The Serpent's Fury, page 17
“I don’t not trust Trysten. If that makes sense.”
“You don’t think he’s going to hurt us or trick us, but you don’t know him well enough to say you trust him. Same here.” I sit on a submerged rock and wring out my hair. “Thank you for giving him your dagger.”
“I didn’t want him having yours.” He pauses. “And he should have a weapon.” He pulls the dagger from his side. “Wilmot gave him a spare, so I got mine back.”
He runs a finger along the blade. Is it conceited to say it’s a beautiful weapon if I’m the one who gave it to him? I didn’t make it, so I think that’s okay. It’s Berinon’s handiwork—he kept up his blacksmithing as a hobby and makes the best weapons in the castle. The design was mine, though, with a jackalope on the side, to thank Dain for saving Jacko. It’s also to remind him that if he wants monsters to like him, he needs to admit he likes them. I glance at the dropbear and smile. It seems Dain might have been listening.
“She needs a name,” I say.
He sighs. “I know.”
“Droppy? Droppo? Bearo?”
He chuckles and shakes his head.
“Remember when we first met?” I say. “I was trying to convince you that Jacko was my companion, and you said if he was, then I should tell you his name. Only I hadn’t actually given him one.”
Dain’s brows arch.
I pull my knees up on the submerged rock. “Like you and the dropbear, I was uncomfortable admitting he was mine for good. Worried that as soon as I said I liked him and wanted him to stay, he’d leave and I’d feel bad. So I hadn’t given him a name. I just called him ‘jackalope.’ When you challenged me, I said his name was ‘jacka…’ Then I stopped myself, and you heard ‘Jacko,’ so that became his name.”
He sputters a laugh. “Seriously?”
“I would have changed it, except you said it was a dumb name, so I had to keep it. Just to be contrary.” I glance at the dropbear. “You have to the count of ten to name her, or she’s going to be ‘Droppy’ forever.”
Genuine panic lights his face.
“I’m kidding,” I say. “Take all the time you want. Just do give her a name, Dain. Admit you want her to stay.”
“I…I don’t know. I mean, yes, I want her to stay, but names? I don’t know how to do that.”
“How did you name toys? Or pets? Did you have…?” I trail off and my cheeks heat as I see his expression. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think—I never do, do I? I’m always…” I flail my arms, water splashing. “Saying insensitive things that I don’t mean to be insensitive. I forget that your…your experiences might not have been the same as mine. I’m sorry.”
His lips quirk. “I did name my stick once. It was a very special stick that I found and carved myself. I called it ‘My Special Rat Stick.’ ”
“MSRS? Em-ess-ar-ess?”
“Like Doscach? Nope, I’m not even that creative. It was just My Special Rat Stick. I may have mocked you for Jacko, but that’s exactly what I would have called him.”
“How about names from stories? Some maiden you admire in a bard song.”
He snickers. “Name my dropbear after a girl I liked in a song? That’s just weird. You’re way better at names. You pick one.”
“I shouldn’t—”
“Pick one, or she’s going to be Droppo forever.”
“Being female, it should probably be Droppa. Or Droppy.”
“Nope, Droppo it is.” He rises. “Come on, Droppo. Time to go. Remember, if you hate your name, it’s the princess’s fault. She refused to—”
“Fine, just hold on. How about…Desdee?”
He hesitates. “That means something, doesn’t it?” He sounds it out. “DSD.” A mock-glare my way. “Dain’s Special Dropbear?”
“You asked for a name. That’s what you get.”
He looks at the dropbear, eating fish. “Dez, then. I’ll call her Dez.”
“You can, but we’ll both know her real name. It’ll be our secret.” I glance at her. “Right, Dain’s Special Dropbear?”
He shakes his head and sits back down, and we keep talking, enjoying this rare time together, with our monster companions.
* * *
Mount Gaetal looms above us.
We are near the foot of the great mountain, and we’ve barely seen a monster. All right, that’s not entirely accurate. Since the khrysomallos and the nekomata, we’ve seen more monsters than we would hiking through Tamarel proper, but they’ve all been the harmless sort. A couple of mountain-dwelling jackalopes, not much bigger than Jacko, yet fully grown, and gray-black to his brown coloring. Some colocolos in the river valley. A few more khrysomallos, who barely lifted their heads as we passed.
It would be immature of me to admit disappointment, wouldn’t it? I’d really hoped for a chance to study new monsters as they dragged my companions away for dinner.
