by Trevor Pryce
Darel found himself standing neck-deep in a spreading pond, with the acacia trees looming high above. Except he wasn’t standing. He was swimming. And he didn’t have any legs. For a moment, he panicked. Then he saw three other pollywogs swimming around him. Coorah, Gee, and Ponto splashing and jumping in this nursery pool in the middle of the outback.
Time to turn into frogs, a voice said. And hop into the big wide world.
“We’re not ready!” Tadpole Gee cried.
Tadpole Coorah shook her head. “Not yet!”
You can’t stay in the nursery forever, the voice said.
“Just a little longer?” Tadpole Ponto asked. “It’s not safe out there!”
It’s not safe, the voice agreed. You’re changing; you’re growing. From egg to tadpole to frog. You cannot hide forever without denying your nature. You must leave this protected place.
“Now?” Darel heard himself ask.
Yes, the voice said. The time is now.
The pond shimmered with a hundred colors, which swirled together into a brilliant rainbow that arched over a giant red rock tower. As the rainbow spread, Darel realized that the tower was enormous, the size of a mountain, standing alone in an endless plain.
“What is that?” he asked.
The tadpoles were gone. The voice was silent.
“What’s that red rock?” he asked again.
Raindrops dotted the surface of the pond, blurring the images. Just a drizzle, at first, then a sudden downpour. Pock, pock, pock. The rainbow broke apart into a thousand shards—
—and Darel awoke.
He blinked at the darkness under the trees. There was no pool of water, no rainbow light. Night had fallen while he’d slept, and Gee’s faint, familiar snore sounded nearby.
As did a soft pock, pock . . .
Darel peered at the stars dotting the sky. There weren’t any clouds, though the noise sounded like raindrops in the leaves overhead. Pock. Pock. Whatever that was, it wasn’t rain.
HE SOFT SAND UNDERFOOT MADE Pigo’s stomach twist uncomfortably. He was born to skitter across hard rock and real sand—dry sand—not this saltwater mushiness. Every step sickened him. If he couldn’t depend on sand, what could he depend on?
By habit, his side eyes shifted toward the moonlit silhouette ahead of him. But no, he couldn’t depend on his lordship. Not anymore. The scorpion lord—though he called himself the king now—hadn’t been the same since Queen Jarrah cast her spell on him. Almost as if he had shed not just his carapace but his self.
Still, Pigo obeyed him, crossing the stomach-churning sand, with the endless thunder of the surf in his ears. The ocean . . . Pigo shuddered. Worse than a wasteland. Undrinkable water, as far as the eye could see.
“Here!” Lord Marmoo called. “Pigo!”
Pigo hustled closer. Though not too close, because Lord Marmoo stood with his feet actually in the surf. He didn’t even seem to notice the water lapping and swirling around him.
“Yes, my lord,” he said.
“King,” Lord Marmoo corrected, the moonlight glinting on his scarred face.
“My king,” Pigo repeated, feeling the twist in his stomach again.
Lord Marmoo swept a pincer toward the waves. “What do you see, little brother?”
“The end of the world,” Pigo said, staring at the ocean. “Land we can’t conquer and water we can’t drink.”
“The last time we attacked the Amphibilands,” Lord Marmoo told him, “the frogs were saved by reinforcements coming across the water.”
“The turtles and the Kulipari,” Pigo said, nodding.
“That won’t happen again,” Lord Marmoo said with a sharp edge in his voice. “Not this time.” Then he turned and faced the ocean . . . and crouched.
“My lord, don’t!” Pigo said, reaching out to stop him.
Too late. Marmoo leaped from the shallows, higher and farther than any normal scorpion.
Again Pigo shouted. “No! My lord!” He spun toward the scorpion squad standing higher on the beach, well away from the tide, his mind whirling with outlandish plans to rescue Lord Marmoo from the sea.
Then he heard Lord Marmoo’s laughter from the dark waves. He turned back and saw the impossible: A stone’s throw from the beach, Marmoo was standing on the water, his legs half-submerged but his abdomen above the surface.
“H-h-huh . . . how?” Pigo stammered.
Lord Marmoo lifted a mid-leg above the water, then stomped down with it. “I’m on the reef.”
