“Yes,” said Shaw. “You’d be surprised how they can keep striking at you with a broken back.”
Storm shivered again. “What a horrible creature. You said they’re poisonous?”
“Yes.” Shaw’s eyes snapped fully open. “It didn’t bite you, did it? I thought I dodged—”
“No, no.” Storm smiled. “You bit me a little, but that’s all.”
Shaw sank back. “I, at least, am not venomous.”
“I’m sure you saved my life…again. What about your drove?”
Shaw looked weary. “I’ll soon find out. It looked to me like we were winning, but I wanted to get you away.” She gave a jerk of her head towards the light at the top of the tunnel. “You’ll find a crack in the rocks up there. You’ll be able to slip through, although most telshees couldn’t. You’ll be in the boulder mazes, well north of creasia territory.”
“Thank you,” said Storm. He tried to convey the depth of his feeling.
Shaw smiled. “If you return a few times, you’ll soon learn your way into Syriot. In the meantime, you can always come to the beach and howl. One of us would probably hear you.”
Chapter 12. Riddle on the Wall
Storm stood, blinking, in mid-day sunlight among the rosy rock of the boulder mazes. Summer. The air smelled of mature grass, warm earth, and the comforting scent that emanated from these rocks in the heat of the day.
Storm shut his eyes and breathed. He turned his face into the sun and felt the dry wind move through his damp fur. “I’m home,” he whispered, and then, more loudly, “I’m home!” He capered in a circle, forgetting all his three-year-old dignity. “Do you hear that, Arcove! You didn’t kill me!”
Storm tore away through the boulders, leaving a red plume of dust. He wanted to run and run and never stop. He soon got his bearings. He was about two-thirds of the way from the Igby River to Groth. As Shaw said, he was quite a ways from the Southern Forests. I’m quite a ways from anywhere. Storm startled a rabbit and soon had something to eat. Something that’s not a fish! His fur dried quickly.
With his belly full, Storm hopped onto a tall, flat rock. He stretched out in the warm sun and shut his eyes. All of Syriot’s dim grandeur seemed like a fantastic dream. But it wasn’t a dream. I’ll have so much to tell the others when I find them. But first…I just want to feel the sun.
Storm woke to an ululating cry—a warble that ended in a series of yaps. He sat up with a jerk, disoriented, and almost slipped from his perch. The sun had set behind the cliffs, and evening insects were singing among the scrubby plants of the boulder mazes.
Storm shook himself and looked around. That noise... He’d heard curb cries before. Somehow, they sounded more intimidating when one was not surrounded by friends. Storm realized that he’d never been this far from the herd alone. His friends would be by Chelby Lake at this time of year. He’d had a vague plan to start in that direction next morning. The mazes were a better place to spend the night than the open plain.
Still… What was I thinking? I should have slept somewhere safer. But he had an uncomfortable feeling that caves, which would have protected him from creasia, would not protect him from the maker of that cry. Curbs can get into small spaces.
Storm realized something else, too. I haven’t passed a single stream. He tried to remember where he’d found water in this area before. But, of course, there was snow on the ground, then. Even if I go north into the spring feeding grounds, I’m not sure how much water I’ll find. We leave for Chelby Lake when the streams start to dry up.
Storm wasn’t unduly worried, but he did feel more cautious. He tried to remember the sheep trails in this region. He could think of a couple. Dare I walk them at night…after being gone for a whole season? Besides, those trails didn’t have any caves or ledges on which to sleep.
Storm knew of a few caves at the foot of the cliffs. He wasn’t sure how much protection they would provide from curbs, but… It can’t be worse than sleeping on a rock in the open.
Moving quietly, Storm jumped down and made his way towards the cliffs. The twilight had deepened by the time he found a cave. Its shadowy mouth did not look inviting. Might curbs sleep in caves, too?
