him. Immortality from a rock!

  Hatch strode up to the edge of the ravine. With one panicked, desperate look behind him, he realized that there was no other choice now. He would have to fly or die trying.

  Fangor whispered into his ear: “Do not hesitate! Spread your wings and fly!”

  Hatch drew his scrubby wings out to their full length. He tucked his head down, waiting for the awful plummet to the river, and dove from the cliff.

  They descended at an almost impossible rate and Fangor thought that surely they would be dashed on the rocks below. Then, without warning, a pouch of furry skin beneath the armpits of the Shrike opened and ballooned, bearing them aloft. Fangor could feel the wind sing in his ears. And then they were gliding, impossibly, over the river’s course. Caught in a gust of snowy wind, they flew outward and onward. Hatch held his wings stiff and straight, and did not flap them as an Ell would have. He sailed on the wind, just as Fangor had suggested.