Pigo exhaled in relief, though he didn’t know if he was more relieved that Marmoo wasn’t drowning or that Marmoo didn’t actually have the ability to stroll across water.
Out on the reef, Marmoo turned to face the ocean. “I am King Marmoo!” he shouted.
The only answer Pigo heard was the crash of waves.
“You will serve me,” Marmoo continued, “or I will smash your reef to rubble. I’ll destroy your hunting grounds.”
Pigo thought he caught a flash of movement in the water beyond Marmoo, but he wasn’t sure.
“Your pups will go hungry,” Marmoo threatened. “And when I’m done with this one, I will crush every reef off the coast until you obey!”
He lashed with his stinger at the reef, sending up a spew of salt water and chunks of coral. Then he struck again and again, his tail plunging deeper into the ocean as he tore the reef to shreds. The frothing water rose to his underbelly as he destroyed the reef directly beneath himself.
Pigo watched in horror. Was Marmoo so intent on destruction that he’d drown himself in this lashing frenzy? “M-m-my lord,” he said too softly to be heard.
Suddenly, Marmoo stopped lashing at the reef and turned toward the ocean. He cocked his head and seemed to be listening. And this time, Pigo was sure that he saw shapes moving among the crests and troughs of the moonlit sea. Strange, flat, bat-like shapes gliding underwater.
“Turtle soldiers will try to come past your reefs,” Marmoo told the ocean. “They’ll be swimming for the Amphibilands, to help the frogs. And when they do, you will stop them.”
A watery gurgle sounded from beyond Marmoo.
“I don’t care if you fight them,” Marmoo said. “Just stop them.”
Pigo didn’t hear the rest of the conversation over the pounding surf, but finally Marmoo turned toward the beach and leaped again. He fell short, and for a moment disappeared in the water—everything except his stinger. Then he jumped again, bursting from the surf.
He landed beside Pigo, dripping foul seawater, his carapace draped with ropy green weeds. “It’s done,” he told Pigo. “The stingrays are mine to command.”
“Stingrays? I heard they’re gentle creatures.”
“They’re weak and soft,” Lord Marmoo scoffed, his disfigured face horrible in the moonlight. “But they’ll do what they’re told, to save their pups.”
“And now, my lord . . . king?”
“We rejoin the horde. And the moment the Veil falls, we attack.”
AREL LAY BACK AND LISTENED TO the sound of the waterless rain, thinking about his dream. Not just a dream: a message from the Rainbow Serpent. But what did it mean, The time is now? And, You must leave this protected place? Leave the Amphibilands? That was even worse than lowering the Veil. So what did the dream mean? Was the Veil falling right now? It couldn’t be—not yet. He was in the middle of the outback! He hadn’t found a single ally.
“You awake?” he whispered to nobody in particular.
Gee gave a louder snore, and Coorah said, “I’ve got an herb for that.”
“You ever hear about a huge red rock tower in the middle of the outback?” Darel asked, hoping to “accidentally” wake someone up. “I mean, seriously huge, like an entire mountain—”
Pock-pock-pock-pock! The sound grew louder, coming from the leaves above. Then a rain of round black shapes fell from the branches and landed on the ground with a thud. Some were as big as Darel’s fist, and each one had two rows of wiggling legs, and sharp, bloodsuc
king snouts.
“Wake up!” Darel croaked, leaping to his feet. “There are things! Things!”
“Ch-ch-ch,” one of the black shapes chattered. “Not ch-things.”
Gee was on his feet and standing back-to-back with Darel before he’d even finished his snore.
“I was sleeping,” Coorah grumped. Then her eyes bulged when she saw the black shapes creeping closer. “Are those ticks?”
“Paralysis ticks.” Ponto sprang to his feet. “Don’t let them bite you.”
“Unlike all those other things,” Gee murmured sarcastically, “that you do want to bite you.”
“Bite chu,” a tick chattered. “Bite, bite chu.”
Pock pock pock. More ticks fell from the trees, pocking the leaves before hitting the ground. They wriggled their tiny legs in the air until they managed to turn right side up. “Ch-tasty,” they said, crawling for the frogs. “Sweet ch-blood, fresh-ch blood.”
Darel pulled his dagger, eyeing the oncoming swarm.
