by Erin Hunter
Silence fell. Ruthless opened his small jaws, the pink of his tongue lolling. “I—”
“It was my fault,” Fearless cut in. “I stole Ruthless’s kill before he could make it.”
Ruthless shot Fearless a grateful look and Artful’s shoulders relaxed. But Valor sprang to her paws and Swift’s ears pricked, her whiskers trembling. Fearless felt the fur along his spine rise.
Titan paced toward Fearless, his powerful muscles bunching and stretching beneath his pelt. “How dare you,” he growled. “How dare you steal from my cub!”
Fearless could feel the stares of the whole pride, some vengeful, others anxious. His pelt prickled.
“I didn’t—I didn’t realize it was so important,” he said. “I thought . . . I wanted to help Ruthless. . . .”
Titan loomed over Fearless. His black mane whipped in the wind, his nostrils flared red, and his breath smelled of blood. Instinct urged Fearless to back away, to run as far from Titan as he could, but he dug his claws into the earth and held his ground.
“That,” snarled Titan, “is no excuse. My orders were clear.”
“I’m sorry.” Fearless swallowed. “How can I put it right?”
“You can’t,” snarled Titan. “An insult to my son is an insult to me. I won’t forget it.” He glanced over at Swift, and his muzzle curled into a grin. “You, Fearless, must go and make another kill. And as punishment, neither you nor your mother will be permitted to eat.”
“But Titan,” blurted Honor, “there’s barely any prey! And we already killed what we could find.”
“It’s an outrageous demand!” Valor lurched forward, eyes flashing, but Swift staggered hurriedly to her feet and nudged her flank.
“We understand, Titan,” Swift said meekly, blinking her milky eye in his direction. “Don’t we, Fearless? Valor?”
Valor clenched her teeth. “Yes, Mother.”
Fearless could barely speak. At last he managed to mutter, “Yes.”
His stomach shriveled like a frog left out in the sun. In his ostentatious pity for Ruthless and a dying zebra, he’d forgotten to have any for his mother. He’d known what his disobedience would mean for Swift, but that had flown out of his head in the heat of the moment. He did not want to imagine what Loyal would say if he heard.
The rest of the pride eyed him as he slunk away, their expressions ranging from disdain to sympathy. If there was a single lion who wanted to challenge Titan’s judgment, they clearly didn’t dare. Fearless padded on, his heart heavy as he crossed the border of Titanpride territory. Hunt again? He could barely lift his head; his weariness cut right down to the bone.
I hate Titan. Leaning forward into the wind, he protracted his claws, raking up chunks of earth as he walked. I hate him so much.
At least he had to battle the wind; it kept his mind off his longing to fight Titan. Everything that brutal lion did was rooted in needless cruelty: terrorizing his pride, forcing them to kill far more than they could eat, alternately indulging and terrifying poor Ruthless. Even more than he hated Titan, Fearless hated that he couldn’t do anything to stop him. For now, Stinger was right: all he could do was wait.
Fearless blinked, realizing his paws had led him to Loyal’s den. Wind howled around the bleak kopje, blustering grit and sand into his eyes and whistling eerily through the gaps in the rocks. Above him he could make out the dark slash of the den entrance, half hidden by a jutting stone.
The tightness in his gut loosened, just a little. Fearless scrambled and leaped up the shelves of rock, finally bounding onto the flat patch of sandy earth where the weather-bleached bones of long-dead grass-eaters lay scattered.
“Loyal?” Fearless called.
There was a stir of sound inside the den; a shadow moved at its mouth. “Fearless?”
Loyal’s voice was fuzzy with sleep. His familiar head emerged, squinting into the wind. Catching sight of Fearless, he leaped down. “What’s wrong?”
“Titan. Of course.”
Loyal growled. “What’s he done now?”
Fearless slumped onto his haunches. His misery could no longer be suppressed; his words tumbled over each other as he told Loyal everything.
“And I can’t go back until I’ve caught more prey,” he finished miserably. “And even if I do, Mother won’t eat today.”
Loyal’s amber eyes darkened to glittering bronze. “You shouldn’t go back at all. It’s too dangerous.”
