They descended to the beach and enjoyed the usual crunchy delicacies among the rocks. As often happened on these trips, they found an animal that no one had ever seen before in one of the tide pools—a bony-looking thing that curled and uncurled until Callaris bit it, and then it uncurled forever. Tollee never seemed to know how to behave around Kelsy’s rues, but she was finally making cautious friends with Remy. Storm was happy to see her talking to someone. She’d been almost as quiet as Mylo ever since the chase with Treace.
As they moved up the beach, Mylo edged out ahead, and, after a moment, Kelsy joined him. Storm was surprised to see them talking. He was certain that Mylo was saying more words than he’d said in the last five days combined. Storm would have liked to hear their conversation, but the wind carried most of it away. He edged forward, but could only catch a phrase here and there.
Mylo sounded angry. “…your game?”
Kelsy had a patient expression. “…if Storm keeps getting away…”
Mylo’s voice rose. “You’re just using this to…”
Their discussion grew heated, and most of the other ferryshaft became very preoccupied with hunting among the tide pools. Storm watched with his head on one side. Finally, Kelsy spun away. “Report me to the elders if that’s how you feel,” he shot over his shoulder. He approached Storm at a trot. “Come on, Vearil, let’s go have a look at that strange tunnel.”
Storm smiled at the epithet. He didn’t say anything as they made their way back up the steep trail from the beach. Faralee and Itsa came with them, but Remy was still talking to Tollee, and it looked like the rest of the clique would be foraging for a while.
When they reached the top of the cliffs, Kelsy started south, still moving at a quick pace. “Why is Mylo angry?” asked Storm at last.
Kelsy snorted. “Because he’s afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Change. The creasia. Me.” Kelsy laughed. “You just keep staying alive, Storm. Mylo will get over it.”
They moved briskly in silence as the sun passed its zenith and started down the sky. Storm had just begun to think that this tunnel was really too far away, and they might not be able to rejoin the others before dark, when Kelsy stopped beside a thick stand of brush. “I think this is it,” he said.
Faralee waved her tail. “This is it, but we’re on the wrong side.” She circled the thicket, which appeared to be impenetrable. Finally, she located a narrow game trail, probably made by sheep, and edged her way inside.
Itsa followed her, Storm and Kelsy behind. They emerged from the thicket on the edge of a broad opening in the earth, surrounded on all sides by brush. The ground was littered with the light, porous stone that Storm often found around cliff caves. “The first time, it looked as though someone had gone to some trouble to conceal it,” said Itsa. There was a mass of branches piled around the opening, but it was rotting—probably several years old.
Storm peered into the cave. “Did you follow it back?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” said Faralee, pushing past him. “It’s quite safe, but I’m not sure how useful it will be. You could get trapped here.”
Storm remained cautious. He sniffed the air, but caught no scent of telshees. Itsa and Kelsy were already making their way down the passage, and at last Storm followed them. The tunnel slanted downward, but not steeply. Light from the entrance penetrated for quite a distance. Then the tunnel took a jog and became momentarily black. However, within a short distance, Storm saw the twinkle of daylight at the far end. To his surprise, he also heard and smelled the ocean.
He glanced at Kelsy, who just shook his head. “You’ll see in a moment.”
Storm realized that the tunnel opened onto a cliff face. He walked to the edge and looked down at a sheer drop to a strip of narrow beach. He realized, then, that he was in one wall of a small fiord. Storm could see the far wall a dozen lengths in front of him—farther than he could jump, even if there had been something to jump to. He looked up and saw the far ledge some distance above. He could not see the edge directly overhead, since the tunnel receded slightly into the cliff.
Storm studied the situation for a moment. The cliff walls to either side were smooth, without so much as a sheep trail. The fall to the beach would be deadly. “It does look like a good place to get trapped.”
“You’re probably right,” said Kelsy. “But the way it was concealed seemed so strange.”