“My gram used to use them in surgery,” Coorah said, grabbing her fighting stick. “If they inject you, you’ll freeze up. One bite, you can’t move your arm. Three bites, you can’t walk.”
“Then they can take their time,” Ponto said grimly, “draining your blood.”
Gee groaned, and the ticks crawled closer in a chittering tide.
“Stay together,” Ponto said, backing away. “They’re mean, but they’re slow.”
Darel kept his dagger high as he and the others followed Ponto deeper into the stand of acacias. The ticks crept after them, heads waving in the air . . . but they were slow. Too slow. They’d never catch a frog like this. So why were they all advancing from one direction?
What if the ticks weren’t attacking them? What if the ticks were herding them?
“Stop!” Darel blurted. “Wait! They’re moving us toward the trees, it’s an ambu—”
Pockpockpockpockpock! Dozens of ticks pelted at them from above, in a bloodsucking deluge.
“I’m on it,” Ponto shouted, and he leaped straight upward into the branches.
“Ya!” Darel yelped when a tick landed on his shoulder.
He flicked the tick away, but another crawled onto his foot. Coorah smacked the tick with her fighting stick, and Darel grunted in pain, then slapped her knee, doing the same for her. For a few terrified moments, the only sound was the “ch-ch-ch” of the ticks and the desperate grunting and slapping of the frogs.
Then Gee gasped. “I’m bit! My leg!”
Darel spun to find Gee dragging his left leg as he desperately fended off three ticks, his nostrils flared and his eyes narrow.
Coorah yelped, “Darel! I’m—”
Coorah flopped to the ground in front of him. Her eyes blinked furiously, but the rest of her was perfectly motionless.
“Ch-Darel?” a bloated tick said. “The frog-ch that King Marmoo-ch hates most?”
“Marmoo’s not a king,” Gee snarled, smacking another tick away. “He’s a maniac.”
“Him!” the bloated tick said, eyeing Darel. “Get that one-ch. Ch. Ch. Bite him.”
Darel dragged Coorah toward Gee, who was tilting to one side because of his frozen leg. “We’ve got to get out of here,” Darel said, his voice urgent. “Can you walk?”
“Of course I can walk,” Gee said, and fell onto his face.
With a whimper, Darel jumped in front of the advancing tide of ticks, and shouted to the treetops, “Ponto! A little help?”
“Ch-him!” the ticks cried. “Darel! Ch! Get him!”
The ticks crept over tree roots and weeds, churning closer, and Darel spun in a tight circle, slashing with his dagger. Then—finally—Ponto dropped from the tree and landed in front of him!
Relief sparked in Darel’s heart . . . until Ponto collapsed onto his side, as still as a statue. Totally paralyzed.
“Oh, fungus,” Darel said.
The ticks jumped him.
His dagger slashed at them in a blur. He crouched, he kicked, he spun—he tore through the first five ticks, the next ten. But they kept coming. Three ticks landed on his arm, and when he brushed them away, others bit his leg and knee.
He slammed to the ground, unable to move, staring upward in helpless horror as more ticks fell from the acacia leaves onto his face. Pain flared when they bit his cheeks and forehead. Once, twice—five times. A dead numbness spread across his skin, his eyes barely opened, his mouth frozen in a twisted grimace.
It was over. The ticks had won. Darel and the others were going to die out here.
Then a yellow glow touched the branches overhead, and Darel heard Ponto saying, “You’re not the only ones with poison.”
He’d tapped his Kulipari power, and burned the tick poison from his veins. The yellow glow shifted on the leaves, and battered ticks started flinging past as Ponto smashed them. Darel’s vision blurred—and then turned completely black.
Darel felt something cool on his face. A goopy tingle spread across his cheeks and forehead. He managed to open his eyes just enough to see Coorah kneeling over him, painting his face with bright blue clay.
Over her shoulder, the acacia trees glowed completely yellow, and Darel’s heart squeezed tight. Ponto was tapping way too deeply into his poison! He’d burn himself out, and turn white and weak like Old Jir.
Then Darel realized that the yellow glow was coming from the sunrise. He’d slept all night. He tried to smile, but his lips only twitched.
“How does that feel?” Coorah asked.
