Wing & Claw #3

by Linda Sue Park

  As Raffa watched, Kuma left the animals on the plateau and dropped down out of sight. Assured that they were ready, he started moving faster. His aim was a nameless mass of stone at a point about a third of the way to the Forest. He had chosen it for two reasons: It put plenty of distance between him and the guards while still giving him a clear line of sight to what Kuma had called “a new stone formation—the Petrified Bear.”

  He reached the pile and climbed to its halfway point, where it narrowed perilously. For a moment he thought of securing himself with his leather rope—and then remembered that he no longer had it.

  He stood on a narrow jut of stone, his weight forward so he was leaning against the bulk of the formation. The sound of the boots was slowly growing stronger; he kept staring out toward the edge of the Mag, but could see no movement.

  Then the sound stopped. Abruptly and completely.

  The guards had reached the Mag.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  RAFFA tried to imagine the guards’ reactions at that moment. Most of them were Gildeners, unfamiliar with the Mag and the Forest. Even in full sunlight, the Mag was a mysterious place. But now, beneath the shifting light of an uncertain moon, the formations seemed otherworldly, as if they were monstrous creatures rather than solid stone. . . .

  The guards would not be able to march rank-and-file through the lava field. The council had guessed that they would try to cross the Mag in patrols or platoons, and regroup on the far side, where there was a stretch of scrubland bordering the Forest.

  After a few moments, Raffa heard the sound of boots again, but this time there was no regularity to it. And in the next interval of cloudless moon, he saw movement—what looked almost like water spilling into the Mag, narrowing into streams or spreading into puddles.

  He waited, holding his breath. Some of the guards were now approaching the plateau.

  Not long now . . . Come on, Roo, you can do it. . . .

  He looked at the Bridge, where he could see the rounded mass at its highest point. In the next moment, clouds blocked the moon again and everything grew dim.

  Now! Now, Kuma!

  The mass began to move. Roo uncurled from her crouch and rose to her full height. Bando and Twig clung to her neck and shoulders, making her silhouette against the sky completely unrecognizable. A monster, an ogre, a horror from a nightmare . . . The raccoons were whipping their tails, swinging and swishing them; it looked like serpents were emerging from the monster’s head.

  Kuma’s timing was perfect: Although Raffa could not hear her voice, he knew that she had given Roo the command.

  The great golden bear threw back her head—and ROARED!

  The sound was unbelievable. An earthquake. Thunder. A vortex from the bottom of the Vast, a bellow from the earth’s very core. Even though he could barely see Roo, Raffa could feel her voice reverberating all around him.

  In the midst of his awe, he smiled inwardly—at the image of Twig nonchalant and Bando with his eyes tightly closed.

  The roar went on, and on, and on.

  Finally Roo paused to draw a breath. At the same time, the moon emerged again; Raffa had the wild thought that it had been cowering behind the clouds, fearful of the bear’s roar. Now it shone on a scene of chaos around the plateau.

  Guards were fleeing in utter panic. Shrieks and screams cut through the air. Roo began to roar again, drowning out all other sound, but Raffa could still see the swarm of terror, everyone scrambling away from the Bridge, people running into each other, tripping, falling, dragging or knocking others down with them.

  The second roar went on nearly as long as the first, and Raffa started to feel anxious.

  That’s enough, Kuma! Get away now—get out of there, all of you!

  Their aim had been to frighten away as many guards as possible while not putting Roo or the raccoons in danger of being assailed by weaponry. Neither Raffa nor Kuma thought that the guards would be brave enough to approach Roo with a bluggen or lancer, but it was possible that the Chancellor had included archers among the troops. The animals had to get off the Bridge before any of the guards regained their nerve.

  To his relief, he saw Roo drop to all fours and trundle down the stone ramp. She then disappeared from view, rejoining Kuma.

  One final roar, the loudest and longest and the most frightening of all: The overwhelming sound appeared to be coming from the Mag itself. It seemed entirely possible that the whole lava field might explode from the pressure of the sound, spewing boulders into the air that would then come crashing down on anyone in their path.

