The Hundred: Fall of the Wents

by Prescott, Jennifer

  Tully could hear the Shrikes’ voices clearly:

  “Just in time, Old Ugly!”

  “Do you want some food?”

  “Would you like to lift some rocks for us, Wretched One?”

  “Where has it been, eh? I thought the thing was dead!”

  They fed the Shrike-Grout something that Tully could not see, and it seemed to regain its strength for a moment. But then it cowered down on the rock again, and Tully was certain they were going to beat it with the long staves they carried.

  “This is a glorious day, Wretched One,” said one of the Shrikes. “You will live to see the mysteries of the broken rock! You will see the masters in their true form.”

  “I’m hungry,” said another of the Shrikes, and they all laughed with the awful haw haw haw sound that reverberated up the cliff and assailed Tully’s ears. He wished he could not hear them now and he compulsively closed his hand over the metal sphere that lay against his chest. If he could hear them so well over the water, then they could hear him also. Although the sphere made no sound he still protected it, as if it might strike a rock by accident.

  The Shrikes gathered around the poor Shrike-Grout and Tully could not see it. He knew, however, that they were all feeding on the poor thing’s unhappiness. It was grotesque. He turned his head away and shut his eyes.

  The other sound, which Tully had not become fully aware of until he closed his eyes, was the sound of many feet moving over the earth. It was a low, gentle thumping, growing in volume until Tully finally opened his eyes and saw them. He saw them all there above him and surrounding him.

  Thousands of Wents were now clustered on the edge of the cliff, in a semicircular ring. They extended all the way around the bay, so that some were quite distant from him across the water. Their heads were bowed as if they were sleeping. A few Shrike guards stood around them with staves in hand, but not many. It seemed that the Wents, despite their numbers, had been called here beyond their control.

  Tully searched the crowd for Hindrance, but the astonishing number of Wents made it almost impossible to discern one from the other. From a distance, it looked like a sea of nodding white petals.

  Among the crowd he picked out face after face that bore a striking resemblance to his own Elutia. Tully’s heart leapt. She must be here, among them! But then he remembered what Hatch had told them. Elutia was but one of many clones. And Elutia had vanished within Pomplemys’ chambers. Who were these replicas? He trained his telescope on each, one to the next, but they all bore hard expressions with no love or mercy in their eyes. These sweet-faced clones blended in with the Wents who had no doubt given birth to them under the power of the Shrikes.

  If only Hindrance would look up and catch his eye! Then he would be able to stop her—to reach out to her and help her see that she and her fellow Wents had finally been bullied or brainwashed into doing what the Shrikes had long wanted them to do.

  It was too late. A low note sounded off in the depths of the canyon. It came from the Shrike craft, or from the rock—Tully could not tell. It began softly and, then, grew in strength until it pealed up and over the edges of the rock like surf breaking on a shoreline. It filled the air and grew. It seemed that the air itself had been transformed into this one low note.

  And then, as one, the Wents began to sing. Their voices rose and dipped and played off the note, each Went singing her unique song. But, all blended together perfectly and harmoniously. It grew and grew in volume. Tully, swayed by the songs on the small ledge, feared that he would fall into the depths of the canyon. Every particle within him was ringing with the toning noise and—he thought this with wonder and admiration—he had never heard another song like it on this earth. It was a song of life and life beyond. It sounded like the end of the world, but also the beginning. The song made him shiver with loneliness and exult with joy. He shut his eyes and hung grimly on to the rock while the singing washed all around him.

  A terrible rending and groaning noise rumbled up from beneath the sweet tones of the Wents. The rock that he clung to trembled and swayed. This could be the end. The rocky ledge would tumble under the force of the singing and he, and the ledge, would be no more. The Wents had been able to stop wars, move trees, and open the very earth with the power of their song. He decided to open his eyes.

  The Wents were still clustered above him on the cliff, but their faces were upturned and proud. How and why? They had been forced to do this. Yet, it was what they were born to do. He trained his telescope on the crowd. Now he thought he could see Hindrance at the front of the ranks of Wents, her mouth open in a wide O and her eyes very bright. It was her, his dear Hindrance. He opened his mouth to call out to her but his voice was swallowed in the vast wash of singing. He could not even hear it inside his own head.

