Wilderness Untamed

by Butler, J. M.

  "I want you to take me to the dolmath den after you find it so I can practice exposure therapy and get used to being around the dolmaths."

  WroOth smacked her lightly on the back of the head, almost playful though his eyes had gone hard once more. "Did you hear nothing of what I said?"

  "You told me dolmaths aren't dangerous. Were you lying?"

  He gave her a long annoyed glare. "If you want to get more accustomed to them, why not wait until tonight?"

  "We can try it tonight, but when they're scrambling around trying to get on me, it's difficult for me to remain calm."

  He scoffed but his expression grew more sympathetic. "And seeing them in a cave while they're sleeping will be easier?"

  "They won't be trying to climb up me, and they'll be still. Won't they?"

  "More or less. There might be some twitching." He coughed into his arm, then shook his head. "Fine. I'll take you in the morning. Until then… there are more things that need to be done before we fall."

  "I'll try your way too with petting one while you hold it. As long as you promise not to throw it at me or drop me in with them."

  "I wouldn't even think of it." He said it so seriously she wouldn't have doubted his sincerity even if she couldn't feel the truth in his words. He pointed at her. "And you remember your promise to me. You don't go off after Naatos."

  Amelia smiled. "I always remember what I say." Not that she had promised she wouldn't. She couldn't imagine risking her life for Naatos. And she wasn't about to start now. Not in a wilderness with so many threats. Yet somehow that promise was not one she wanted to make. Especially not when that knot of worry had formed in her stomach already.

  She resumed working at the fire, unwilling to dwell on it any longer.

  * * *

  Flight had its benefits in a world like Ecekom. He'd learned long ago how to find that relatively safe spot between the canopy and the heavens where predators did not frequently hunt for fear of colliding with one another. In years past, it had been a space of less than twenty feet.

  Safety wasn't guaranteed, of course. Death was the only thing certain in Ecekom. It was really just a matter of when rather than if, even for Vawtrians.

  The darkening of the ochre and vermilion sky reflected his own thoughts and mood. He would find his way to two more of their cities, cities once renowned for trade and commerce, art and passion. Cities which, if all had been as before, would be gone without a trace, the rock face of their names and markers ground so that the blessings became curses.

  It was no coincidence. It was personal. But based on all the signs, it was likely that the perpetrators of the offense had long since passed.

  The ilzinium burned through his lungs and down his spine, strengthening its choking hold on him with each breath. Try as he might to ignore it, he could not deny its impact.

  Curse Vorec. Damn him. Break him. Waste him.

  He rose higher to avoid an older cabiza male sunning itself in the late rays of sunlight, its broad black wings spread out like sails and its amber eyes glazed with calm. On either side, a fair distance away, tree mantises preened and cleaned their spear-like forelegs. Lower in the canopy and hidden within the confines of the leaves were the arboreal crocs. Aside from the increased size, all appeared as it should. As it had been the last time he flew through Ecekom. The last time he had been with his cadre.

  He thrust those emotions and memories back into the recesses of his mind. There wasn't time for that. There wasn't time for any of this. He didn't need that. His cadre had found a way to survive. They were clever. Brilliant even. They were survivors. It was what had brought them together.

  He'd always pretended that it was WroOth's doing that led to their cadre's expansion. It was an easy thing to claim. His brother despised being alone, and he formed attachments swiftly, often based on no more than a gut feeling. But he himself had felt kinship with all of them.

  All of them except a couple of the spouses brought on later. Ngi Kinot's husband irked him. Tenzum he hated, obviously. No. They were not dead. His gut confirmed it. It wasn't simply denial.

  More importantly, they would find them again.

  He set his jaw and quickened his pace, shooting over the canopy and the numerous creatures who made it their home.