“But Mother and Valor—”
“I know, I know.” Loyal tapped his crooked tail against the ground. “You won’t leave them. But what good are you to them if you get yourself killed? You could stay safely here instead. What do you say?”
It was very tempting. For a fleeting moment Fearless let himself imagine it: living with Loyal in his den, bringing back kills he could eat himself. Sunning himself on the kopje when the storms finally passed . . .
Closing his eyes, he sighed. “I can’t leave them with Titan; who knows what he’d do? And if I brought them here, he’d come after us.” His voice lowered to a growl. “Besides, Loyal, I need to avenge my father.” He flexed his claws. “For that, I have to be there, watching Titan. Stinger said I’d know when the time was right to kill him.”
“Stinger said what?” Loyal’s shoulders tensed, and he bared his fangs. “That kind of recklessness will get you killed.”
“I’m being careful,” Fearless assured him.
“By insulting Titan’s son and stealing his kill?” Loyal shook his mane violently. “What a crazy risk, Fearless.”
“I had to do what I did! And Ruthless was glad. He—”
Loyal cut him off with a snarl of frustration and launched into frantic back-and-forth pacing. “What does a baboon know about how a pride works? What does Stinger know about Titan? He’s got no business telling you what to do.” He swung to face Fearless, the wind blowing his mane back; Fearless felt the full impact of his enraged expression. “Leave Titanpride. Now, Fearless! Before you do something really stupid.”
“But I won’t do anything stupid!” Fearless protested. “And Titan can’t hurt me that badly. He made an oath not to kill me.”
Loyal stared at him for an agonizingly long moment.
“Oaths can be broken,” he said quietly.
Fearless snorted. “Not even Titan would break an oath,” he said. “He’s a cruel, Codeless brute, but he’s still a lion.”
Loyal turned away. The gale-tossed clouds over the kopje were darkening to purple, roiling and churning. Flocks of birds darted beneath them, heading for shelter.
“More rain’s coming,” Loyal growled at last. “Come on, youngster. If you insist on going back, you’d better have some prey to take with you. We’re going hunting.”
CHAPTER 12
The sunset was almost violent in its intensity, as if it were compensating for the dismal grayness of the day. Its dying rays stained the cloudbank with purple and orange and a blazing yellow. The gales still raged, pinning back Sky’s ears.
Great Mother’s tusk fragment felt heavy in her trunk; the trek had been so long and tiring, yet Sky knew they had not made enough progress. Every step had been a struggle against the blast and tug of the wind, and she and Moon were still nowhere near the path that would lead them where they needed to go.
Moon stumbled, steadying himself against her with his trunk. “Sorry, Sky,” he yawned.
“Time to sleep, I think.”
“I’m not tired, I can keep . . .” Moon said, but his words were swallowed by another yawn.
“This wind’s too much.” Sky caressed his ear fondly. “Come on. I think I can hear a stream over there—let’s have a drink. I need to rest, even if you’re tough enough to walk all night.”
Moon drew himself up with pride, then stiffened. His ears flapped forward. “What’s that?”
Sky had heard it too, a distant trumpeting call carried on the wind. She went still, listening. It rose and fell with the breeze, making it hard to tell its direction.
“Is that a rhino?” breathed Moon. “Rhinos are dangerous, Mother told me.”
Sky shook her head. “Don’t worry, Moon, it’s not a rhino. It’s another elephant—a lone male, I think.” As Moon brightened, she added, “But they can be dangerous, too! We’ll keep out of his way, all right?”
“All right, Sky. If you say so.” Moon nodded obediently. “I told you I’d be good.”
Stifling a chuckle, Sky led the little elephant down a worn patch of ground. The stream was loud now, even above the roar of the gale, and as they neared it the ground underfoot became softer, dotted with tussocks of lush grass. It was much more pleasant for Sky’s aching feet than the hard, endless track. In dense mgunga trees, hundreds of egrets were settling to roost; beneath them Sky saw the water at last. It was high and fast, swollen by rains and whipped into crests by the wind.
