by Trevor Pryce
“Me?” Pippi squeaked, shifting her weight off her knuckles. “I don’t know, Yabber. Why can’t we just stay inside the Veil forever?”
“Some things,” he told her, “are not meant to be.”
Pippi thwapped her tail unhappily. That wasn’t a reason! That wasn’t an answer! That was just a way of not answering. What was she supposed to say? Why her? She didn’t know anything about any of this!
“But Darel and Gee are still out there.”
“He told me not to wait.”
“And Ponto and Coorah!” Pippi curled her bill. “And they’re looking for allies, and we don’t have any yet!”
“Darel told me to have faith.”
“That doesn’t mean we’re in a crazy rush!”
Yabber furrowed his brow. “The Rainbow Serpent told him to lower the Veil. Not to wait around and eventually lower the Veil. He made me promise to lower it as soon as possible. But you’re the Stargazer’s pupil. I cannot make this decision alone.”
Pippi frowned. She didn’t want to do this. She didn’t want to change everything. Why couldn’t the Veil just stay? Why couldn’t things stop changing all the time?
Then the soft plunk of a drop of water hitting rock echoed through the burrow, and the memory of that fat droplet in the dripping wall sprang to her mind. The flowing of water was a kind of change, too. What if the droplet had refused to fall? What if it had been too afraid?
Water had to flow. From the clouds, from the mountains, from the springs. Water had to flow—even if that meant flowing away forever.
“Okay.” Pippi took a breath. “Remove the last strand.”
Yabber closed his eyes as the golden glow of his dreamcasting touched the Veil. Seeping into the magical dome, gentle and firm. He felt the apprentices working alongside him, tugging at the old king’s knotted strands of power. He felt the great Veil looming above, like the sheltering canopy of an ancient tree. Full of life, a safe haven from the ills of the outback.
Then a chill of fear touched him. He was about to expose the frogs to all those ills, to all those dangers.
Taking a calming breath, he imagined the Rainbow Serpent rising from a mountain pool. He needed to have faith. He needed to trust the Serpent. He hoped he was doing the right thing. He hoped he was saving the frogs, not destroying them.
His dreamcasting unfurled high above him, and he felt the Veil begin to crumble.
HEN PIGO FOLLOWED KING Marmoo to the top of the hill, he felt his heart beat in awe. His side eyes saw the ghost bats wheeling in the air, the lizards massed behind the caged geckos, the legions of spiders—including Lady Fahlga with her nightcasters—and the endless columns of battle-hardened scorpion troops.
“This isn’t the mightiest horde since the days of legend . . . ,” Pigo said, his main eyes scanning the assembled warriors.
King Marmoo turned his ruined face to Pigo, his mouthparts shifting into a sneer. “What did you say, Commander?”
“. . . it’s the mightiest horde including the days of legend,” Pigo finished.
With a satisfied grunt, King Marmoo scanned the dry scrubland. “Now we must trust that the spider was correct, and the frogs are foolish enough to lower their only defense against me. If she wasn’t, she’ll pay the pri—”
A flash of golden light interrupted him, and there was a sound like the rustling of a million leaves.
When Pigo turned, his breath caught. The dry scrubland was gone, and the Amphibilands towered in front of him. He marveled at the gently sloping hills, the distant glint of streams, trees heavy with succulent leaves, everything lush and emerald green. The scent of the rich earth made his mouth water. Below him, the troops shouted and roared and jostled closer to the green border of the froglands.
King Marmoo raised a pincer. In two heartbeats, silence fell, broken only by the whisper of the wind and the buzz of blue-banded bees.
“These are the new days of legend,” Marmoo called into the stillness. “You are not just fighting a battle. You are reshaping the land—you are seizing the water, and the outback will echo with your names forever.”
A cheer sounded, first from the scorpions, then from the rest of the horde.
“Today,” Marmoo bellowed, “the Arachnilands rise from the ashes of the Amphibilands! Today, we conquer. Today, we feast!” He lowered his pincer. “Attack!”