  Guards were still running away, dozens of them, maybe even hundreds, back toward the fields and farmsteads. Raffa allowed himself a brief satisfied vision of guards racing all the way to the river and plunging right into it, in their efforts to get away from the terrifying beast of stone.

  Raffa climbed down from his perch. While Kuma was taking the animals back to the safety of the Forest, he was to join the Afters hiding deeper within the Mag.

  Roo had frightened away many of the guards, but there were hundreds more continuing to advance. Raffa donned his mask to keep the blue glow from giving away his position, then set off. Being on his own and having some familiarity with the Mag meant that he could move faster than the guards. Still, his legs quickly grew tired: It was exhausting, having to put his foot down tentatively every single step, worried that the ground would be uneven or unstable or both.

  When Raffa judged he was finally far enough ahead, he pushed the mask up on top of his head. Garith’s idea for the blue-goo was having its first successful outing: The Afters would see the glow and know he was one of them.

  “Hoy, young Santana!”

  The relief of hearing Fitzer’s voice gave Raffa new strength. He hurried over the last stretch of stony ground and soon saw Fitzer near the top of the formation known as the Angry Ox.

  “I didn’t know it would be you,” Raffa said, panting. “I thought it was supposed to be Quellin’s—I mean, Lantern Squad.”

  “Swapped with them,” Fitzer said. “Made sense, since we’re going to be with you later.”

  “Everyone else is here?”

  Fitzer nodded. “Four squads altogether. There’s a spot for you yonder,” he said, and pointed behind them, in the direction of the Forest.

  “But I—”

  “Not having it,” Fitzer said, cutting him off calmly but firmly. “Being at the front for your pothering tactic, that’s one thing. But this is another, and you heard the council—no one under sixteen is even supposed to be out here. Don’t make me regret letting you stay.”

  Raffa decided it would be unwise to protest further. He headed to the spot Fitzer had indicated. Along the way, he passed other Frypans. They were all wearing their masks, which reminded him to pull his down again. It was disconcerting to see the blank masks with their unnatural rectangular eye slits; he was glad when some folks nodded at him reassuringly.

  He slipped behind yet another stone formation and readied himself, first by taking a deep draft from his waterskin. Then he pulled a willow whistle from his pocket.

  Two dozen whistles had been distributed among the squads; there hadn’t been time to make more. Based on what he had heard and seen at the riverbank, Raffa’s best guess was that the whistles were being used to guide or direct the animals in some way, with voice commands to order an attack. The squad members had been instructed to wait until they heard the guards’ whistles, and to begin blowing their own in the hopes of confusing the animals, getting them to run every which way.

  Raffa pushed up his mask just enough to clear his mouth; his glowing cheeks and forehead were still covered. Peering around the edge of his rock, he saw a few other Frypans hiding behind their own rocks. But his position wasn’t elevated enough for him to see much of the landscape.

  Again he waited.

  I wonder if battles are always like this, so much waiting around. He had never known before that it was possible to be bored and scared at t
he same time.

  But he didn’t have long to wait. A hand opened and shut, outspread fingers and then a fist, the gesture passed along from After to After: the signal from Fitzer that the guards and animals were approaching.

  Raffa’s heart jumped. The time for him to make his stand was drawing nearer: He was to face the animals on his own in the scrubland between the Forest and the Mag. He leaned out cautiously from behind the rock.

  A wild cacophony of whistles filled the air!

  The Afters were all blowing on their whistles hard and fast. The noise was so shrill and constant that it was surely drowning out any attempts by the guards to issue whistled commands themselves. Raffa blew into his whistle again and again—long blasts and short toots, stopping only when he needed to replenish his breath.

  Dizzy from the constant inhaling and exhaling, he saw the Frypans in front of him seem to hesitate—turning and looking back over their shoulders.

  Someone shouted. Raffa couldn’t make out the words.

  The Frypans all began to run, stumbling on the treacherous basalt.

