Tales of the Great Beasts

by Brandon Mull

  The Bile was worth the risk. Fel took a deep breath, reached forward, and lifted the vial from Kovo’s palm. Kovo smiled, only closing his hand again when Fel had taken three steps back, cradling the vial to his chest the entire time.

  “The Bile . . . the bond it brings. It will make me stronger? Faster?”

  “The gifts vary from bond to bond. But each bond does bring gifts. And you . . .” Kovo spread his arm out wide. “You have the pick of the litter.”

  Suddenly the forest was teeming with life. Birds descended from the canopy to flit about just above Fel’s head. Rodents burrowed up from the dirt at his feet, and beasts great and small stepped, hopped, and crawled forth from the shrubbery all around him.

  Feliandor took a moment to process it all. He felt he had lost the thread somewhere — lost track of what, exactly, he hoped to accomplish here.

  But that was the problem. Feliandor wasn’t in control — had not been in control in a long, long time. The Bile was the first step toward imposing some order on all the chaos he’d suffered.

  He threw his head back and drank.

  The Bile tasted bitter. His head swam, his vision blurred. There was a light — where was it coming from? Then the light was gone, and he was on his knees again. Before him was a crocodile.

  “Interesting,” Kovo cooed. “I knew this was possible, but it’s never happened before. Normally, using the Bile, you would choose an animal to bond with.” He flashed his teeth. “But for the first time, you, my king, have summoned a true spirit animal.”

  Fel was dimly aware of a pressure building in his skull, a headache in bloom. But he could not take his eyes from the crocodile. “You mean — he would have come to me anyway?”

  “Yes,” said Kovo. “But your bond is different because of the Bile. Thanks to the Bile, you control him. You’ll be the one in charge. Your spirit animal will do exactly as you please.”

  “My spirit animal,” Fel echoed. The crocodile was so beautiful, so huge, all lithe muscle and jagged scales. Three times as long as Fel was tall, it looked as if it had been carved out of mossy granite, its greens and browns fading into gray and back again. It appeared strong and ancient, weathered but defiant, as if it had been waiting here, for him, forever.

  The island itself seemed to disagree. Noises like screams rang out from the jungle, and what little sunlight there was in the clearing began to fade, though dusk would not come for hours. The mist that hung low to the ground billowed away from the crocodile’s formidable bulk, as if afraid to touch it. Fel wasn’t afraid.

  He reached out and touched its scaly hide.

  He felt grounded now. He felt powerful. He looked into its dark, ageless eyes and could believe he was looking into the depths of the night sky. The crocodile opened its jaws wide, displaying rows of deadly teeth. It hissed, but Feliandor didn’t flinch.

  If appetite was terrible in a king, as Salen had said, how to characterize the appetite of such a fearsome toothed creature as this? It looked big and hungry enough to never be satisfied. It looked fierce enough to devour the world.

  And in that moment Feliandor thought: Well. The world has it coming.

  “Arise, Feliandor,” Kovo said for the second time. “Arise, my Reptile King.”

  There was a great crash from nearby in the forest. The gathered animals all scattered, panicking. The crashing became a rustling; huge trees bent and swayed as if no more than grasses in a breeze.

  And then a second Great Beast materialized from the darkness. Gerathon, the Great Serpent. Her full length was lost among the trees, but she drew her hooded head up so that it towered above even Kovo. Where the ape was almost human, Gerathon was a creature from nightmares. Her eyes were flat. Her movements were menacing. There was nothing remotely human in her scaled and fearsome face.

  Fel knew that he should be utterly terrified. He knew it, but he didn’t feel it.

  “We have great plans for you, Feliandor,” the monstrous newcomer said. Her forked tongue darted from her mouth as if tasting the air. “The people of Stetriol are going to love the new you.”

  “No,” Feliandor said somberly. “No, I don’t think they will.” He smiled a wicked smile. “But they will learn to fear me.”