It’s good that we don’t encounter any serious threats. Yes, I did hope for more non-dangerous monster encounters, but at least we aren’t being slowed down by mini-adventures. Yet what truly bothers me is the fact that we aren’t seeing anything except small predators and prey, and very few of those. We shouldn’t even have dared get so close to the great mountain. It should be far too dangerous. Yet it is not, and that is troubling.
If the monsters aren’t here, where are they?
“What has it been like since the Michty dried up?” I ask as we walk along what remains of the river, now nearly twenty feet wide.
Wilmot shrugs. I glance at Dain, who gives the exact same response, though he adds, “I’ve never been here.”
“Neither have I,” Wilmot says. “Not since the river disappeared. The last time I was anywhere close, I was still living inside the castle walls. Jannah was preparing for her trials, and we concocted a mad scheme to sneak up here together. I decided we’d reach the mouth of the Michty and stand at the foot of Mount Gaetal, and after that, her trials would be easy.”
He shakes his head. “We stopped about a half-day back. By then we were both injured. We escaped two pairs of wyverns to find our packs being torn apart by wargs. We snuck away, only to be attacked by a herd of ceffyl-dwrs.”
Wilmot’s eyes warm in a fond smile. “Jannah always joked that after that, her trials did indeed seem easy.”
“So it wasn’t like this fifteen years ago,” I say. “But we don’t know whether it’s been like this since the river went dry.”
“There was no reason to investigate. It’s certainly not what we encountered that summer.”
“Can we get closer to the mountain?” I say. “Is that safe?”
Wilmot just keeps walking, and I think maybe that is my answer, but after a half mile he speaks again.
“I believe we can press on a little,” he says. “It isn’t even midday yet. At worst, we could retreat here before dark and consider a new and safer path.”
Trysten clears his throat. “At the risk of asking a very foolish question, a new path where? I know you’re here to investigate the monster migrations, but where exactly are you heading?”
Silence. Wilmot seems to be considering again, in his slow and careful way, so I decide to begin.
“We aren’t heading any specific place except closer to the mountains,” I say. “To see if we can figure out what’s happening. Maybe a forest fire or other natural disaster sent the monsters fleeing. It could be connected to the river drying up, or it might have nothing to do with that. If we can get this close, yes, I’d like to continue on and see what we find at the mouth of the river.”
I look at Wilmot, who nods. Then I glance at Trysten.
“Is that all right?” I ask. “You joined us to get to safety, not to head deeper into the mountains.”
He assures me it’s fine, and we quicken our pace to see how close we can get to the mountain before nightfall.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I’ve never been this close to mountains. Even when we took Tiera to live with the other gryphons, their aerie had been at the edge of the mountain range, in the foothills. From there, Mount Gaetal had been only a shadowy peak against the horizon. It’s bigger than anything I could have imagined, and it just keeps growing as we walk.
When Wilmot said we’d see how close we could get before sunset, I thought he was…well, being Wilmot. Clearly, we’d reach the base by early afternoon, with plenty of time to retreat before the sun dropped.
Yet after an entire afternoon walking along the Michty River corridor, we still don’t reach it. The mountain just gets bigger and bigger, until I cannot help being just a little bit frightened by the sheer size of it. Frightened and awestruck.
By late afternoon, Wilmot figures we’re still a quarter day’s walk away. He decides we’ll camp here, in the emptiness of the former riverbed, along the banks of the new river.
Doscach doesn’t want to stop. He even tries to get me to ride on his back, as if I’m just too tired to continue.
As the young stallion paces, I watch him while the others prepare for our evening meal.
“Something’s wrong with him,” I say to Wilmot, keeping my voice low so I don’t alarm the others.
“I don’t think wrong is the word. It’s good that you’re learning to pay attention to your monsters. Especially him and Sunniva. She’s a prey animal, and he may be a predator, but he’ll be mistaken for prey. Big prey that could feed anything in the forest for days. They’ll both be on guard even more than Malric.”
Wilmot nods at Sunniva, who’s trying to entice Doscach into a game of chase. “She’s comfortable here.”
“But he’s not.”
“Is that because he senses a problem with our campsite?” Wilmot asks. “Or because he wants to keep going? That’s the question you need to answer.”
“How?” I look around at the others already setting up camp. “You think it’s safe, obviously, or you wouldn’t let us stay.”
He nods at Sunniva. Then he nods at Jacko and Dez, both darting around her hooves, saying they’re ready to play if Doscach isn’t. Finally, he hooks his thumb at Malric, dozing in a patch of late-day sun while occasionally opening one eye to glare at the younger monsters, as if their commotion is keeping him awake.
“They can all tell Doscach is out of sorts,” Wilmot says. “But none of them are concerned. They seem to have decided he just wanted to stop someplace else, maybe with a better pool for bathing.”
