How important are the rules to you? Very important…I hope.
Chapter 23. A Problem
Sharmel counted again. Seventeen. “I thought I said ten.”
An officer at his side squirmed. “The clutter got excited, sir.”
“They always get excited.”
“It’s not my fault,” said the other creasia. “The subordinates do the killing. Why don’t you talk to them instead of lashing at the officers?” He walked away stiff-legged.
Sharmel sighed. Well, we can’t very well put them back. Easier to just cancel the next raid. He raised his head to give the attack signal, but it seemed unnecessary.
One small, pale-colored foal had darted out of the knot of doomed ferryshaft, straight past Tharia. When this sort of thing happened, the subordinate creasia generally let their instincts take over. Tharia paced the foal for a moment before pouncing. However, to everyone’s surprise, the foal changed direction at the last moment, so that she missed by a paw’s breadth. She gave a small, frustrated growl and pounced again. This time, the foal changed directions so violently that Tharia’s back legs went out from under her as she tried to follow.
Her companions, still pacing around the selected ferryshaft, snickered. Even Sharmel smiled. It was a comical sight, and Tharia did not often inspire comedy.
She roared and charged after the fleeing foal. Sharmel couldn’t help thinking of a rabbit zigzagging under a hawk. Where did it learn to do that?
And then it disappeared into the trees.
Sharmel blinked. What just happened?
Every creasia on the ice stood still for a moment, and then they were all roaring and snarling and calling after Tharia as she disappeared in pursuit of the rogue foal. The pacing ring around the trapped group of ferryshaft broke up as the clutter wavered in the face of this unexpected event. Sharmel knew he should tell them what to do, but he wasn’t sure himself.
When was the last time a selected ferryshaft had managed to get out of sight of the clutter? Not in years! Humiliation replaced astonishment. They were like cubs, playing with a mouse in their own den. They were so certain that it could not escape that they’d been careless, and somehow it had walked right out from under their noses.
We have to catch it.
The whole clutter seemed to realize this at once as Tharia did not emerge from the trees. With a collective snarl, they charged after her, Sharmel on their heels.
* * * *
Storm ran. He did not think. He let his body do what it had done a hundred times before, and oddly, even as the creasia’s deadly paws dropped down beside him…and missed…and missed again—even as the cat roared behind him—he felt himself relax. Sound came back into the world.
And then he hit a snow drift on the edge of the river. It was not high yet, for winter was still young, and Storm cleared it with a leap. He landed belly-deep and struggling. The cat jumped, too, and landed almost on top of him, but then Storm found the top of frozen crust. He was light, and he did not break through. The cat did, and he heard it crashing along furiously behind him.
He could hear the rest of the cats calling from out on the river. Were they coming closer? He hoped so. Chase me. I’m the one who broke the rules. I’m the one you have to catch. Leave the others. Please.
Storm was on a beaten path now, almost into the boulders. The running was easier, but it would be easier for the creasia, too. He thought the snow had given him enough of a lead to get beyond their sight among the rocks. Make them run by scent. The curbs taught me that.
He resisted the urge to look back.
* * * *
Sharmel’s embarrassment was solidifying into anger. His clutter was not listening to him. These cats hadn’t chased a ferryshaft in so long that they had forgotten how, and their anger produced stupid mistakes. He’d shouted at them as they entered the trees to swing wide beneath the dense pines where the snow was shallow. If they’d done so, they could have easily flanked the foal, who’d bounded into a deep drift. Instead, they followed the ferryshaft and wasted precious time floundering through deep snow. Tharia broke the trail, and they’d all caught up with her by the time they emerged near the boulders.
Sharmel had taken his own advice and was well ahead of his clutter as he followed the foal into the mazes. The animal changed direction immediately, laying a weaving path through the rocks. Sharmel barely managed to keep him in sight, even though he was right behind.
I’ll catch him myself, thought Sharmel. I’ll make an example of him…and then I may have to make an example of this clutter!