  Something’s wrong—why are they running this way?

  One woman had taken off her mask; he could see her mouth moving, but he couldn’t hear the words. There were too many people still whistling.

  Then he saw a man gesturing wildly, waving his arms toward the Forest. It was Fitzer; he was masked, but Raffa recognized his sturdy build. Raffa waited until Fitzer had nearly reached him.

  “FALL BACK!” Fitzer shouted. “It didn’t work—they’re coming! EVERYONE, FALL BACK!”

  Raffa dropped the whistle he was holding and began to run. The Frypans were coalescing around Fitzer, trying to stay together. Raffa stumbled and fell to his knees. Someone grabbed his arm and yanked him to his feet again.

  They had to get still farther into the Mag, where more squads awaited them. The stolen whistles were supposed to have scattered the animals, slowing their progress. If the plan had worked, the guards would have had to halt in order to get the animals organized again, giving Fitzer’s squad and the others plenty of time to rejoin the rest of the Afters. Not only that, but the Afters had planned to use the whistles throughout the entire battle, to bewilder the animals at every turn.

  Why isn’t it working? What’s gone wrong?

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  RAFFA panted desperately as he struggled across the unforgiving terrain. Ahead, he saw a masked After silhouetted against the sky and recognized Quellin.

  “Frypans, Trowels, Pillows, Hammers!” she shouted. “Get behind our position!”

  Raffa had nearly reached a stretch of ground that was clearer than its surroundings. Known as the Furrow, it looked almost like a road or a broad path—several paces in width and slightly humped in the center. He was familiar with it as one of the quicker ways to reach the Forest from the middle of the Mag. Hidden from view by rock formations, the Furrow was easy to miss unless you knew the area well.

  He was able to run faster once he stepped onto the Furrow. Amidst the Frypans and members of three other squads, Raffa raced along for a short distance, then veered and scrambled to find a hiding place among the stone structures. Heart pounding, limbs trembling, he settled himself behind a pyramid of rock.

  On either side of the Furrow, the Afters were waiting. Quellin’s Lantern Squad and several more were ready with their blowpipes. In the hands of most of the Afters, the pipes had an alarmingly short range. They had to position themselves as close to the Furrow as possible to give themselves a chance at hitting the guards with the thorns. During blowpipe practice, a few people had shown some natural ability; their thorns flew much farther, and truer to the target. They had been assigned to positions at the beginning of the Furrow, and would try to hit the first guards to approach.

  Raffa forced himself to take three deep breaths before opening his rucksack and extracting a blowpipe, a locuster pod, and a pair of gloves. His hands were shaking after the effort of his run; as he loaded his pipe, he dropped several thorns and cursed his clumsiness.

  At last he was ready. A chain of murmurs made its way from After to After: “Masks off. Pipes up.”

  An occasional flash caught Raffa’s eye: The blue-goo was working beautifully. In the chaos that was sure to ensue, the Afters would be certain not to aim at anyone whose faces glowed blue.

  There was, of course, the danger that the glow made them easier for the guards to spot. The council had come up with the idea that whenever possible, the squad members should raise and lower their masks at random intervals to confuse the guards.

  Waiting.

  Darkness.

  The sound of boots on the Furrow’s stone floor.

  Then—“YOW! What’s that?”

  “Hoy! AH—it burns, it’s burning!”

  “YOW—my neck, my neck!”

  The guards were being hit by touchrue thorns!

  It’s working, it’s working!

  But when Raffa dared a peek, he saw with dismay that dozens of guards were still advancing along the Furrow. Few of them seemed to have been afflicted by the thorns—a mere handful, who had stumbled off to the side.

  We have to hit more of them!

  Then he heard Fitzer call out, “Frypans! Hold your fire!”

  The first phalanx of guards had nearly reached Raffa. What he saw next stunned him.

  Fitzer ran out into the Furrow directly in front of the guards. As he dashed to the other side, he blew a continuous stream of thorns at the guards.