The army rampaged toward Pigo and King Marmoo, battalion after battalion thundering up the rise, parting around them—eyes wild, faces alight with bloodlust—then charging into the soft, helpless land behind them.
For a few long minutes, Pigo watched the first waves of the army get swallowed by the thick green walls. Then the song of battle started—shouts of fear, screams of pain, the clash of weapons—and he snapped a pincer in satisfaction.
“I’m eager to enter the fray, my king,” he told Marmoo. “If you’ll let me—”
“Not yet,” Marmoo said. “Not until the ghost bats—Ah.”
A dozen bats flitted over the trees and landed in front of Marmoo, spreading their wings in strange bows. “We did as you commanded, my king,” a red-eyed one said in a whispery voice.
“Past the hills,” another hissed, “past the forest and the river. That is where you’ll find the biggest frog village.”
“It is heavily defended,” the first said.
“That’s where they’ll make their final stand,” Marmoo told Pigo before looking down at the bats. “And the Kulipari?”
“No sign of them.”
Marmoo’s ruined mouthparts moved into a smile. “Then they aren’t fighting yet. When they fight, they’re not exactly hard to spot. They’ll come.”
“And when they do?” Pigo asked.
“I’ll handle them personally. Stab your squad like a dagger into the heart of the Amphibilands. Drive the frogs in front of you, push them without mercy toward this village. I want all the frogs in one place before I finish them.”
Pigo saluted. “Yes, my king!”
With the red-banded scorps and elite spider archers flanking him, Pigo marched into the Amphibilands, following the trail of crushed plants and the cries of injured warriors.
AREL WATCHED THE BIRDS OF PREY through the leaves of the acacia. Dark wings shifted in the air, and the birds tilted toward the stand of trees. With a fearful gulp, Darel turned to Ponto. Only a Kulipari could save them now. But Ponto looked paler than usual, like he’d already tapped too deeply into his poison.
“Take cover!” Coorah called. “They’re coming!”
Darel bulged his eyes as the birds swooped toward them—beautiful, majestic, and deadly.
Ponto started glowing faintly, but when the birds slashed closer through the wind, Darel whispered, “Ponto, no.”
Ponto looked at him with his blackening eyes. “No?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
Darel swallowed the lump in his throat. “Don’t fight.”
The blackness in Ponto’s eyes faded. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“All I know,” Gee said, “is that I’m the first one they’re going to eat.”
The birds plummeted closer. Darel saw the slits in their razor beaks and the predatory gleam in their eyes. His heart clenched as Gee, Coorah, and Ponto stood around him like a living shield . . . Then the birds struck down, slashing and biting.
Not at Darel and his friends, though. Instead, the birds started plucking paralysis ticks—who’d been warily watching Ponto from a safe distance—from the scrub and gobbling them down.
Darel slumped in relief. “Harriers,” he croaked out.
“These are the harrier hawks?” Coorah asked. “The ones Pippi mentioned?”
“I don’t care how hairy they are,” Gee said, wiping his forehead. “As long as they’re stopping the ticks from draining my blood.”
The nearest hawk said, “Keek! Kee kee keek-keek-keek-ee.”
Gee gaped at the hawk. “What?”
“Keek! Kee-ee kee!”
“What?” Darel said. “Huh?”
“‘Huh’ what?” Gee asked, glancing at him. “Aren’t you going to introduce yourself?” He looked back to the hawk. “That’s Darel, Coorah, and the big one’s Ponto.”
“Kee-ee-keek?” the hawk asked.
“Nah, he’s Kulipari,” Gee explained. “The rest of us are wood frogs. Oh, except Darel’s also . . .” He glanced at Darel’s clay-smeared face again. “The Blue Face King.”
“Wait, wait.” Coorah blinked at Gee, inflating her throat in befuddlement. “You can understand him?”
“Kee-kee-eee!” the hawk cried. “Kee kee.”
“She’s a her,” Gee told Coorah. “And sure. Can’t you?”
“Uh . . . no.”
“Keek ee-kee-kee!” the bird shrilled, then flapped its wings a few times.