“Also, the walls,” said Faralee.
Storm looked in her direction and froze. The walls nearer this end were smooth, and they’d been covered with markings. Everything about the markings was unnatural, and Storm knew at once that they’d been made by an intelligent creature. However, they looked quite different from the lines and circles he was accustomed to seeing in caves. These looked more like the image of the telshee on the ceiling of the cave on Kuwee Island. Only, they were…
“Ferryshaft,” he said slowly.
Faralee waved her tail. “They look kind of like us, don’t they? Except, there’s something on their backs.”
Thinking about it in the right way, Storm could see that the cave wall was covered with images of ferryshaft and some other creature that seemed to be crouching on their backs. He even saw images of telshees at the bottom. “How…odd.”
“Do you think telshees make things like this?” asked Itsa. “We are near the beach.”
“I don’t know,” said Kelsy. “But someone made it, probably long ago.”
Storm shivered. He remembered how the secret passage had opened at his back. They could be here. They could be anywhere. “We should go back to the others,” he said. “We’ve come a long way south.” He took another hard look at the cliff wall, gauging the distance with his eyes. An idea fluttered in the back of his mind. I might be able to use this place after all.
Emerging into the late afternoon sunlight, Storm felt a vague sense of unease. “Were you planning to stay on the cliffs tonight, Kelsy?”
“Probably. Did you have other plans?”
“No.” The sky was overcast, and a light rain peppered their fur. Storm wasn’t sure he’d ever been this far south along the cliff top. He was about to ask whether they might walk along the edge of the Red Cliffs on the way back so that he could get his bearings, when the wind shifted, and he caught the unmistakable scent of creasia.
The others caught it too. Storm saw the immediate rigidity in Kelsy’s posture. Itsa gasped, and Faralee started to bolt. Storm ground to a halt and gave a fierce shake of his head. Don’t move!
They didn’t. No one said anything. They just stood with nostrils wide, breathing quickly. Storm looked in the direction of the wind—north and a little west. He couldn’t see the cats, but they were certainly out there. They must be looking for me. If I don’t draw them away, they’ll find my friends. He forced himself not to think about what might have happened if they’d already found his clique.
He looked at Kelsy and gave a toss of his head towards the Sea Cliffs. You go that way. They won’t care about you in a moment. Then, without looking back, he started towards the ominous scent.
Within moments, Storm caught a flash of brindled fur through the trees and hunkered down. They’re probably following my trail, he thought, we were returning in much the same way that we came. We would have met them head-on if the wind hadn’t shifted.
He wasn’t sure where Kelsy, Itsa, and Faralee had gone, but he knew that he didn’t want the creasia to stay in the area for a leisurely investigation.
So, he howled. It always seemed to work, and this time was no exception. Storm heard cries of excitement and the crackle of leaves underfoot. He saw a confusion of brown and black shapes coming through the trees, but he did not wait to count them.
Storm turned and fled. He was surprised to feel a sense of buoyancy and cautious optimism. The long days of uncertainty were over. He did not have to wonder how or where the next creasia attack would occur. The place was here, the time was now. He was well-fed and well-practiced,
though not so much on this bit of terrain.
Time to change that.
Storm angled through the wood in the direction of the red cliffs. He would find a trail, and it would most likely be one he knew. With any luck, he could lose these cats before nightfall.
Storm burst out of the trees to rush along the edge of the Red Cliffs. All at once, his stride faltered. Why did he see so much green below? A terrible idea occurred to him. Where is the Igby?
One glance to the north confirmed Storm’s suspicions. He saw the river winding eastward in a silver ribbon, but it should have been south of him, not north. Storm felt cold. He had crossed the river above the cliffs without realizing it. The deep green below was the Southern Forests: creasia territory.