He could almost hear Ariand laughing: “Sharmel’s raiding party spent half the morning tramping around the boulder mazes chasing some foal!”
Sharmel gritted his teeth. If the foal would just stop weaving and give him a clear pounce… He’d gotten a better look at it now. The foal was male, small but not as young as he’d first thought…and an odd color.
Then, to Sharmel’s delight and relief, the foal started up a cliff path. The animal must not know that this path dead-ended a short way up. He’s just a panicked youngster, thought Sharmel, and now this little exercise is about to end.
Sharmel slowed, secure in his confidence, as he followed the foal up the trail. Will he beg for his life when he realizes he can’t escape? Is it possible that some other ferryshaft trained him to do this? Could he be coerced into giving names? Sharmel slowed a little more, wanting to give his subordinates time to catch up. Perhaps, he reflected, I should let them do the killing after all. They were so excited that only the sight of blood was likely to cool them.
Sharmel caught sight of the end of the path. Oddly, the foal wasn’t slowing down. Does he plan to make an end of himself before we can? Sharmel bounded forward.
However, they were approaching the end of the trail faster than the cat had judged, and with one final leap Storm cleared the path and hit the sheep trail. He gave a triumphant whoop and sped away, bounding as effortlessly as a wild ram over the narrow thread of rock.
Sharmel skidded to a stop, panting and blinking. The idea that the foal might escape had never occurred to him. He had expected ridicule for even allowing such a thing to trouble him. But this... There was absolutely no excuse for this!
As he stared after the ferryshaft, he noticed the color again—really noticed it for the first time. He watched until the foal disappeared, probably into a cave, and then turned with a grimace to deal with his oncoming clutter. A moment later, a long, wavering howl made Sharmel bristle to his tail-tip. He knew then that he would be running all night, pushing for Leeshwood and home. He needed to report this. Arcove, I think we have a problem.
Part II. Arcove
Chapter 1. Daydreams and Nightmares
He walked in darkness. How long he’d been there, he could not say. Occasionally, he distinguished the silhouettes of rocks or faint light reflecting off pools of water. He stayed well away from the water. Sometimes he heard noises—rustling, the rattle of pebbles, a soft sigh like fur over stone.
I will not run.
But he walked faster. He was looking for something…something he did not think he would find. He heard dripping, and that was normal, but then he heard a sharp patter, like an animal shaking water from its fur. Another swish, closer this time.
I will not break. I will not run.
Somewhere in the darkness, something began to laugh. “Hello, Arcove.”
Then he ran.
Arcove woke with a start. It was late afternoon. Nadine stood over him, her eyes worried. Roup grimaced from a couple of lengths away. “You scratched me, Arcove.”
The black cat sat up slowly, shaking his head to clear the after-images. “How bad?”
“You mostly missed.”
“Well, if you ever challenge me, I suppose you should do it while I’m asleep.” Arcove avoided their eyes. “Did I startle anyone else?”
“Only Nadine. She didn’t want to wake you.”
“A wise mate.” He did not add, And a f
oolish friend.
“Hunt?” offered Roup.
Arcove glanced at the sky. Evening was still hours away, and Leeshwood slept. Nadine nudged him. “Go on. If you sleep, you’ll only dream again.”
Arcove’s tail lashed, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he stepped lightly around three sleeping cubs, circled the hot spring that made this cave so comfortable, and started through the winter ferns towards the stream. Roup followed without a word. When he reached the stream, Arcove kept going. He trotted along the bank past three likely fishing spots.
Roup kept quiet and let him think.
“I haven’t done that in years,” said Arcove at last.
Roup almost said, A gray ferryshaft hasn’t outwitted a hunting party in years, but he didn’t. “What is it you dream about?”
Arcove slowed and waded into the shallows. The stream was called Smoky Branch on account of the hot springs that fed it. In winter, a hazy cloud of steam always hung over the water. It rarely froze. “Someone who’s probably dead.”