Gee nodded to the hawk. “I know. You sound good to me.”
“So you speak bird?” Ponto asked.
“Guess so,” Gee said.
“Okay.” Darel rubbed his numb face. “This is unexpected.”
“Kee!” the first bird said. “Kee-ee-kee!”
The other birds hopped closer and started keeing at Gee, who looked faintly ill.
“The Veil,” he stammered when they quieted down. “The Veil has fallen.”
“Already?” Darel asked, his stomach sinking. “Are they sure? How do they know?”
“Because all of a sudden, they can see the Amphibilands,” Gee explained. “They never could before. And they saw Marmoo’s armies heading for the Amphibilands. Scorpions, spiders, bees, bats, snakes—”
“We’ve got to get back,” Ponto blurted, pacing in frustration. “We’re days away. We can’t help them; we’re too far away.”
Darel pushed to his feet, and limped toward the hawks, who inspected him with cold, predator eyes. “We need you,” he told them. “Not just the frogs, not just the Amphibilands. The entire outback needs you. You’ve seen Marmoo? You’ve seen how he’s changed?”
The birds were keeing softly, and a few scratched at the earth with scaly talons.
“Yeah,” Gee said. “They’ve seen him.”
“The spider queen’s nightcasting twisted Marmoo,” Darel told them. “It changed him. He doesn’t belong in the outback. He’s not just a predator, not anymore. I wish we frogs could hide from that—I wish we could hide from him. But we do belong in the outback. The wallabies belong, the geckos belong. The turtles, the possums, the hawks—even the ticks and spiders and scorpions belong. We all belong. Friend and foe, prey and predator, we all belong.”
The hawks watched him closely. With interest, he hoped, and not hunger.
“But not Marmoo,” Darel continued, “not anymore. If he wins, he will wipe us out. The frogs, the turtles, the possums, the lizards. Until only scorpions remain. Does that sound like the outback to you? Does that sound like home?”
For a long moment, none of the hawks made a sound. Then the one who’d first spoken to Gee rattled off a series of ee-kee-kee-ee-eeks.
“She says they never meddle in the troubles of the earthbound,” Gee explained.
Darel frowned. “So they won’t join us?”
A harrier hawk shoved her razor-sharp beak close to Darel’s face, and he managed not to flinch only because he was still half-paralyzed.
“Keek-ee!” the bird shrilled.
“They won’t fight,” Gee told Darel. “But they will help.”
CORPIONS MASSED AT THE RIVERBANK, tails curving toward Pippi, eager to strike. Bloody pincers snapped shut, and battle-crazed voices shouted threats. But they didn’t wade after her—they were afraid of the water.
Pippi took a quick, gulping breath, then dove to the bottom and swam past the scorps. Above her, the surface of the river pocked and splashed as the webbing of spider archers struck the water, and she shuddered.
She’d seen one of their webs drag a platypus from the water an hour ago, and the memory still made her want to cry. But she didn’t. She veered to the left, then the right, swimming faster to avoid the nets.
After a day of fighting, the scorpion army had driven the frogs from the heavily fortified Outback Hills, from the eucalyptus forest and the eastern flats. Pippi and the other platypus messengers swam the streams and rivers, bringing messages and supplies—but in the past few hours, she’d only passed along a single message: “Retreat! Back to the village!”
She’d just come from the river that flowed near the banyan trees, where the tree frogs were trying to hold off the scorpions while under attack by the ghost bats. She and Pirra had watched the terrifying flicker of white wings through the branches. They’d seen the scorpions climbing higher on the sinewy banyan tree trunks, two fresh warriors replacing every one that the tree frogs defeated.
Pippi had whacked her tail in the water and yelled, “The wood frogs are in trouble in the eucalyptus forest! They need help!”
Actually, the eucalyptus forest had fallen hours earlier. Pippi had just wanted to send the bats off on a wild-goose chase.
For a second, Pirra had stared blankly at her. Then she’d understood, and thwacked her tail, too. “Go, go! Quickly!”