  As it had been the night before, all had calmed. The peace did not reach Naatos, but he appreciated it. He soared on the cooling currents, devouring the miles as the darkness spread and wrapped itself around him. Down below, he glimpsed streaks of blue as the dolmaths emerged and scurried along the wilderness floor, sliding through the grass and over the rocks. As he passed over a clearing, he noted a large pack of besreds. They'd already settled down, mommas with their calves, poppas protective over them, and all those without little ones on the outskirts, forming a great circle. The dolmaths slid in among them. Though he could not hear the sounds, memory told him the contented sighs the calves would make, the satisfied harrumphs of the older ones, and the delighted chirrs of the dolmaths.

  Farther down, a trio of cabizas draped themselves over the broad low branches of a sunoi tree, stingers coiled back and forelegs folded beneath their massive jaws. Dolmaths clambered over them like puppies on cushions. It would be so throughout the forest and the wilderness, a comforting reminder that some things were as they used to be. It was funny how it never seemed too strong and yet he could catch that trail of the dolmath scent even up here with the wind in his face.

  Perhaps it was working though. The tightness in his shoulders and down his spine had lessened.

  That calm lasted for the next three hours of his flight. The black night gleaner form allowed him to travel swiftly and with little fear of attack. Areas like this rarely held nocturnal aerial predators, and he had seen no signs of their presence. Caught neither scent nor trace. But when he landed on the flat grass plain where Sevro's Bane had once stood, that cold pain returned, and he almost wished that there was something for him to fight. The crescent moon cast enough light for him to see without changing the night gleaner's eyes to something even more astute. He shifted only his foreclaws and began to dig. The scent of the soil, dark brown, rich, and living, filled his nostrils. Yet it gave him no hope as he slashed through the thick threadlike roots of the switchgrass and upturned pebbles, rocks, and stones. Deeper and deeper he went, spiraling faster with each foot of earth he swept up and out.

  Nothing. Nothing but dirt and stone and dirt.

  He leaped out, stalked to another point in the high grass, and dug again.

  Still. Nothing.

  Four more holes at random points. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

  He took to the skies once more, that fear returning, expanding, choking. The walls he had built within his mind strained to contain all he had thrust within, weakened by fatigue and illness. He flew with all the speed he could muster to Karul. The same tall switchgrass covered the swathe of what had once been a proud city with sprawling outskirts. He landed in the center. Then he dug again. He dug seven holes throughout the flat plain. The blood thundered in his veins, rage and terror mingling. No evidence. None. Not a shard. Not a scrap. Nothing. Whoever had done this had been thorough. Four cities entirely eradicated. Ground to dust. Their name sculptures and blessings on the mountains ground to no more than a marker for what once had been.

  The utter emptiness of it all weighed heavy upon him.

  The Vawtrian race was not gone. Not entirely. There were seventy worlds or more where they would yet exist. But this was the world where they had been born. Their garden. Their walls. He and his brothers had not been raised on Ecekom itself. But the world where they had started was almost precisely like this one. A faint laugh rose within him. Actually it felt almost exactly like theirs.

  Wild.

  Empty.

  Unyielding.

  Ferociously beautiful.

  Yes. Even here and now, with the waxing crescent shining its brilliant silver light, there was a ferocious and limitless beauty.

  It
was a big world. A thousand things could be hidden, and who would know?

  That had been what he loved about this place. What he still loved. And it was true of many worlds. And what was this but another mystery. One of the countless ones.

  He circled the last of the pits he had dug, releasing the night gleaner form and resuming his state of rest. His muscles ached, and a dull headache pounded at the base of his skull.

  His people were not dead.

  They could not be.

  His cadre was not dead.

  They could not be.

  Much had happened in the millennia of their absence. Besides he and his brothers had no clear way to measure time. That meaningless Awdawm had said he was sending them forward twenty thousand years, but in truth, who was to say how accurate that was?

  The Tue-Rah had a mind of its own on some things. Perhaps it had sent them farther or earlier. Who could say? And who would keep them from going back? Timelines could be repaired. At least in theory. They would turn it into practice.