“Mmph,” he told her.
“You sound better already,” she told him.
“Ooh and Eee?” he asked.
“Me and Gee? I already treated us.” She showed him two blue smears on her skin. “See?”
“Ooh-ari.”
“What?”
“Ooh. Ooh-ari.”
“I have no idea what you’re saying.” She applied another layer of clay to Darel’s face. “Go back to sleep. You’ll feel better when you wake up.”
“No seep,” he slurred. “Guh stay wake.”
“Fine,” she said. “Stay awake, then. But first check that you’re strong enough to close your eyes all the way.”
On the third try, Darel managed to close his eyes all the way . . . and immediately fell asleep.
“Darel!” Gee’s voice sounded urgent. “Can you move?”
Darel awoke, his heart hammering, to find Gee shaking his shoulder.
“Can you blink?” Gee asked.
“Can.” He took a breath. “Talk.”
“Great! Blink once if you want the good news, twice if you want the terrible news.” Without waiting for a blink, Gee continued, “The good news is, your face will be okay in a few minutes.”
“Waz the turbil newz?”
“You’re not going to live that long.” Gee pulled Darel into a seated position and pointed to the sky. “Birds of prey.”
A dozen huge, terrifying birds circled in the air above the acacia trees. Beaks sharp, talons wickedly curved. Each wing as long as Darel from head to toe pad.
“They’re here to finish what the ticks started,” Coorah said.
IPPI SAT ON HER HAUNCHES IN THE deepest chamber of the new Stargazer burrow, gazing at the candlelit wall. Condensation trickled down the uneven rock, collected in cracks, and dripped to the floor. She thought about the weight of the dirt above her, and watched one droplet drip to a jutting edge of quartz.
The droplet hung there, about to fall. It shivered and danced, growing rounder and fuller . . . but didn’t drop.
“Do you see anything?” her sister, Pirra, asked from the entrance.
Pippi shook her head. “I’m not a Stargazer, Pirra.”
“Not yet. But as long as the real one is off hibernating, you’re the closest thing we have.”
“Don’t even say that!” Pippi curled her bill in embarrassment. “When the Stargazer wakes up, she’s going to love this new dripping room.”
Pirra eyed her. “Even if she w
akes up anytime soon, she can’t get into the Amphibilands. C’mon, let’s head home.”
Pippi followed Pirra through the tunnels to the burrow mouth and blinked at the midday sun. She heard the distant clash of frog squads practicing military maneuvers, and the even more distant clamor of construction as other frogs strengthened the defenses.
Even though the new Stargazer burrow was a long way from the village, Pippi wasn’t surprised to see platypuses swimming in the river when she pushed through the concealing curtain of vines. She’d organized platypus patrols all through the rivers and streams of the Amphibilands, so when the scorpions attacked, the platypuses would know the lay of the land. Or the way of the water.
But her bill tingled when she realized that the shapes gliding through the water weren’t platypuses. “Turtles!” she yelped in pleasure. “Yabber!”
Yabber and three other turtles swam with slow grace toward the burrow. They clambered onto the shore, and Yabber stretched his long neck toward her. “There you are, Okipippi! We’ve been looking for you.”
“How was your trip? Is everything okay?”
“Why were you looking for her?” Pirra asked.
“Because she’s the Stargazer’s star pupil.” Yabber furrowed his brow. “Which rather makes her a star stargazer pupil, now that I think about it.”
Pirra blinked. “Huh?”
“I mean to say,” Yabber explained, “if she’s the Stargazer’s star pupil, she’s got two ‘stars’ then a ‘gazer’ and a ‘pupil’ . . .” He trailed off at Pirra’s blank gaze, and turned to Pippi. “If you follow my meaning.”
“I kind of don’t,” she admitted.
“Because he’s not making any sense.” Pirra looked to Yabber. “When will the turtle soldiers get here?”
“The shelled regiments are on the way,” Yabber told her. “They don’t move fast, though.”
“And when will you finish, you know”—Pirra wrinkled her bill—“taking down the Veil?”
“We’ve been unraveling it for days.” Yabber gave a sad smile. “We’re ready to remove one more strand of dreamcasting right now, perhaps the last one . . . if your sister agrees.”