‘Once you can drink a mouthful without dying, the training begins. It’s not as simple as just having a swig and being able to fight really quickly. Moving that fast changes everything: how your muscles work, your sense of balance. We have hours of practice every day. You can only call yourself a dusk wraith once you pass the final tests.’
‘Was that when you refused to kill someone?’ Uki asked, remembering her story from the forest.
Jori shook her head. ‘No, that came after. I’m a true dusk wraith at least, even if I’m not an assassin.’
‘Mushrooms, eh?’ said Kree. ‘That stuff must be pretty bad for you. Look at how you felt after just a small sip. What happens if you use more?’
‘The more you drink, the longer it lasts,’ said Jori. ‘And the worse you feel after. It does things to your body over time, as well. After years of being a dusk wraith, you start losing your fingers and toes. Even your ears. The elder wraiths in my clan wear hoods and masks all the time, they look so horrible. None of them lives much past forty.’
Kree let out a whistle. ‘And what would happen if I tried some? Or ate a piece of those mushrooms?’
‘You would die,’ said Jori. ‘But not instantly. There’d be hours of agony beforehand. Pain like you couldn’t imagine. It’s probably one of the worst deaths you could think of.’
Uki had no idea what to say to that. He looked at the ornate flask on Jori’s belt, tempted to grab it and hurl it out into the darkening plain with all his strength. But even with all the horrible tales she had just told, Jori obviously thought it was precious. Being a dusk wraith was something she was proud of, maybe because it had been so hard for her to achieve.
‘Well, on that cheerful note, I think it’s time for bed,’ said Kree. She pulled her blanket over herself and snuggled up next to Mooka’s warm fur.
‘Are you sure we’ll be safe?’ Jori asked.
‘Trust me! Bulu naska, everyone.’
‘Good night,’ Uki said. He wrapped his tattered cloak about him and thought about snuggling up next to the jerboa for a moment, before he remembered those front teeth as long as his arm. Perhaps it would be best to keep a little distance …
He lay back amongst the sweet-smelling plains grass and looked up at the drifts of stars above. A beautiful night, under the open sky with my new friends nearby, he thought, feeling safe and warm as he drifted off to sleep.
*
Something hard and sharp jabbed Uki in the leg, making him jolt awake. It was a flint spear, poking him through his blanket. At the other end was a tall plains rabbit dressed in beaded leathers, purple zigzags painted all over his fur.
‘Look here,’ the rabbit laughed. ‘This one has been cut in half!’
Uki raised his head to see ten or more rabbits, all pointing spears and axes at them. Kree and Jori were looking out of their blankets with eyes as wide and frightened as his.
‘And this one is Kalaan Klaa,’ another rabbit said, prodding Kree. ‘An enemy on our lands.’
‘They will make good buzzard food,’ said the tallest rabbit, one who wore a headdress of feathers and carved bones. ‘Many Uluk Miniki will enjoy watching you die. Nobody travels on our lands without permission.’
Jori looked over at Kree and gave her a scowl strong enough to curdle milk. ‘Trust you? You’re “sure it will be fine”?’
‘Nam ukku ulla,’ Kree said, and spat on the ground. The Miniki warriors laughed and hauled their new prisoners to their feet.
INTERLUDE
The bard’s story continues into the night, until Rue’s (and Jaxom’s) eyes are closed and their breathing has slowed to gentle snores. The bard lies awake for an hour or so more – listening out for the sneaking footfalls of Arukh raiders come to murder him in his sleep – before he drifts off as well.
As soon as they are up and riding on the wagon again, Rue begs for the tale to continue, and it is not until they are approaching the town of Melt the next evening that the bard draws to a close with Uki and his friends in the hands of the Uluk Miniki.
‘Don’t stop there!’ Rue cries. ‘At least let us know if they survive!’
‘Always leave your audience wanting more,’ says the bard. ‘Lesson number … three hundred and something. I’ve lost count.’