  By Billy Merrell

  EVERY NIGHT FOR WEEKS, YIN’S LITTLE BROTHER, YU, HAD gotten worse. His mysterious illness had started as a sore throat, but lately the coughs were loud and painful sounding. Enough so that Yin couldn’t sleep, afraid for her brother.

  A pied starling sat atop his perch in their modest home, a three-bedroom house made of bamboo, clay bricks, and paper. The bird was her spirit animal, Luan, summoned a summer ago. Yin had been the only girl in her village to call a spirit animal in over two years.

  Luan was too selfish to be afraid for Yu, but he was kept awake all the same. Every time Yin turned in her bed, the bird would feel the vibration and fly up from his perch, startled. Then he would fluff out his feathers and let out a terrible sound, like a squeaky wagon wheel.

  “I’m sorry, Luan,” Yin said to the bird, losing her patience. “I can’t help it!”

  Yin hated Luan as much as she loved him. Starlings were possibly her least favorite bird. Why couldn’t she be bonded to a golden pheasant, or a raven, or even a common weaver? Something she could train! Instead she had Luan, who only knew how to complain.

  The bird let out another terrible sound. This time, it was because T’ien was hobbling into the room. Something between a bear and a weasel, T’ien was an ancient-looking binturong, a nocturnal animal that crawled around their house at night looking for mice or bugs to eat. T’ien wasn’t officially a spirit animal, but he might as well have been. Yin’s father had raised T’ien since he was a cub, long before Yin or Yu was born.

  Luan puffed up his black and white feathers, but T’ien barely looked up with his cloudy brown eyes. He was on the hunt for something, sniffing the floor. When the bintu­rong slinked into her brother’s room, Yin got out of bed. If she wasn’t allowed in the room, surely T’ien wasn’t either.

  She reached to pick up the beast just as it was about to sneak under Yu’s bed. She carried T’ien back out the doorway and was about to close the door when she heard her brother call her name.

  “Did I wake you?” Yin asked, but Yu shook his head no.

  “I can’t sleep,” he said weakly. The boy was five years old, much younger than Yin, and had always looked up to his big sister. “Will you tell me a story?”

  “I only know the one about the storm,” she said. “And you’ve already heard it.”

  Once, when her brother was little, there was a rainstorm that tore through their village. All night, the wind raced up the mountain they lived on and pulled at their house so that it sounded like the roof was being ripped away, little by little. Yu was scared, and so Yin made up a story about a storm, to make him feel better.

  “Please?” Yu begged her. “I’m scared.”

  “There was a storm,” Yin began. “And it came and went, and everyone was okay.” She said good night to her brother.

  “No,” Yu said. “Really tell it.”

  “Okay, you brat,” she said, smiling at the boy with sleepy eyes. She put down T’ien, and the animal scampered away.

  “Where should I begin?” she asked him.

  “Start in the forest,” Yu said, and Yin nodded. But before she could begin the story, Yu started to cough. At first it was gentle, but soon he was coughing so hard that Yin held a rag to his mouth to stifle the sound. When he had finally finished, a little bit of blood came away with the rag.

  Yin screamed when she saw it, and her father and mother came rushing into the room. They hurried to Yu’s bedside and saw the blood too. Yin’s mother picked the boy up in her arms and held him tight to her chest.

  “What are you doing in here?” Yin’s father asked. “Do you want to get sick too?” He pulled
Yin out of the room.

  “I want to help,” she cried.

  “You can’t,” he said. Hearing that felt scariest of all.

  When her mother came from Yu’s room, the family agreed it was time to bring the boy back to the village healer. It was a warm night, and the healer’s home was only a short journey down the mountain. If they left now, they could reach the healer by sunrise.

  “I’m coming too,” Yin insisted, but her father hesitated. Finally he agreed. There wasn’t time to argue.

  All together, they traveled through the dark, carrying Yu in a wooden cart. Luan slept nestled at Yu’s side, where Yin would have been if she were allowed in the cart. The road was bumpy, but by sunrise they were knocking on the healer’s door.

  “Who’s there?” asked a woman with a blue sash. Her white hair whipped in the breeze when she opened the door. Immediately she saw the sick boy.