  He strode through the tall grass past a pack of sleeping seven-clawed raptors. The dolmaths had wedged themselves in all around them, the raptors themselves too heavy to be easily moved, especially with their claws hooked into the soil and the babies nestled tight beneath them. A few of the dolmaths stirred as he passed, but he moved along before they could trail after him. They were likely well-sated by this point.

  What mattered now was returning to his family and getting them through the ilzinium purge. A deep cough wracked its way from him, filling his mouth with the unpleasant tang of his own blood. He spat it out.

  It would take another two hours to get back, but he couldn't fly yet. If he was going to attempt the surge… well, now was as good a time as any. He unsheathed his hunting knife and studied it. AaQar had asked him not to do this away from the camp. WroOth would not be able to withstand even the sight if he did attempt it at the camp. It might tear open the sutures that bound his brother's mind together forever. The threat of the surrounding predators provided a sense of urgency which he might be able to maximize. But there were predators near to the camp as well. And if AaQar learned he had done this without his supervision, he would be furious.

  No.

  Besides, there was still a chance he could overcome the ilzinium. The point of no return had narrowed considerably.

  But he had failed to listen to his brother before.

  And what would happen if he did fail here? Was it selfish to only want to care for his family if he was at his full strength? The surge was dangerous in the best of times. Both WroOth and AaQar had made it clear they did not want him to do it; WroOth thought it pointless to even speak with him further on the matter. QueQoa would likely object as well if he could speak, and Amelia—what would she say if he made that proposal?

  He continued until he reached a waxy-leafed tree and then sat beneath it, his back to its cracked and crooked trunk. His family needed him, even if his best was weak, halting, and broken. Amelia had an impossible task before her. He preferred to support her from a position of strength, but if there was no strength to be had, perhaps it was better to simply push through.

  The dried meat offered some nourishment though he had little consciousness of appetite. Only the burning fatigue of that cursed ilzinium. Sleep was not wise at this point. All too easy for him to rest beyond the point of waking.

  If it weren't for his senses already being dulled, he could have trusted his body to wake him in an hour or two, depending on what he determined. Instead, he removed the bone bracelet and resumed carving the epic into it.

  The work required delicate movements. Not the best given his current state, but there was something soothing in the agitation of demanding perfection. It was good. He made the door on the carving especially large and prominent. If he hurried, he could finish this before the end of the week and give Amelia the added protection she deserved.

  The moon sank lower toward the mountains as his strength returned, slowly. Everything would come together in time. All would be well. And if it wasn't, he would make it that way.

  25

  Conquering Fear

  What little time in the afternoon passed far too fast. As the sun hung low, Amelia wrapped a blanket around her shoulders against the cold. She'd get back onto the boulder when the dolmaths started to come.

  A heaviness hung over her. QueQoa slept in the trench, pale and shivering despite the blankets. His eyelids twitched as well as the muscles in his jaw and shoulders occasionally.

  Amelia gave him sips of the broth as AaQar prepared the plates with their meat.

  QueQoa moaned.

  "Is he suffering?" she asked.

  "The dreams are a difficult part in this." WroOth stoked the fire. "But they do not kill us."

  "They show us where we are weak," AaQar interjected. "That is why they are repeated."

  "No. They torment us because that is what they do. There is no greater purpose to them," WroOth snapped. He eyed his brother with startling anger and started to pace. "Just because you want to find some greater meaning doesn't mean there is any. The fever draws them out, and they offer nothing. I know of what I will dream. And so do you. And so did QueQoa. We all know. It's the one thing we most fear we will dream. The one thing that when you feel the cold pinch of clammy unconsciousness you think, no, not that. No matter how many that it might be, they all come. And it's always that." He scoffed, swiping at the back of his neck as if he could knock away the unease. "It's always that."

  "Is there something I can do? As a mindreader?" She smoothed QueQoa's hair back. He was shivering and yet his brow was damp with sweat.