  He saw then, among the group, Sarami and Bly. They were wrapped up in their own song, and they were standing very close to each other. Kellen he could not see. The creaking and tearing noise was fiercer now. Some of the Wents swayed on the edge of the cliff and—Tully saw with absolute horror—fell over the side and, spinning as they went like so many seedlings on the air, vanished into the great gulf that led to the sea below. They fell as lightly as flower petals and with no alarm or hesitation. More of them followed, seeming to choose their death with grace and acceptance, as the singing grew stronger and wilder. As they fell more moved forward to take their place. Tully feared that Hindrance would be pushed over against her will, but she seemed to hold strong. Suddenly, Sarami and Bly went hand-in-hand over the edge of the cliff and tumbled together, their bodies mirroring one another as they fell. Tully heard himself cry out. What he was seeing did not seem real.

  The Wents that survived the fall to the water would drown, for they could not swim.

  Tully kept his eye fixed on Hindrance. “No!” he begged her silently. “No. See me! See me; I am here!”

  Fully half of the Wents had fallen or leapt and, yet, the singing did not seem to abate in strength. Those Wents who were left on the cliff face began to glance back and forth to one another, as if willing their fellow sisters to be brave and finish the job.

  If they all plunged, Tully knew, the race of the Trilings was as good as extinct. There could be no Efts without Wents. There could be no Ells. They were ended. And he thought he knew a little of the loneliness of the Hundred then, who even after death were striving to live again. Their time was over and, yet, they would not allow it to be over. They were too clever for that. Would the poor Trilings be as clever? Would they become bitter and vengeful like the Hundred, and wait millions of years to find a way to breathe again and feel the warmth of the sun?

  Tully summoned his strength and called out again, with as piercing a voice as he could muster: “Hindrance!” He kept screaming her name through the singing, which was now patched and broken and dying, as more Wents jumped and plunged to their doom. She had not jumped. She was now swaying a bit, her eyes closed, and her mouth still open in song.

  At that moment the great rock perched at the center of the gulf, balanced on its point, split down its center. The two halves fell cleanly to either side and revealed a dark hollow beneath. The Wents who were still left on the cliff stopped singing abruptly. The noise carried on in Tully’s head, echoed up through the gorge, and finally ebbed away. It was impossibly silent.

  In that emptiness Tully suddenly heard a voice, and it was his own, still screaming: “Hindrance!” He had called out so long and so fervently that his voice sounded cracked and broken. Across the great wide chasm, her eyes opened, startled. She searched for Tully and found him. Her face grew peaceful and bright.

  But, then, she continued to sway, as if she might simply drift away off the edge of the cliff. He could hear her thoughts now. She had sensed him and, like Elutia, she entered his mind as easily as a dream.

  “It’s over now, my sweet,” said Hindrance into his mind. “There is no place for us now that they have come back. The Hundred return. This is what the Shrikes want
ed.”

  “No, this cannot be,” thought Tully fiercely. “You should not give up. Nothing has come. Nothing that is not already here.”

  “You do not know them,” thought Hindrance. “The Hundred will come now. They will not allow us to live.”

  Tully’s mind raced, different thoughts warring with each other for precedence. What could he say to the Went he had been searching for these many weeks?

  “Hindrance, don’t leave me,” he thought plaintively.

  Her attention was fixated on the rock, however, and he swiveled his head to see what was happening. A pod of Shrikes had bustled up to the rock, like so many ants, sniffing at the revealed hole and wielding temperature sensors and strange lights and apparati. Whatever was inside must be very fragile. The light in the bay was beginning to fade and many of the Wents—those who had not flung themselves to their death—had nodded into a stupor, their heads drooping. Tully saw that there were not so many left. Would there be enough to continue the Trilings? Hindrance and a few others were alert and focused on the rock.