  “Nothing you sold us has worked,” Yin’s father said. “He’s getting worse every night!”

  The woman looked sad. She stared at the boy with a furrowed brow, and then sighed deeply as she looked up at Yin’s parents. Yin studied the woman’s face for a sign that her brother would be okay, but all she found there was sorrow.

  “No cure is certain. I hope you don’t blame the medicine.”

  “We don’t,” Yin’s mother said. “But we don’t have much money left either.”

  The healer waved for Yin’s family to enter. All except for Luan.

  “No animals, I’m afraid,” the woman said. “I’m sorry.”

  Luan puffed up defiantly, but before Yin had to ask, the starling blazed onto her skin, just above the girl’s wrist.

  “Thank you,” the woman whispered. With a wink, she lifted her robe to show Yin her own mark. Her spirit animal was a red panda, which slept at her ankle. “You can call me Kuan,” the woman told the girl. “And her name is Tzu.” She pointed to the tattoo.

  “Can I offer anyone some tea?” Kuan said, ushering Yin inside.

  “Tea?” Yin’s father repeated, sounding furious. “We have walked all night to come here. Can you help us heal my son or not?” Yin had never seen him so scared.

  Kuan looked at Yin, then back at her parents.

  “There is still hope to be had for your son,” Kuan said. “I suggest that we discuss your options in my meditation chamber.” Yin’s parents stood to follow the woman, and so did Yin.

  “Why don’t you sit with your brother, dear?” Kuan said, turning back to the girl. “I’m sure he’d like to be with his brave big sister right now.”

  Yin looked at her mother and father, who nodded solemnly. But Yin didn’t feel brave. She knew what the healer was doing. She was leaving Yin out of the conversation, denying her the truth. She wanted to help Yu as badly as they did. Why wouldn’t they let her listen?

  The three adults passed behind a green curtain, speaking in hushed tones that Yin couldn’t make out.

  After they were gone, Yin stood by the cart, watching her brother sleep. He looked frail and thin compared to the boy she knew. She wanted to wake him, but Yin knew better. She began to stare at her own tattoo, wondering if Luan felt as alone as she did, or as helpless.

  The girl looked around, to make sure no one was looking. And then she whispered across her skin and summoned Luan. Suddenly the starling leaped from her arm and into the air. Yin didn’t care that she was breaking Kuan’s rules. She needed to know if her brother would be okay.

  Sometimes, playing with Luan, Yin believed she could hear more acutely. She hoped with his help she could listen in from behind the curtain.

  Luan took a moment to settle, nestling comfortably on her shoulder. Once he did, Yin spoke in a whisper.

  “I need to hear what the healer is saying. Do you think you can help?”

  Luan trilled conspiratorially in the girl’s ear. Yin closed her eyes tightly, trying her best to block out all other thoughts. Fear kept surfacing, though. Yin could feel her hands shaking at her sides. She pressed her palms together hard to still them, and soon found her center.

  Suddenly Yin heard what she thought was a loud wind outside, like a storm was coming. But when she opened her eyes, she saw it was nothing more than a breeze. She knew that it was working; she was drawing on Luan’s abilities. But she needed to focus.

  Yin closed her eyes again, breathing steadily. Soon she could hear even the quietest sounds in the room. A mosquito landed on a teacup, and to Yin it sounded like a load of firewood set on a table. As she opened her eyes, Yin realized that she was able to hear Kuan’s voice from the other room, almost as if she were sitting right beside her.

  “There are no guarantees,” the healer said, her voice grave.

  “Even at that price?!” Yin could hear the outrage in her mother’s voice.

  “It’s an expensive cure, but a powerful one. It’s the best I have access to, even at my age,” the old woman explained.

  “And it’s our only option?”

  “Of course not,” she told them. “There are other healers. Some much more powerful than I am.”

  “But there’s no time!” Yin’s mother said. “The next closest healer is a six-day journey through the mountains. Isn’t that what you told us when we first came to you?”

  “That isn’t exactly true,” the woman said.