Another warbling cry made up his mind, though, and he started into the blackness. Storm stopped again just beyond the entrance to allow his eyes to adjust. The last of the dusky light showed a rocky room with nowhere to hide. Moving towards the back, Storm saw that the cave narrowed to a tunnel that continued on out of sight.
He had a vague memory of his mother telling him not to play in these caves because foals had gotten lost and starved to death. Even when hiding from Kelsy’s clique, Storm had always avoided deep, lightless caves with too many branching passages. He wondered if the cave connected to Syriot. More likely, it was just a dark warren of narrow tunnels. If he’d been hiding from the creasia, he needn’t have gone more than a short distance inside. However, hiding from small, nimble curbs was trickier. I could stay awake and keep moving… But, then, how safe would I be crossing the plain tomorrow with no sleep?
Storm took a deep breath, commanded himself not to think of lishties, and was about to plunge into the night-black passage, when he noticed something on the wall above: unnaturally straight, white lines. Storm squinted. Then he caught his breath. Telshee words had been scratched into the rock just above a low ledge. No, he corrected himself, not telshee words. Ferryshaft words!
Storm moved closer to the wall in the dim light. He licked his lips and concentrated, struggling to remember Shaw’s instructions. Slowly, he sounded out the symbols. “Look…back.”
That was all it said. Storm walked around the cave, scanning the walls for the rest of the message, but found no more words. The night was completely dark now with only starlight to aid his search. A curb yipped again. It sounded disturbingly close, and Storm shivered. He remembered that time with Tollee on the way to Groth—how curbs had almost killed him.
Storm returned to the back wall. He stared at the words again. I don’t even know why I’m doing this. Didn’t Shaw say that most of the words I found in the mazes would be nonsense? The rest of the message has probably dissolved with time. And how could it help anyway?
But he kept looking. A natural rock shelf seemed to underline the message. It was so low that Storm could easily put his front feet on it—not a suitable hiding place. On an impulse, he jumped onto the shelf anyway just to have a closer look at the words. “Look back.”
Storm turned around. Then he laughed.
The hiding place was in the ceiling—a shallow, second cave with a wide, flattened mouth that opened towards the back of the lower cave. From anywhere on the floor, the ceiling looked smooth. Only by standing on the shelf and looking back towards the entrance did one achieve the right angle to see the second cave.
Storm tried three times before he managed to jump from the shelf into the cave in the ceiling. When he finally succeeded, he found that he was not the only ferryshaft to have visited the hiding place this year. Someone had stuffed the back of the little cave with summer grasses, which had dried in the heat. Storm had seen hay before, although it was usually claimed by upper-level members of the herd. It was a food source that would last for some time if it did not become wet. This is some elder’s winter cache, thought Storm. Well, I hope he or she doesn’t mind sharing with me.
Soon, Storm was nodding off again, well-fed once more, feeling secure and comfortable amid the sweet scent of summer hay.
Storm woke to a bedlam of noise. His heart gave an unpleasant skip and then pounded for a few moments while he lay perfectly still, wondering if some predator had discovered his hiding place. The noises coming from below sounded like fighting—snarls and roars and yelps. When no grappling paws appeared in the opening of his sanctuary, Storm inched forward and peered cautiously over the edge.
Curbs were fighting in the cave below, their bodies illuminated by weak, dawn light. More curbs than Storm could easily count were thrashing around the room in
a seething mass of blood and snarls. As he watched, one group rallied and managed to form a defensive circle. Storm saw that these were a bit larger and shaggier than their opponents. The smaller, sleeker curbs danced around the outside of the ring, flashing in to snap at flanks and hamstrings. The circling curbs made a determined rush forward, and the smaller animals fell back before them, calling insults and threats even as they retreated. “Breathe while you can, stinking rat spawn! We’ll taste your blood by nightfall!”
The larger curbs made one more rush, and the group disappeared from Storm’s view. There was a moment of silence, and then he heard the panting of the curbs again. The larger curbs seemed to have driven off their attackers, but they had not left the cave.
“Sir—” began one.