Here in the grassy hollow, sheltered from the driving wind on the savannah, scents seemed to linger. Sky raised her trunk, uneasy; there was a meaty, musky tang in the air that she recognized with a shiver. Lions. Perhaps they weren’t close, she thought hopefully; perhaps their scent simply lingered in the damp foliage and the relative stillness.
Moon was already dabbling and splashing his toes in the swift current. Sky sucked up a trunkful of water and squirted it gratefully into her mouth. It tasted fresh and clear, and so very welcome.
Moon splashed his foot harder, sending up a small shower, and giggled. “It’s cold!”
“It certainly is. Feel this!” Sky pointed her trunk and blew a spray of water over his head.
Moon squealed and trumpeted in delight, all his tiredness temporarily forgotten. Pleased to distract him, Sky played water games with her little cousin until he grew bored; then they both set to ripping up the sweet grass and pulling down slender thorny branches.
At last a twig fell from Moon’s mouth even as he chewed. His eyelids were sagging, and he gave a great yawn. Sky folded her trunk over his neck.
“Time to sleep,” she murmured.
Tucking Moon under her trunk, and Great Mother’s tusk fragment safely beneath her leg, Sky lay down. Moon cuddled closer, his head warm against her flank.
“Do you think my mother misses me?” came his small voice.
“I’m sure she does,” Sky told him softly. “I miss her, too. And Rain and Comet and Cloud and Twilight. But you know what?”
“What?” whispered Moon.
“We’ll be back with them very soon. I bet Star will wrap you up in her trunk and keep you next to her for days and days.” Sky stroked the bristly hair on Moon’s back. “You’ll get so mad when she doesn’t let you run off to play.”
“I won’t be mad,” Moon mumbled. “I’ll stay right beside her. Forever and ever and ages.”
He snuggled tighter against her, his heart beating through her hide. Her own eyes were growing irresistibly heavy. Somewhere overhead a bird flew, calling out a long, throbbing song.
“What was that?” Moon looked up with a start.
“Just a nightjar,” Sky reassured him. “They fly in the dark. Haven’t you heard one before?”
“I don’t think so,” Moon said doubtfully. “I’m always asleep then. With Mother.”
“They’re nothing to worry about, I promise.”
“Are nightjars big?”
“No, they’re little brown birds,” Sky told him. “If one landed on your back, you’d barely feel it. Great Mother could talk to them, like she could talk to all the birds. They used to fly down to perch on her ear and tell her what they’d seen in the night.”
“Oh.” Moon shifted his head from side to side, his cheek digging into Sky’s stomach.
After a moment, he sat up again. “What’s that?”
“Where?”
“Over there,” Moon whispered, pointing with his trunk. “I think it’s a hippo.”
Sky peered at a rounded shape that loomed above the water, moonlight gleaming on its smooth gray surface. Was it moving . . . ?
Then she made out one jagged edge and a pitted hollow. “It’s just a boulder.”
“I don’t like it.”
Something shrieked overhead, far louder than the nightjar, and this time they both jumped.
“What was that?” Moon whimpered.
“Just another bird,” Sky said, but she wasn’t sure. Something about the sound made her skin crawl. She peered up at the sky, but there was nothing but darkness and the racing clouds.
Moon buried his head against her side. “I don’t like it,” he repeated. “I want my mother. I want to go home!”
Something—a hyena?—howled far away, and Sky flinched. “We’ll go home soon, I promise,” she said. “Shall I tell you a story? Maybe that will help you sleep.”
She felt Moon’s eager nod.
“Okay. Let’s try a story my mother used to tell me, back when I was even littler than you.”
“I’m not that little,” Moon said, sounding less frightened and more indignant.
“No, of course you’re not. This is how the story goes: One day, back when the first elephants were walking across Bravelands, back when the grasses were growing for the first time, there was a little elephant named Cloud. Cloud was so brave that she—”
“He,” Moon mumbled against her hide. “I want Cloud to be a he.”
“Okay. Cloud was so brave that he wasn’t ever afraid, not even of lions or crocodiles. And he was so smart that he could understand what the birds were saying, just like our Great Mother could. And he was so strong that if a tree fell across his family’s path, he would just pick it up and toss it out of the way. And his mother and his aunts and his cousins and his grandmother were so proud of him, and they all loved him very, very much.”