Jaxom begins to slow the bounding jerboas, and they spot Melt itself. More impressive by far than Pebblewic, it has a high wooden wall with watchtowers all around. It stands out as the biggest thing on the broad, flinty slopes that lead up to the mountains, although it doesn’t have much competition. There are freshly ploughed fields surrounding it, and the odd shepherd’s hut. Here and there stands a cluster of gorse or hawthorn, but little else grows apart from patchy, bristly grass. Flocks of jerboas are being herded back to their pens for the evening and, on the far side of the town, a winding river sparkles, bubbling its way off through the Blood Plains to the sea.
As they near the town, they spot rings of ditches brimming with sharpened wooden stakes. Rue can see archers and sentries up on the walls, ready to fill them full of arrows should they turn out to be anything less harmful than tartan traders. It makes him finally realise how much danger they were in, crossing and camping out in hostile Arukh territory. Even with Jaxom’s grisly warnings, the whole thing had seemed like a great adventure. Now he understands that they really might have been attacked in the night. The thought makes him shudder.
They are stopped at the gate by two guard-rabbits, both holding spears and dressed in thick, leather armour. They know Jaxom by sight and wave him through, into the town beyond.
Their cart trundles in and Rue peers over the edge. There are lots of houses, all made of wood or stone and roofed with pieces of slate. Tall chimneys trail white streamers of smoke, and at the north side of the town there is a gap in the wall where the river runs through. Boats and barges are tied up there, waiting to take goods downstream. It is the first time Rue has seen proper boats, and he stares for a while, hypnotised by their gentle bobbing.
Jaxom heads straight for the trading post, where he stables his jerboas and heaves the bales of tartan from his wagon, with a little help from the bard. As Jaxom goes to get his payment, Rue watches the rabbits of Melt going about their business. All of them, he notices, are armed with swords or axes, even the old rabbits. They nod and greet each other as normal, but there is a tension in the air, as if they are ready to jump into battle at any moment.
‘Why would anyone want to live here?’ he asks the bard. ‘Wouldn’t it be better to build a warren somewhere safe, without neighbours who might want to chop your bits off?’
The bard shrugs. ‘This is their home,’ he says. ‘Most of them have probably lived here for generations. It usually takes a lot to leave all that behind. And this is an important trading post. All the amber in the Five Realms is dug from those mountains and is traded here. All the beads and leather of the plains come here from Nether. And all the tribes in the north of Hulstland get their cloth, wool and everything else from Melt. Even the Arukhs, when they’re feeling friendly.’
‘But what if we’re attacked? Look – they’re all carrying weapons!’
‘Then we’ll be safe, won’t we? I’m just going to hide behind that old lady over there. She looks like she can take care of herself.’
The bard laughs at Rue’s expression, then gives his shoulder a comforting squeeze as Jaxom returns with his pouch of coins. ‘The store is this way,’ he says. ‘Gant should be expecting us.’
He leads them in and out of the wooden buildings until they get to one with a sign hanging outside. It has a picture on it of a turnip above a pair of crossed pickaxes.
Inside is a little wooden room with a counter along the far wall. The rest of the hut, every spare inch, is filled with shelves and boxes, all overflowing with goods for sale. There are barrels of swedes and potatoes, stacks of firewood, packets of seeds, hammers, axes, spades, boxes of nails, jars of pickle and jam. Rue has never seen such a huge amount of stuff crammed into one small spac
e before. It is like walking into a cave of treasures, except with handy, everyday items instead of priceless gems.
‘Good evening and ninefold blessings, gentlemen,’ says a voice from somewhere amongst the heaps of goods. ‘I’m afraid I was just about to c-close for the evening. We’ll be open first thing in the morning if you would like to c-come back.’
‘I was just wondering,’ says the bard, ‘if you sold fox-paw dice. I have an unusual set I would like to match.’
There is a rustling and clanking, and two black ears appear from behind a stack of pickled gherkin jars. They are followed by a pair of big, watery brown eyes. ‘By K-Kether’s sacred nostril hair, I thought you’d never get here!’
With a stumble that almost sends the whole stack of jars tumbling, a short, stooped rabbit hops out before them. He squints and blinks, coming a few steps closer to see them better. ‘Thirteen c-curses on my eyes – they get worse each year! Is that you, Jaxom? Have you brought these fellows to see me?’