Another answered, “I know, Cohal.”
Storm jumped again when one animal set up a keening howl. Storm peered down and saw that the curb was standing over the body of another, dead or dying on the stone floor. “No, no, no, no…”
“Shut up!” barked another. “Just shut up!”
“Oh, let him be. We’re all dead anyway. What’s the difference?”
“We could try these caves. Might be another way out.”
“I doubt it. More likely, we’d just get lost and starve underground…or be killed by telshees.”
“I think I’d rather be killed by telshees…just to spite Quinyl.”
“All of you, be quiet,” growled one. He had the tone of a leader. “Can everyone still walk?”
“Everyone who’s still breathing,” muttered one.
“Alright, then. Maenie and Nof, check these tunnels. Do not get lost. I just want to know if we can get out that way. Quinyl will try to keep us in here until she’s gathered another pack or two. I doubt they’ll attack before nightfall. Go on.”
Storm watched with interest and a degree of pity as the two curbs scampered away into the blackness. The rest settled down to mourn their dead and wait. They’re trapped, thought Storm, and so am I.
Chapter 13. Curbs
The two curbs who’d been sent into the passages returned by midmorning. “Well, it’s a good place to get lost and die in the dark,” said one, “but I don’t think it leads to the surface. Not a breath of fresh air or even a trickle of water.”
Storm was sorry to hear this. He was getting thirsty.
“We’ll have to take our chances with whatever’s outside, then,” said their leader. “Best try in the heat of the day when they’re likely to be napping.”
They did try, but they were driven back. The curbs outside did not attempt to press their attack into the cave, but seemed content to trap their opponents within. Storm could see the back third of the cave from his hiding place, and he’d gotten a good look at the trapped pack. There were eight of them, along with three dead that they’d dragged into a corner. The bodies were beginning to stink.
Storm kept hoping that they would make a successful drive into the mazes—at least long enough for him to escape—but they always returned within moments. He got the idea that they were severely outnumbered and hesitant to risk further losses. Storm tried to remember everything Pathar had told him about curbs, everything he’d ever heard from Tracer or Leep or Tollee. But he couldn’t think of anything helpful.
As evening approached, the pack’s desperation faded into resignation. They stopped trying to escape. They stopped pacing. They lay on their bellies, heads up, and waited. Two or three groomed each other. They did not speak. Outside, the yips and howls started. It sounded like hundreds of curbs, although Storm doubted it was more than twenty. I suppose I could just wait until they’re all dead. At this rate, it won’t take long.
He knew when the attacking curbs came into view at the front of the cave, because all of those below him stood up. They did not leap to their feet. They stood with tired dignity and moved into a defensive crescent, putting the furthest wall of the cave at their backs.
“Can we talk about this?” asked the foremost curb below Storm—the one he’d identified as the leader.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” came a smooth, female voice from the front of the cave. “You are in our territory. We will not suffer it.”
“Your territory grows by the year,” said the curb below. “We are all curbs, Quinyl. We share blood. Why must we fight?”
“Your predecessors said such things, too, when their backs were to a wall or a cliff or a river,” she said. “But when they were not desperate, those curbs raided our caches, killed our young, and dismantled our traps. We are not the same blood, you and I. And after today, our plains will be free of your stench.”
The attacking curbs had moved into Storm’s line of sight. He’d been right about the number—twenty at least, maybe a few more. They outnumbered the larger curbs by more than two-to-one, and they were obviously fresher. The female who’d been talking stood towards the back of the group. The foremost appeared to be a large male, almost as big as his opponents. He was moving in a slow stalk towards the leader of the defending curbs, dancing a little this way and that to keep the other off balance.
If the attackers move a little farther into the cave, I could jump down behind them and run, thought Storm. They wouldn’t follow me. They’re too intent on killing these others. That’s what I should do. That, or wait until the fight is over.