Storm’s thoughts raced, but he increased his speed again as the cats emerged from the trees not far behind him. The creasia were too close to allow Storm to turn around on the cliff top. I don’t know these sheep trails, he thought. I can’t use them, but I could at least get to the bottom of the cliff. The idea of taking a chase into creasia territory made Storm feel ill, but if he kept running along the cliff top, he would soon reach the Garu Vell—a dead-end.
I will go down the cliff, thought Storm, and turn north. Soon I’ll reach the Igby, and once I cross it, I know of dozens of places to hide. I’ll stay in the rocks at the bottom of the cliff. I won’t even go into the wood.
Presently, he spotted a trailhead. Storm darted forward and down. He would have liked to go slowly, for he did not know the path, but he wanted a better lead on the cats, and so he took the unknown trail at a gallop.
Chapter 10. Round 3: Sharmel
Storm barely saw the cats in time. They shot out of the boulders in front of him, almost blocking his escape from the cliff trail. They must have been waiting. Storm veered away, but his reflexes were slow. He’d been up and down the cliffs three times today. Evening shadows stretched among the rocks, and his panting breath left foggy clouds in the air.
Pain woke him up—points of agony as the cat’s slapping paw twisted him into the air. Storm hit the ground upright and running, his fatigue temporarily washed away in a moment of panic. He ran with speed he hadn’t known he could muster in the only direction available—into the trees. He felt warm blood coursing down his right foreleg. Oh, no. No, no, no, no...
In the space of a few heartbeats, all his plans had been dashed. Now he was running through creasia territory—an unknown forest—at dusk, injured, and leaving a blood trail. Panic and despair clamped down on his chest like the jaws of a predator. It was hard to breathe.
Storm raced on blindly as the wood grew darker, expecting to feel claws in his back at any moment. Finally, he stumbled. He couldn’t catch his breath. He wondered if he was dying of blood loss. Storm pitched headlong into the leaves. He twisted around, completely spent, a quivering, terrified foal waiting for death.
In his glassy-eyed state, it took him a moment to realize that there were no cats immediately behind him. The twilight wood loomed all around. He heard only the sound of his own rasping breath and smelled only wet loam.
Storm tried to gauge how far he’d run, but couldn’t say. The sun had set. He was no longer certain in which direction the Igby lay. So I’m lost, too.
Storm twisted around to have a look at his injury. One glance told him that, while he was certainly leaving a blood trail, he wasn’t likely to die of it. The scratch was a superficial graze that ran along his right ribs. It would be of little concern if it hadn’t passed over his elbow and upper right front leg. The act of running stretched the wound and caused it to bleed.
But I’m not bleeding to death, and the cats are not close behind me.
As though to qualify this point, a creasia call rose quavering in the night air. Storm shivered. The cat was close. They probably didn’t chase me hard because they knew I was leaving an easy trail. They probably wanted me deep in creasia territory.
Storm rose, testing his shaky legs. He still felt that his chances of reaching the Igby were slim, but he wasn’t dead yet. He quelled the urge to start running again as the creasia calls drew nearer. I can’t just keep running all night in random directions. I might be headed straight away from the Igby. I need to hide until morning. When the sun rises, I’ll know which direction is north.
But how to hide when I’m leaving a blood trail?
Storm’s panting had subsided, and he was beginning to catch the more subtle sounds of the forest. Storm shut his eyes, held his breath, and listened. And there it was. The sound of running water.
* * * *
In the chilly darkness just before dawn, a creasia bent over a stream to drink. He lapped at the ice around the edges. Water was running at the center due to the mild winter and to a hot spring farther upstream, and the cat didn’t want to break through. He was not surprised, when he looked up, to see another cat three paces away. “Anything?”
“No.” The other paused to drink.
“You think Sharmel will call it off? That foal’s probably back with the herd by now…or sitting up on the cliffs laughing at us.”
The first cat snorted. “You really think so?”
“There’s not a whiff of him in the forest, Andrel. I went halfway to Chelby Lake; there’s nothing. I say he followed the stream to the cliffs, climbed them, and he’s long gone.”