Roup splashed after him. “You really think so?”
“No.” Arcove’s paw flashed at a fish and missed. He was moving too much, tail twitching. Many fish wintered here, but they weren’t torpid this early in the year.
Roup sat still and watched the silver bodies dart. “You think he could have something to do with that foal?”
Arcove considered. “If you wanted to cause trouble by training a ferryshaft to attack creasia, wouldn’t you choose a gray one? And Sharmel said he howled.”
“The howl was probably instinct,” said Roup, “I don’t think they’re even teaching the foals not to howl anymore. The adults never do it, and the foals don’t even know that they’re not supposed to.”
Arcove grunted. He struck half-heartedly at another fish.
Roup had a momentary flashback of a similar conversation in this very stream when they were little older than cubs. Arcove had been leading a clutter, then, and not all of Leeshwood. Roup, however, had done the same thing he was doing now.
“I think if Keesha wanted to get your attention, he’d do it more directly,” said Roup.
Arcove laughed—a short, deep chuckle that temporarily dispersed all fish.
“I think this foal is just a foal,” continued Roup. “Although he sounds bright. He didn’t actually attack Sharmel’s clutter. He just led them a chase. They were over-confident, and he went somewhere that they couldn’t follow.”
“Is that what you’re going to say at council this evening?”
“Yes.”
“And how do you think we should respond?”
Roup hesitated. “Halvery will tell you that we should find the foal and dismember him in front of the entire herd as an example. Treace will want to kill a hundred ferryshaft in retribution…but not the foal. He’ll make the herd kill the foal themselves. Sharmel will try to agree with everyone, because he’s embarrassed about what happened. Ariand will volunteer to go track down the foal himself because he’d rather deal with problems as he finds them.”
Arcove smiled. “You’ve answered everything but my question.”
Roup watched the fish. “You know what I think.”
“I haven’t heard you say it in a while.”
“Because nobody listens.”
“I always listen.”
“Stop the raids,” said Roup. “I know you’re afraid of what will happen if they outnumber us, but every raid gives them a reason to fight. Don’t make a martyr out of this foal, Arcove. Go talk to him yourself. Ask him why he did it.”
Arcove laughed again, this time a little wistfully. “You think all the clutters will respect that…course of action?”
“Probably not. Treace will probably challenge you, backed by a quarter of Leeshwood. You’ll kill him, they’ll settle down, and the wood will be a better place.”
“I don’t know why you so dislike Treace. He’s young. He’s intelligent.”
“Young, yes,” said Roup. “Born in peacetime. He wants war, and he doesn’t even know what it is.”
“I don’t think he wants war.”
“He wants something. He’s too quiet and too involved with all the discontents in every clutter. He’ll challenge you one of these days.”
“And, as you say, I’ll kill him,” said Arcove.
“If he doesn’t cheat.”
“That’s a serious accusation, Roup.”
“And I mean it seriously, Arcove.” Roup dipped his head and caught a fish. It was the first time he’d struck since they’d started.
“Show-off.”
“You weren’t even trying,” said Roup around a mouthful of squirming fish. He let the fish’s furiously slapping tail touch the water, spraying Arcove in the face.
Arcove growled, but it was all play. “Oh, I’m trying now. I think I see a fish I can catch.”
“That would be cheating.”
“No, that would be winning.”
And then they were splashing each other and chasing around the sun-dappled shallows. There’s your real laugh, thought Roup. Let’s be cubs again…for just a little while.
* * * *
By evening, Arcove’s officers had assembled on the warm rocks at the foot of the cliff for council. Sharmel had arrived late that morning. Arcove had let his news circulate throughout the wood, but had not asked his officers to report until nightfall. No sense in waking everyone for something that did not appear to be an emergency.
Roup let Arcove arrive first. It would only make Halvery more jealous if Arcove appeared to be discussing the problem with Roup before addressing the council. As Roup approached the meeting place, he heard voices already raised in argument.