Instead, he moved to the lip of the upper cave, far enough out that he could be seen by those at the back…if they happened to look up. Storm looked directly at the leader of the trapped curbs. One chance. One chance, because I have a weakness for trapped, outnumbered creatures. And because someone saved my life recently…when she didn’t have to.
Storm thought for a moment that the leader would not see him, that the attacking curbs would pass below, and the battle would carry on to its inevitable conclusion.
Then the leader stiffened. His eyes met Storm’s. Storm read a moment of pure astonishment. Think fast. I can’t help you if you’re slow or stupid. Storm looked down sidelong at the foremost attacker and jerked his head.
The leader moved forward. As though he and Storm had planned it all along, he leapt at his opponent, drawing the largest attacking curb into a position directly beneath Storm’s perch. The attacker followed, bared his teeth, and would have sprung…if Storm had not fallen on him like a stone from above.
Storm felt his front hooves connect with a satisfying crunch against the back of the curb’s skull, and he landed with a final, solid thump on the broken body. Already, he was turning, lashing out in all directions with his hooves and teeth. He’d grown taller since the last time he had dealt with curbs, but surprise was his greatest weapon. They were so astonished and bewildered that he’d killed two more before they scattered, yelping and calling confusedly to each other.
The beleaguered party took full advantage of the situation to tear into their opponents. But we can’t stay here. Already, Storm could hear those who’d fled outside sending up a frantic yapping. He remembered what the leader had said about Quinyl calling other packs.
The moment Storm saw a clear space, he bounded out of the cave. The defending curbs ran with him. “You’re highland curbs, aren’t you?” shouted Storm without preamble.
“Yes,” panted their leader, struggling to keep pace beside him. “Who are—?”
“Can you run on sheep trails?” demanded Storm.
Their leader looked confused. “Yes… Maybe.”
“The answer is yes or no,” shot Storm. “Follow me.”
They did—all the way up a winding path with a snarling pack of lowland curbs rallying on their heels. Storm was determined to reach the sheep trail before the last of the evening light faded. The going was slower than he would have liked. He’d been gone for so long that he dared not take the trail at a run. However, when he took a moment to look back, he was pleased to see the highland curbs, picking their way along behind him over the uneven thread of rock. He felt an additional moment of satisfaction when he glimpsed their pursuer
s, milling about in confusion where the real path ended.
“I guess they’re called ‘lowland’ for a reason,” he said over his shoulder.
The leader of the highland curbs laughed. Storm thought it was the first time he’d heard a curb laugh. “I think I’ve seen you before,” he told Storm.
“Oh?”
“You led a clutter of creasia into my resting pack last spring.”
“Oh.” Storm slowed a little. He wanted to glance back to gauge the curb’s expression, but he needed to watch his feet. “Sorry about that. I was desperate.”
“They killed two of my pack-mates,” continued the curb.
“Does that make us enemies?”
“I think you just saved our lives, so I suppose you’ve made up for it. My name is Eyal, and I think mine is the last pack of highland curbs this side of Leeshwood. You’re the one they call Vearil, aren’t you? The one Arcove supposedly killed last season.”
Storm smiled. “Yes. I’m not very good at staying dead. You can call me Storm.”
Chapter 14. Return
The sheep trail ended at the top of the cliffs. Quinyl and her pack would have a long detour to reach them, if they managed to figure out where the trail emerged at all. Storm expected that he and the curbs would go their separate ways after reaching the cliff top, but Eyal seemed in no hurry to be rid of him. He offered to show Storm a spring that was still flowing at this time of year—information that Storm did not possess and badly needed.
So, they traveled southward through the night, and Storm was glad of the naps he’d taken in the cave during the day. “What are you doing so far from your herd?” asked Eyal. “Has Arcove made you a fugitive?”
“Oh, no,” said Storm, “I was with the telshees.”
He wondered after he said it whether he shouldn’t have, but the curbs did not seem surprised. “So the old alliances are not dead,” said Eyal’s second, a curb named Cohal. “This news will not please Arcove.”
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