  What was in there had been sealed inside with great magic for many millions of years, and it must be anxious to escape and find freedom in the world again. Would it come as the humans in bodily form, ready to reunite with the dark souls that awaited them? How dangerous would they now become once they had life again?

  His head swam. What was he to do? The answer came readily.

  “It is time,” said the voice of Hen-Hen in his mind. Tully was aghast to think that the Frothsome Grout had entered his consciousness so readily. Had he always been there, on the periphery, waiting to speak?

  “It is time to take the power that was always yours,” said Hen-Hen again, very coldly and decisively. “You need not fear. You have the sphere that hangs around your neck. If you want to save the Wents, and save yourself, you will take it now.”

  “The sphere?” thought Tully. He pulled it from his vest and stared at it. It was so small and so ordinary. Yet Hen-Hen had shown an uncommon interest in it, and it had burned him like fire in Snell’s forge, and it had struck the magic box and given him a vision of Hindrance. And she herself had given it to him.

  “Take it?” asked Tully. “And do what with it?”

  “It is of the same substance as the rock you see below you. It is portal, it is immortality, it is life itself. You must swallow it,” said the voice of Hen-Hen. “You must eat the metal, and be an Eft no more. You will become more powerful than you can imagine. The Hundred will be drawn to you, and follow you, and take you as their living master.”

  “Swallow it!” said Tully, astonished. “Why, I would choke, or die.”

  “You will not die,” said Hen-Hen. “You will never die. This metal you wear is Hundredstone, and it gives eternal life. It saves you from time itself. But you must do what I say. The Hundred will be on us soon. They will surely destroy the last of the Wents, and destroy you where you now stand, unless you have the power inside you.”

  “Why me?” asked Tully. “Why should I be the one to do this thing?”

  “Only a Triling Eft may eat the Hundredstone and live. None other can withstand it, for Efts alone bear the strain of the humans within them. You have known all along that you are the one we wanted. You are strong, and wise. Swallow it now, and keep your life. Fail to use it and we all will die. Do not be swayed by weakness.”

  Tully tried to ignore the voice of the Frothsome Grout, but Hen-Hen was insistent and persuasive. He stared at the little metal sphere in his hands. Without thinking, he had taken it from its fabric bag and it now lay in his trembling hand. In the dying afternoon sun that peeped through the clouds, he could see the light from his scales dance over the rough metal ball. He stared into its surface and the metal seemed to shimmer like liquid. He thought about choking it down his throat. If he did not die in the attempt, what then would happen to him? He would no longer be himself. Tully Swift would be dead.

  Hen-Hen could hear his thoughts.

  “You will be born again, to live forever. You will have great strength. Never will you grow sick, or weak, or confused.” Hen-Hen’s voice became wheedling and cunning. “Never will you doubt your own power.”

  “And by doing this thing, I will save the Wents that still live?” asked Tully, glancing up at Hindrance on the cliff above.

  “You surely will,” said the voice of Hen-Hen. “The things that come out of the rock below must be controlled, and tamed. Without a leader who controls the Hundredstone, they may destroy us all.”

  Tully thought there was a lie in Hen-Hen’s speech—he could hear it. Rather, he could feel it, somewhere in his antennae that pricked and trembled with anxiety. Surely Hen-Hen meant what he said. Yet he had not given Tully time to consider his course. He had chosen to tell him of the sphere’s power now, at this final moment of danger. Why?

  He longed to put the sphere back inside its pouch but it hung in his hand like a hot stone. All he had to do to defeat the Hundred was to swallow the thing, if he could even manage such a strange act. He needed time. He needed to think.

  Holding the sphere tightly in his fist, Tully took out his little telescope and sighted the ledge. He could not see within the dark hole, but the lights of the Shrike’s headlamps lit the side of the dark, broken rock and revealed its every crevice and mark. The rock was scarred from many failed attempts to breach it over the years. Tully marveled at its resilience, just as he had marveled at the beautiful song that had finally opened it.