“Let’s finish off the frogs in the eucalyptus forest first,” one ghost bat had told the others. “Then we’ll come back for these tree frogs.”
Half the ghost bats flew off, and Pirra turned to Pippi. “You fooled them. Good plan—but what now?”
“I don’t know . . .” She’d paused. “Actually, wait. You stay here.”
Pippi had taken a breath and pulled herself onto the riverbank. Platypuses weren’t good at walking, but she’d been practicing so much that her knuckles were calloused and her legs strong. She’d shouted at the scorpions—insults that Gee had taught her—until she’d attracted the attention of the nearest squad.
“You can’t even catch a platypus, you arachnerds!” she’d yelled. “And you goggle-eyed spiders are worse!”
With a roar, they’d rushed her, and she’d reached the water an inch ahead of their pincers. But by then Pirra had joined in, shouting insults and splashing the scorps and spiders. Together, they had drawn half of the attackers to the riverbank—then Pippi had lunged from the water and slashed at a scorp with her spur. She’d missed, but her attack enraged the scorps, and in the blink of an eye, an entire mob was chasing her instead of fighting.
Behind her, Pirra had signaled for the tree frog retreat, and with half the bats and scorps gone, the frogs were able to leap from the branches into the safety of the river.
Pippi hadn’t stayed to watch—she’d led the scorps away, splashing them every now and then to keep them angry.
Now she finally ditched them, swimming underwater across a pond and slipping into a side stream. As she swam closer to the main village, the stream grew crowded with frog warriors drifting in the current, drinking through their skin. Preparing to return to battle or nursing wounds—or both.
Princess Orani lifted her head from the salty water and blinked her stinging eyes. She couldn’t see far through the mist of the marsh, but she heard the grumbling of a spider squad clearly enough.
“‘Circle around through the swamp. Attack the village from behind,’” a spider grunted. “That’s easy for the king to say.”
“Yeah,” another grumbled. “He’s not the one stuck in this muck.”
Orani pointed two finger pads to her left, and a soft splash sounded from behind her as her bullfrog squad moved into position. She climbed onto a weedy hillock and crouched to spring.
When the spiders crawled into sight, she shouted, “Hit ’em!”
She leaped at the spiders and tore through the front rank, losing herself in the frenzy of battle. A squad of spider archers shot webs at her while warriors slashed with swords, and through the red haze of battle she heard herself laugh as she hammered spider after spider.
She saw her squad slam into the flank of the advancing spider
s, and caught a sword in the air. “You messed with the wrong princess,” she said while punching a spider across the marsh.
“Orani!” one of her scouts called. “You need to see this!”
She tore a thick reed from the ground, batted two spiders away, then leaped toward her scout. “What’s up?”
“Down by the coast,” the scout said.
“The turtles?” she asked, feeling a glimmer of relief. “They’re finally here?”
The scout shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
She called for her squad to follow and headed for the beach. She burst from the marsh and jumped to the coastal dunes, which were covered with dry, wavering beach grass. The ocean spread before her, the surf lapping at the sand and the water an endless field of rippling blue, glinting under the sun.
Then she gasped. “What is that?”
Black splotches seemed to float on the waves. A dozen of them. No, hundreds of black dots rising and falling with the waves. And coming closer.
She raced to the top of a dune for a better look. “Scorpions,” she whispered, a chill touching her heart. She turned to her squad. “Bring the catapults to the beach—now!”
“They’re defending the village,” one of her frogs said.
“We need them here!” she bellowed. “We need every bullfrog in the Amphibilands! Move, move, move!”
The next few minutes dissolved into a blur of frenzied action. Orani positioned her squads and watched the scorpions draw closer. First she noticed tails and stingers above the black splotches, then pincers and mouthparts. And finally, she saw how they were crossing the ocean.
“They’re riding stingrays,” she said, shaking her head.
“Where are the turtles?” a bullfrog warrior asked. “Why aren’t they here?”
“The turtles can’t help us now.” Orani scanned the dunes behind her. “Get those catapults ready! Dune squads, stay alert. My squad—do what we always do.” She howled a war cry. “Attack!”