  "You can't. And you shouldn't waste your strength." WroOth kissed her forehead before he resumed pacing around the fire. "We have endured before; we will endure again. A dream cannot kill you. But everything else in this world might."

  "You would heal faster without the nightmares though?" Amelia frowned, aware that there was a hope he wasn't speaking. It was possible. It could help.

  "Of course. Nightmares reduce one's focus. They increase all sorts of things that make healing easier. But they pass. They always do. Unless it's one's life. Then, well, you can't wake up, can you?"

  Those memories of WroOth's were like steel tendrils, slim but powerful enough to slice through her mind. Their hard-edged grief cut. She refrained from wincing though. Instead she pressed back, mentally lifting her hands to protect her own mind. "Maybe I'll find a way."

  AaQar offered her a plate. "Both of you should eat."

  "You shouldn't waste your time or energy on it. We will get through." WroOth picked up the second plate, but he made no move to eat. "Besides, you don't want to see that. It was cruel enough of me to put you in my memories and see—see what happened." His voice faltered.

  It had been cruel, but she did not regret having the knowledge. Amelia accepted the food AaQar offered her. What could she even say about it?

  "And if you go into our minds as we sleep, we won't necessarily see you, but you will see what we dream. And the dreams that you will find…" He let his voice trail off before he leaned back, sighing. "They will be our worst. And you will feel them. You will—oh dear heart, you don't need to even think about it."

  She frowned as she watched QueQoa. His lips twitched, and his face worked. The tumult of emotion coiled and rippled off him so vividly she could almost see it. "So… I'll feed you all. Tend to your wounds. And listen to you suffer?"

  "That is more than enough." AaQar sat on the log nearest her and QueQoa. "Don't underestimate the difference that will make." His gaze lingered on his brother. "WroOth, we'll take QueQoa back to the suphrite. The abscess will need to be tended before dawn. It would be better to deal with it now."

  "You have the strength?" A rough fear lay beneath that question. WroOth still hadn't touched his food.

  AaQar chewed thoughtfully. "I suppose we shall see."

  For once, Amelia found herself hoping Naatos would return soon. She shive
red beneath the blanket, her own appetite muted. He wasn't going to return before dawn.

  Not even WroOth had much to say as they ate. It was hard for Amelia to finish even one portion, let alone drink the tea steeped from the herbs Naatos had brought her. But she forced herself to finish both. AaQar and WroOth both ate more than usual, but they did not appear to enjoy it. WroOth barely stopped pacing except on occasion when the meat was especially tough and he had to use his teeth more than usual while AaQar ate methodically and silently.

  The chill in the air strengthened as the sun slid farther and farther from sight. The clouds lacked the beauty of the previous night. They ate their dinner, and then AaQar and WroOth carried QueQoa down to the suphrite river to tend to the abscess. Though sweat-covered, feverish, and tormented, QueQoa did not wake at all, even when they put him in the warm waters.

  Amelia watched from a distance, her arms wrapped around herself. Vawtrian medicine was harsh.

  AaQar cut the wound open with the large blade while WroOth steadied him.

  There was a brutal precision to what they did. It reminded her of when they removed the hook-fanged spider barbs from the bites and stings. Vicious. Efficient. Deep. Tremors of pain shuddered through her at those memories, as clear as if the blade were once again set to her skin. The scars ached deep inside. Just brushing her fingers over them made her wince.

  Pus and blood poured out of the wound, bubbling in the suphrite and then vanishing as the waters carried it away, dissolved like soap suds as the blood swirled in dark eddies and disappeared as well. The suphrite broke it down apparently. Turned it into nothing.

  AaQar guided QueQoa into the suphrite up to his neck.

  That cut was deep and long. It had gone all the way to his bone. Which meant he had to heal from that as well. Surely a smaller and more precise cut would be better. Less to heal from at least. If Vawtrian physiology was similar to Awdawm, then the brachial artery was at least getting nicked each time they did that. A small matter for a healthy Vawtrian to heal, but a cost nonetheless.