  Then his head swam again, for what stepped from the crevice beneath the sundered rock was not the terrible miasma he had expected to see, but the very picture of innocence: Two young beings, bemused and uncertain, dirty and bedraggled. Whatever they were, they were young. They were children. This was the Hundred in their most terrible physical forms? The Shrikes seemed afraid to touch them, so the children staggered forward, blinking in the harsh lights and holding each other by the hand. They made a pathetic picture.

  Hen-Hen had told him not to be swayed by weakness. He must be strong. But why? Everything that Tully had believed for the past several weeks was in doubt. He thought back to that day on the great plain of Bellerol, when the Council had met with him and his friends. All of the Council had been Dualing creatures—the Shrike, the Scratchling, the Whiskered Fish, even Hen-Hen himself. Did the Council want him to save the Wents? Or did they have some greater purpose?

  And then he saw Elutia. She climbed from the hidden cave. She was unsteady and slow, but seemed unharmed. She climbed up to join the children. Tully’s heart leapt. She was alive! She looked directly up as if she could see Hindrance—and perhaps she could—for Elutia’s face glowed with happiness and relief. Tully could see Hindrance also. Her face showed wonder and recognition. Hindrance would never jump now.

  “These are emissaries of the Hundred!” roared Hen-Hen. “They will come within the instant! Swallow the Hundredstone now, before it is too late.” There was an element of surprise in the Frothsome Grout’s voice; clearly he had not expected the arrival of these small beings.

  “These things will destroy us if you do not act,” said Hen-Hen, and Tully knew then that he was lying. Elutia and these children were not creatures of evil, but of innocence. Tully would not do this thing that Hen-Hen commanded. There was something wrong in it, something evil. He would not give himself away to become a thing of darkness.

  “No,” thought Tully, aiming the thought directly at Hen-Hen, wherever he was hidden. “I will not do it.”

  “You must,” insisted Hen-Hen. “Those are human children that you see. The humans and the Hundred will become one and the same.”

  Tully felt sick, but he would not be swayed. “I will never do it,” he said stoutly. “I would throw myself into the darkest pit, and the sphere with me, rather than become the thing you want me to become.” Carefully, with trembling hands, he placed the little metal ball back inside its fabric bag. He wished that he could fling it away from him into the sea, but that might cause more danger.


  “I will never do as you say,” said Tully. “For I believe that your words are a lie.”

  “Then you are a fool,” said Hen-Hen, in such a loud voice that sparks of pain shot up Tully’s antennae. Hen-Hen’s voice grew to a great roar, without sense or meaning, and Tully was nearly deafened by it. He swayed on his ledge of rock as the blast of sound buffeted him—so different from the song of the Wents, so full of rage and power.

  As if they had been blown in by Hen-Hen’s voice from a mighty distance, a swarm of bees emerged on the horizon, skimming over the crest of rock. From a distance they made a black and fearsome cloud. There were so many of them that they darkened the air. They were headed straight toward him.

  And then Tully had a horrifying, sickening revelation: The bees, clung so tightly together that they made a black shadow. The bees of his dream, spinning in a dark ring around the moon. The bees that had come together to make a craft that had borne them north, all at Hen-Hen’s command. The buzzing cloud that had flown over the Shrike stronghold, and the shadow that had swept away like a mist from the place where the Boring Bees had supposedly died in the snow.

  The shadows that had haunted their time on Earth and who had stolen the Wents had never been the Hundred. The shadows had been the bees, all along.

  There were no Hundred loose in the world at all. Only a sick old Eft’s fantasies and hopes, the concoctions of the Shrikes, and the machinations of the malevolent Hen-Hen had made them real. No wonder he had never seen them. They were an invention bred to fuel his fears and his wild imaginings. Had he wanted them to be real? Yes, indeed he had. He had wanted to fight a fierce enemy and win against it. But his real enemy was the Dualings.

  The bees had controlled everything, he realized. They had mastered it beautifully. The Shrikes, with their dull hive mind, had been engulfed by the much more intelligent hive mind of the Boring Bees. It had been easy for the Bees to make the Shrikes believe anything they wanted. The foolish and evil creatures had not even known that they were answering to the Bees. Deressema and her band of traitorous Ells had been equally fooled.