“Impossible,” said Andrel. “You don’t know how close we were when he found the water. Sharmel sent cats upstream immediately. There’s no way he reached the cliffs.”
“Well, he left the forest somehow.”
“I don’t think so. Neither does chief.”
The second cat was quiet for a moment. “He disappeared mysteriously when Ariand chased him, too.”
His companion growled, but he continued. “They say he went into a dead-end cave and never came out. They watched the place all night, but the next morning he was gone. He called himself Vearil—the ill-omen.”
“Careful,” muttered Andrel.
“Well, it happened!”
Andrel had stopped growling. He was quiet for a moment. Then he laughed. “Coden’s ghost. Are we calling him that, yet?”
“Maybe.”
“We’ll find him,” said Andrel. “He’s not a ghost, and he’s not an omen. He bleeds bright red. We’ll find him.”
“If you say so.”
The creasia were still talking as they moved away. A night bird started to sing, then stopped as something moved in the tree overhead. Storm shifted as the first light of dawn touched the sky. He stared thoughtfully after the two creasia. Who was Coden?
Chapter 11. The River and the Trees
Storm tried to stretch, but his situation in the tree made any movement awkward. They still haven’t figured it out.
And why should they? Storm had never seen or heard of a ferryshaft climbing a tree. He’d simply guessed—correctly—that the long, torturous limbs would not be much more difficult to tread than a precarious cliff trail.
It had been a close thing. He’d struggled a short distance downstream over rotten ice, breaking through into freezing, knee-deep water, until he found a suitable branch that overhung the stream. He’d gauged his jump with the sound of approaching creasia wails loud in his ears. Every fiber of his being screamed run! The branch was high and the night black. It had begun to rain again. Storm had jumped three times before he’d managed to clamber onto the slippery limb, and the cats were so close that he feared the trembling of the branch would give him away.
Once the cats passed below him, Storm had worked his way to the tree’s trunk. He dared not stay near his original point of departure from the stream. A cat might see the branch and suspect. The trees of the Southern Forest had stocky limbs and massive trunks, and they grew close together. Storm had found that, with care, he could walk from tree to tree. He had spent some time working his way along the stream in this fashion. At last, quivering with exhaustion, he had wedged himself in the crotch of a tree and fallen into a restless sleep. Crea
sia voices had woken him, and he saw that it was almost dawn.
Pain shot through Storm’s muscles as he tried to stand. Never in his life had he felt so stiff and sore. The wound along his right ribs and foreleg throbbed. However, it had crusted over and did not seem likely to bleed again. His stomach growled, but he pushed that aside.
Storm listened carefully, then jumped to the ground. The air smelled pleasantly of woods after rain. He walked to the stream and took a long drink. For a moment, he stood perfectly still, savoring the water, thinking of the forest and the river that lay between him and safety. Then he turned and started north with the rising sun on his right shoulder.
When he wasn’t galloping, Storm’s footfalls were soundless on the forest floor. The ground beneath the trees was almost entirely free of snow, and he made good time at a swift trot. The first pair of creasia he encountered came from upwind, and Storm easily avoided them.
However, with so many creasia combing the forest, they could hardly avoid finding his scent trail. Suddenly the quiet woods began to echo with the yowls of an excited cat. Others answered, and their voices began to converge on Storm’s trail.
Storm considered a flat-out race. He thought he must be close to the Igby. However, he couldn’t be sure, and some of the cats might be between him and the river. If he ran in a straight line, they would intercept him. They’ll expect that, he thought. If I do what they expect, I’m dead.
Storm listened carefully to the voices behind him. What do they least expect? He whirled and trotted south along his own trail, towards the calls of approaching cats. Storm moved toward the oncoming creasia until his nerve broke. Then he found a sturdy, low limb and jumped at it. On his second try, he landed on the branch and scrambled higher into the tree.
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