  Almost every one of his thorns hit a guard! Nearly the entire first row broke ranks while they clapped their hands to their necks or their faces, crying out in agony.

  “Frypans!” Fitzer shouted. “Did you see that? Show and go, show and go! Stay out of bluggen range!”

  The man nearest to Raffa stepped out from behind his cover, blue cheeks clearly visible. “I’m go!” he yelled, and crossed the Furrow just as Fitzer had, shooting thorns the whole way.

  From the other side of the Furrow, the Pillows’ leader hollered.

  “I’m go!” she shouted. “Pans and Pillows, alternate!” Her thorns, too, hit their targets much more often at such close range.

  From one side to the other, Afters crisscrossed the Furrow, sending a near constant stream of thorns at the guards. A good number of the guards were hit more than once; they were doubled over in pain from the combination of piercing thorn, touchrue sap, and nettle essence. So many of them had stopped that the forward progress of the column pounding down the Furrow had slowed to a near standstill.

  Raffa quickly climbed the nearest formation for a better view. The darkness was just beginning to thin, and he was puzzled by what he saw: There seemed to be a considerable gap in the ranks of the guards.

  Why would they have left a space like that?

  He strained to see farther. The first shafts of daybirth sunlight reached along the Furrow at an oblique angle—and he gasped in horror.

  The gap was not empty.

  Dozens of pairs of gleaming purple eyes seemed to be staring straight at him.

  The animals!

  Raffa knew that the eyes of animals treated with the scarlet-vine infusion took on a purple sheen. He had noticed it in Echo, and Bando and Twig, and the animals trapped in the compound. But never before had he seen so many of the treated animals in one place.

  For a moment that seemed removed from time, he stared, mesmerized by the sight. The tiny purple lights—how beautiful they were! They could have been stars, or jewels, or sparks from a magical fire. . . .

  Then one pair of the purple lights rose higher than the others—and snapped Raffa out of his trance. It was a fox or a stoat, leaping into the air.

  “The animals!” he shouted. “Fitzer, we have to move!”

  Fitzer responded immediately. “FRYPANS! ALL SQUADS, TO POSITION THREE!”

  Along with the other Afters, Raffa once again began the thankless task of trying to move quickly through the Mag. He glanced over his shoulder. Were the gua
rds still delayed by the thorn attack? Could he risk running on the Furrow instead?

  The guards had advanced no farther. Raffa felt a moment of exultation. “Fitzer!” he called. “They’re not moving—can we use the Furrow?”

  Fitzer looked and saw what Raffa had seen. “Frypans, with me!” he hollered, and ran out onto the clearer ground.

  The other squads followed the Frypans, and soon a dozen squads were racing down the middle of the Furrow. The guards were not pursuing them. If that were the case, the Afters at the back would have passed on a warning—and would have been running with far more urgency.

  Why aren’t they chasing us? What are they waiting for?

  To his right, the sun was now peering over the horizon. Raffa felt his spirits rise. The Afters had done their best to use the darkness to their advantage, but he had hated the uncertainty of not being able to see clearly.

  “Hoy!” someone yelled.

  Raffa turned his head to the left and saw a woman pointing to the west.

  “Birds!” she shouted. “A lot of them!”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “CROWS!” Raffa screamed. “MASKS, EVERYONE! MASKS!”

  He yanked his mask down as all around him other Afters did the same.

  That was why the guards had stopped advancing! The crows were trained to attack anything that stood on two legs—meaning, mostly humans. But they wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between one side and the other, so the guards were staying back after the crows had been released.

  If the masks work . . . if the crows can’t tell where our eyes are, and don’t attack—this will be our chance to get out of the Mag well ahead of the guards.

  He kept running, and kept looking to his left. The crows were drawing nearer.

  Hundreds of them.

  They flocked together like an enormous black cloud, ragged at the edges. The cloud seemed to suck every bit of light out of the sky and the air. There was no shine of glossy feathers, no flicker or flutter of wings, no cawing or calls. The crows moved as if they were a single, silent, ominous being.