“I can’t agree with you,” came Sharmel’s smooth drawl. “That was a prearranged performance. No ferryshaft foal could rush onto a sheep trail and survive without knowing exactly what he was doing.”
So much for agreeing with everyone, thought Roup. He’d rarely heard Sharmel so adamant.
“Well, you must admit that it sounds fantastic!” sneered Halvery. “A foal learns to run on the cliffs, then decides to try the trick on a bunch of creasia. He casually attacks them, then—”
“I didn’t say that he casually attacked us, but I know that he didn’t reach the end of the trail and go off on impulse. That foal knew what he was doing from the moment he set foot on that path—possibly from the moment he ran.”
Halvery snorted. “I think it far more likely that he ran in blind panic and got lucky. He probably fell trying to get back to the path. He’s probably lying dead at the foot of the cliffs as we speak.”
“Luck had nothing to do with it,” growled Sharmel. “I doubt very much that he’s dead.”
“I think we’re missing the point.” Ariand tried to step between Halvery and Sharmel. He was smaller than either of them, the lowest ranking of Arcove’s officers. “The question is not what this foal did or how he did it. The question is: will he do it again?”
“And that,” said Sharmel, “comes back to what I was saying. If he ran out of fear, he won’t try again—not unless he’s unlucky enough to get selected twice for the cull. But if he planned the whole thing...”
“He will try again.” Everyone looked at Arcove—a darker shadow beneath the rock overhang. “If a ferryshaft succeeds once, he will continue to try until he is stopped. We have to decide how we’re going to deal with that.”
Treace spoke. He was the youngest of the officers, although he already outranked Ariand. “The herd must be punished. If we kill enough of them, they will see the futility in revolt.”
Arcove flicked his tail. “Killing too many only makes them more determined.”
Treace frowned.
“I think we should invite the foal to council,” said Roup.
Halvery started to laugh.
Roup ignored him and continued. “They’re three generations removed from the war. What do the youngsters think about us? Do they have any idea why we kill them? Maybe it’s time for a
new treaty.”
Halvery’s laugh turned nasty. “Now that is the most ridiculous thing anyone has said.”
Roup kept talking. “Charder is tired and beaten. I don’t think he even knows which way the wind is blowing. Pick one of the young ferryshaft who’s clever and wants change. Put him in charge. Renegotiate the treaty. We might be able to stop the raids without risking reprisal.”
Halvery snarled. “Stop the raids, and they will outnumber us three-to-one in five years or less. They’ll come to Leeshwood some year and boil us in our own hot springs.”
“You think that won’t happen if we keep antagonizing them?”
“I think if you had your way, we’d hunt for them and babysit their foals!”
It was an old argument between the two highest-ranking officers. Sharmel and Ariand shifted uncomfortably. Treace uncurled with a yawn. “Why would we ever stop the raids?” he murmured, his sharp eyes on Roup. “It gives the subordinates something to look forward to.”
Arcove spoke before Roup could. “I thank you all for your opinions in this matter. The episode with Sharmel’s raiding party may mean much or little. We’ll know soon.
“Sharmel, you will discipline your clutter on the proper hunting of ferryshaft. These animals are intelligent. They are not deer. They cannot be hunted like deer. Your clutter gave a sloppy performance in front of the entire ferryshaft herd. I trust I will not have to revisit this subject.”
Sharmel’s ears drooped. Roup could see he wanted to tuck his tail, but refrained with a modicum of remaining dignity. “No, sir, you will not.”
“Good. Treace, go learn everything you can about this foal. Learn his name, his parents, his friends, his background, everything. Even if he’s dead, I want to know.”
“And then kill these animals?” asked Treace.
“Not yet.” Arcove left the overhang and strolled into the deepening twilight. “We also need someone to go on another raid immediately. I think the foal will attack again, but I may be wrong. At any rate, I want to know how this affected the rest of the herd. Have they been inspired to open revolt, or is this individual still acting alone?”
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