‘Yes, Gant,’ says Jaxom. ‘This is Wulf the Wanderer, founding member of the Foxguard, and his apprentice, Rue.’
The bard bows his head and ruffles Rue’s ears. The little rabbit has puffed up his chest so much, it might burst.
‘Founding member, eh? Well you’d better c-come in. Lock the door behind you, I was c-closing up for the night anyway.’
Gant leads them through the cluttered shop to a little room at the back. It is only a tiny bit less crowded. There is a table, chairs and a sideboard, but everything is covered with wooden boxes crammed with more stock. Rue climbs on top of a crate, while the bard shifts a sack of seeds off a chair. Gant feels his way over to the other side of the table, not even waiting to sit before blurting out his news.
‘I’m so glad you c-came. It seemed to take forever! It was weeks ago I heard, you see. As you know, I’m the only Foxguard agent this far north. It’s not c-close enough to Icebark Forest to k-keep an eye on things there, but I pay good money for information from some of the woodsmen. There hasn’t been any news for … well, forever. But two woodcutters c-came to see me nearly a month ago. They said they’d been out in the forest one night and seen a light. Off in the distance they said, through the trees. They followed it, knowing that was the sort of news I was after, and it led them right to the tower!’
‘The Endwatch Tower?’ The bard says. ‘I thought it was destroyed?’
‘Burnt down, yes,’ says Gant. ‘Just a shell now. None of the buildings are left, but the tower still stands. Anyway, they c-crept as close as they dared and that was where the light c-came from! And they said they c-could see rabbits moving about inside.’
‘How many?’ The bard leans forward, gripping one of Gant’s arms. ‘Were they just other woodsmen? Ice Waste rabbits? Or something else?’
Gant’s watery eyes wobble, big droplets about to spill into his fur. ‘I don’t know. They didn’t say. I think they were terrified of ghosts or spirits and ran off. They’re only simple woodsfolk, you know, and that place has always had bad stories told of it. They call it Doomgate and other silly names. I’m sorry I c-can’t tell you any more. I would have gone up there to see for myself, but my eyes …’
‘Don’t worry,’ says the bard, giving Gant’s arm a pat. ‘You got the word out, that’s the most important thing. Has anyone else from the Foxguard come through here?’
Gant shakes his head. ‘No, you’re the first. Although I c-can’t say who’s at the tower now. I told Nikku to send sparrows to all the Foxguard in Hulstland. My woodsfolk returned to Nether and haven’t been this way since.’
The bard sits back and pulls at his beard for a minute or two. Everyone watches him closely, not wanting to disturb his thinking. Even Rue manages to keep quiet, although the effort nearly makes him explode.
Finally he speaks. ‘I think I need to see this for myself,’ he says at last. ‘At least from a distance. Could be just someone looking for shelter, but if it’s the Endwatch come back …’
‘It might be dangerous,’ says Jaxom. ‘No offence, but you’re not a fighter. And there’s your boy to think of.’
‘I’m not scared!’ Rue shouts, although his voice wobbles a little, spoiling the effect. The other rabbits laugh.
‘I’m sure you’re not,’ says the bard. ‘And don’t worry, Jaxom. I’ll get no closer than the woodsfolk did and head back if it looks dangerous. There’s others in the Foxguard who can take care of the fighting, if it comes to that. We’ll just have to run back here and wait for reinforcements.’
Jaxom grunts, sounding less than happy. ‘I can take you as far as Icebark tomorrow,’ he says. ‘But I can’t spare the time to go creeping through the forest with you. I’ve got shipments to take back, rabbits waiting for their goods …’
‘It’s fine,’ says the bard. ‘I’ve spent a lot of time in forests. We’ll creep in and out quicker than a hare with tummy trouble. I’ll send a sparrow to you in Pebblewic, and perhaps you can give us a ride back after?’
‘Very well,’ says Jaxom, still frowning. ‘But I still don’t like it.’
After that, Gant insists they stay the night, and sets about cooking them supper on a little brick stove that had been hidden behind a bundle of broomsticks (‘buy one get one free’). When they have eaten their fill, they clear a space on the kitchen floor for their bedding. Gant has his own cubbyhole for sleeping, somewhere amongst the clutter of his shop. There is just enough room for the bard and Jaxom to stretch out, top to tail. Rue settles down on top of two pushed-together boxes. With light from several beeswax candles and the embers of the stove, it is very warm and cosy.