  “What is this?” Yin’s father said, angry again. Yin could hear the trembling in his voice.

  “It’s true the closest professional healer is quite far,” she said. “The closest practicing human healer. But legend has it that the Healthbringer lives in the Great Bamboo Maze that protects us to the south. Her name is Jhi, and she has powers far greater than mine.”

  “Why would you wait to tell us this?” Yin’s father said.

  “Because Jhi is beyond our reach,” the woman replied. “No one has seen the Great Panda for at least a dozen years. And it’s a fool’s errand, navigating the Great Bamboo Maze. I wouldn’t want to put more of your family in danger.”

  Yin knew the maze Kuan spoke of. One of the entrances was only a mile south of their home. Her parents had warned her many times to stay away from it. It was rumored to be haunted, though Yin didn’t believe that. She did believe, however, that plenty of strong men and women had died inside, from starvation or thirst, their bodies eaten by rats and worms — or by the Maze itself.

  Yin’s father kept a map of the Maze tucked away in their home. Once, their family had been privy to such important secrets, though Yin doubted the Zhongese military would allow them to keep it now if they knew.

  “Tell us more about the Healthbringer,” Yin’s mother asked Kuan. Yin listened the best she could, but out of the corner of her eye she saw a flash of red that broke her concentration.

  She looked up. The curtain swayed lazily, as if something had just passed through it. A small creature leaped onto a shelf behind her, then into the wagon. It was Kuan’s red panda, Tzu. The animal’s striped tail moved like a cat’s, brushing Yu’s leg and arm as she walked. Tzu yawned wide, and then curled into a ball at the boy’s head and went to sleep.

  “Do something!” Yin said to the animal. If Kuan was a healer, maybe her spirit animal was too. “Heal my brother, please.”

  Tzu opened one of her shiny black eyes to look at Yin. She quickly closed it again, content to sleep.

  Yin wanted to scream. Instead Luan flew up into the air, making his terrible squeaky wheel sound, as if to speak for the girl. Yin’s father burst from behind the curtain, startling both Yin and Tzu. Luan continued to fly around the room in a panic, so that Yin’s father had to duck to dodge the bird.

  “Why can’t you behave yourself?” Yin’s father yelled.

  Kuan walked over to the door and held it open until Luan flew outside.

  The healer woke Yu. He tried to sit up, but couldn’t. His eyes were crusted and red. Kuan put her h
and on the boy’s chest as he started coughing. He clenched his jaw between coughs, as if the pain was unbearable. Yu lay back down with a moan, his wet hair stuck to his forehead.

  “You have decided, then?” the healer asked Yin’s parents. They both nodded, with sorrow in their eyes.

  Neither of Yin’s parents said a word until they could no longer see Kuan’s house.

  “What are we going to do?” Yin’s mother asked as they climbed the mountain road.

  “There’s nothing we can do,” her father answered. He refused to look at Yin. “I feel horrible about it.”

  “But what about the cure?” Yin asked. She had heard about a cure.

  “It’s too expensive,” Yin’s mother said.

  “Besides, it probably won’t work,” her father added.

  “But we have to try!” Yin said.

  “We can’t afford it. We’d lose the farm. We’d lose everything.” Yin’s father said it quietly, still refusing to look at her. She could see his bottom lip trembling.

  “What about the Sword of Tang?” Yin suggested, but there was no answer from her parents. The ancient sword was the most expensive thing her family owned. In fact, it was priceless.

  The sword had been in the family for thousands of years. It carried with it a history of pride and power. Though Yin’s family was poor, there was nobility in their blood. Her father had always said that the sword was proof the family would prosper again. The Sword of Tang had its own destiny. One day it would save the family.

  “Maybe this is the Sword of Tang’s destiny!” Yin offered in a pleading voice.

  Her father shook his head. “Out of the question.”

  “But, Father! How can you be sure?”

  “That sword is what gives me my title,” he said. “It’s what ensures that you’ll have a well-born husband one day, and will be taken care of after I’m gone. The Sword of Tang is about the future, Yin, not the present.”