“And he loved them.” Moon sounded calmer now, and his ears craned to listen.
“Of course he did. One night, Cloud’s whole family fell asleep after a long, long trek, but he was still awake, watching the sky. And a star fell down. Did you ever see a star fall?”
Moon nodded against Sky’s belly. “One time,” he said. “Mother saw it, too.”
“Yes, but when you saw it, it fell far, far away, right?” Sky caressed his twitching ear with the tip of her trunk. “The star Cloud saw was big and bright. It fell with a great boom, so he knew it had landed somewhere near him. Maybe just over the next hill . . .”
“Did Cloud go find it?” Moon asked.
“Well, he whispered in his mother’s ear that he would be right back and not to worry about him. And he started walking across the grass toward the star.”
Moon raised his head, looking out into the darkness. “Sky,” he whispered, his voice sharp. “Sky, there’s a rhino over there.”
“It’s only a rock,” Sky told him with a smile. “Just like the hippo was.”
“Sky!” Moon sounded terrified. He pointed with his trunk.
There was just enough moonlight to see a shape, far back beside the path. The something was big and still, and there was a curve to it that did look like the high hunch of a rhino’s back.
Had the shape been there the last time she looked? Sky couldn’t remember.
She didn’t think so.
Was it a rock? She’d surely have heard it rolling down onto the track, even on this soft ground; and besides, it was so big. Sky opened her mouth to whisper something reassuring to Moon—
—And the shape turned its head in the moonlight.
Yes, that was definitely a head. Sky could see the tufted ears and unmistakable long horn of a rhino. Her blood chilled.
“I’ll go look,” she murmured, steadying her voice. “You stay here, Moon. If I trumpet, run away. Run as fast as you can.”
“No, stay.” Moon wrapped his trunk around Sky’s leg, but she shook him gently away.
“It’s going to be okay,” she told him, trying to sound as firm and calm as Great Mother always had. “I’ll be as quiet and as quick as a leopard.” It was impossible to walk silently; reeds and grasses whispered a
nd rustled beneath her feet. With every step Sky winced, fear rippling through her blood. When she reached the barren ground closer to the path, her tread crunched on gritty earth and rattled loose pebbles. She halted, her heart pounding.
The rhino didn’t move. It lay on its belly, chin against the ground, top lip quivering with its snores.
At least it wasn’t the biggest rhino she had ever seen; it was close to her own size, not yet fully grown. Sky glanced around, but there were no more rhinos in sight.
She crept back to Moon. “The rhino’s asleep,” she whispered. “It doesn’t even know we’re here.”
Moon blew a shaky, relieved sigh. “Maybe we should go, before it wakes up.”
“No, but let’s leave before dawn. We won’t bother the rhino, and the rhino won’t bother us.”
Sky settled down again, the small elephant tucked against her side. “It’s late,” she whispered. “Look there, where the clouds have parted. You can see the moon up in the sky, little Moon.”
“Little Sky,” Moon murmured.
“The big moon looking down on the little Moon,” Sky said, making her voice soft and dreamy. “Think of all the things the big moon can see, all over Bravelands.”
Moon’s breathing deepened and slowed, and Sky’s own eyes grew heavy. The moon drifted back behind the scudding clouds, creating a smear of bright silver. If only the river of stars wasn’t hidden; Sky liked to gaze up at it when she couldn’t sleep. She’d watch its glittering swirl, follow its arcing path from horizon to horizon. The silver clouds weren’t the same, she thought as they blurred and spun in her vision.
They didn’t soothe her as the stars always did. . . .
Sky woke abruptly to the sound of splashing in the stream. Weak daylight shone through the churning cloud, and Moon was playing happily in the wave-tossed water.
“You’re awake, Sky!” he squealed. “That rhino’s gone!”
Sky looked back along the bank. It was empty. Thank the Great Spirit.
Feeling with the tip of her trunk, she found Great Mother’s tusk fragment still tucked in the grass beneath her. Relieved, she plucked a mouthful of grass and popped it into her mouth.