‘I don’t suppose,’ says Rue, ‘before we fall asleep … that we could have more of the story? Just to see if Uki and the others escape the plains tribe?’
The bard lets out a sigh. ‘Do we have to? I do have rather a lot on my mind tonight …’
‘Oh, go on,’ says Jaxom. ‘This part is my favourite bit of the tale.’
‘Hey!’ says Rue. ‘It’s not fair if Jaxom knows what happens and I don’t!’
‘Well, you’ve had loads of Podkin’s tales that I haven’t.’
‘But he’s my master!’
‘Woah! Hold your jerboas!’ says the bard. ‘What’s going on? Are you both little children? Well, you are Rue, but … can’t either of you go to sleep without a bedtime story, just for once?’
‘No!’ Rue and Jaxom reply together. The bard mutters something rude under his breath, and then sits himself up amongst his blankets.
‘Very well,’ he says. ‘If it will stop you both moaning and fighting. I will tell you what happened when Uki and the outcasts were captured by the Uluk Miniki …’
CHAPTER NINE
The Challenge
They were dragged, stumbling – pulled along by ropes tied to their paws – behind the Miniki’s jerboas. Uki tested the knots binding him. Even though the rope was thick, he knew he could snap it like a piece of straw. But what then? There were too many rabbits around them, with too many spears. He didn’t think Iffrit’s powers would keep him alive if he became a walking pincushion. Besides which, Jori and Uki were still bound. There would be no time to free them, and one of them might get hurt.
In the end he decided it was safest to let the Miniki think he was just a harmless child. There would come a better time to escape, when he could free the others too. At least he hoped so.
They were soon at the Miniki’s camp. It was nestled in a dip, almost impossible to see amongst the endless flat grass of the plains, and not that far away from where they had camped. Kree cursed again when she saw it, knowing she hadn’t done a very good job of guiding them safely across her own homeland.
Uki was surprised to see so many rabbits. It was like a little town, bigger even than Nether had been. But instead of houses or burrows, the Miniki had tents everywhere. Domed structures made of leather stretched over hazel poles, and painted with purple zigzags and figures of rabbits on jerboas. Each one was bigger than his old hut i
n the Ice Wastes had been. Whole families lived in them, many of whom were just getting up and going about their daily business. They all stopped to stare at the strangers being pulled along by their warriors.
The Miniki, Uki noticed, had slightly darker fur than Kree, but it was still short and velvety. Their eyes were deeper brown, and the dye on their fur was purple instead of red. Apart from that, they looked very similar. Similar enough, he thought, to make all this hostility seem a bit ridiculous.
The riders dragged them all the way to the camp’s centre, before jumping off their jerboas. Uki and his friends were pushed towards the biggest tent. It was the most ornately painted, and had a wide doorway with two guards standing outside.
‘Where are they taking us?’ Uki managed to whisper to Kree.
‘To the chief,’ she replied, through gritted teeth. ‘So he can decide how we will be punished.’
The large tent was filled with the chief’s finery. Lots of painted skins, shields, spears and, of course, an elaborate seat made of what looked like enormous bones lashed together with strips of hide. The chief sat there, drinking from a carved wooden bowl and watching them closely over the rim. His eyes widened when he saw Jori and narrowed again at the sight of Kree. He put his bowl aside, leaving a ring of jerboa milk around his whiskers.
‘A Kalaan Klaa? On my lands?’
‘We found her with these other children, Chief Gromak,’ said one of the riders. ‘They were camped out for the night. Heading south-east.’
Gromak growled. He was a big rabbit, his fur painted with so much purple it was hard to see its real colour. His ears were pierced full of carved bones and wooden discs, and there was a long scar running down the left side of his face. He didn’t look like someone you would want to annoy.
‘Kalaan Klaa are our enemy!’ he roared, making Uki flinch. ‘Lying two-faced children of weasels and stoats! They said rude things about my beautiful daughter!’
Uki and the Outcasts Page 10