I study Doscach and the others.
“Do you sense anything wrong here?” Wilmot asks.
I shake my head. “I think he just wants to press on. I don’t know why, but I don’t see any problem with where we are.”
“If that changes, let me know. Otherwise, let’s try fishing for our dinner. I’m very tired of dry meat.”
* * *
I dream of shadows come to life. Shadows that creep through the camp and snuff out the fire, and no one notices, because whoever was supposed to stand guard is asleep. Everyone’s deeply asleep, because of the darkness and a fog that wends through the camp, a fog that seeps into the lungs and sends us to dreamland.
Sends everyone else to dreamland, that is. I am awake. At least, I am in the dream. Something’s woken me, and I stare up at a sky covered with shadow. That shadow seems to hover right above me. Tendrils of fog still float about, whispering that I should sleep. Yet something deep inside whispers that this is too important to sleep through.
The fire is out, but I’m not cold. My blood scorches through my veins. My clan blood, whispering that this is so important. Then Jannah’s voice at my ear, telling me to get up. Just as I begin to rise, a cold nose presses against the back of my neck.
I give a stifled yelp, and Doscach appears, his damp mane tickling my forehead. The gills on his neck move, as if he’s breathing through them, which he never does outside the water. But this is a dream, and in a dream, nothing needs to make sense.
Doscach lowers onto his front legs, telling me to climb on his back. Because it is a dream, I do. I don’t need to think in a dream, to make decisions, to worry whether I’m doing the right thing. I don’t need to take my sword or put on my clothing or tell anyone what I’m doing. It’s only a dream, and the shadow is gone, stars shining bright overhead. That fog still slithers through the camp, making me sleepy and content, moving as if in a trance.
Only a dream.
When I look around, everyone is asleep. The fire is indeed out, burned down to ashes. Wilmot sleeps beside it, as if he’s collapsed there. Malric snores next to my sleeping blankets. Only Jacko stirs, and I smile at that. Even in a dream, he’s the one I can’t leave behind. He notices I’m on Doscach’s back and jumps up, only to stagger and blink.
I reach down, but he can’t quite make it. He’s dopey and sleep-dazed. I ask Doscach to lower himself again, and he does, and I scoop Jacko into his place. Then we’re off.
Doscach is a creature of the water, happiest there. Yet, unlike many aquatic mammals, he moves just as fast on land, and he stays on the water’s edge, running at full canter toward the mountains. As Jacko chitters on my lap, I pet and soothe him, and I smile up at Mount Gaetal, majestic and beautiful against the night sky.
I almost wish I were awake, to count this among the perfect moments in my life: racing on a ceffyl-dwr’s back, holding my jackalope, hearing the burble of water and the wind sighing in the trees, inhaling the faint smell of campfire. Yet were I awake, it would not be so glorious. I’d be in a panic, seeing that terrible mountain drawing near, my companions left behind, me on Doscach’s back, clad only in my nightclothes with nothing but my dagger, sheathed on my hip. No, this is better as a mere dream.
And then it is not.
I don’t know exactly how I realize I’m awake. I don’t pick up a new smell or see a new sight or hear a new sound. It is as if I’m swaddled in soft hides, blissfully warm and sleepy, and then, slowly, those hides fall away, my mind clearing and the cold night wind slapping me into wakefulness.
I’m not dreaming.
I’m awake.
I am on Doscach’s back.
Running full-tilt toward Mount Gaetal.
Wearing only my thin nightclothes, with my feet bare and nothing but a dagger at my side.
“No!” I say as I jerk upright.
Jacko startles and blinks up at me, as if still half-asleep himself.
I yank on Doscach’s mane. “No! Stop!”
He only runs faster, and this waking dream turns to a nightmare. I am on Doscach’s back, and he is running to Mount Gaetal, and I am trapped, like in the legends where a ceffyl-dwr’s mane binds its victims to its back.
Maybe this is what the legends actually mean—that once you climb on, you cannot get off, because it’s galloping at such a speed that throwing yourself from the monster’s back means certain death.
I’ve been tricked. Like a maiden in a bard’s song, who comes across a beast in the woods and befriends it, only to realize it is an evil creature. Doscach never wanted to be my companion. He only pretended to be until I lowered my guard, and now he’s snatching me away to devour me…
Yet, even in my panic and groggy state, I realize that’s ridiculous. I have never heard any true story of a monster befriending a human as a trick. Why would they? Their needs are simple. If Doscach wanted dinner, there were far easier ways to get it than hanging out with a princess for weeks on end.
I have joked about Malric devouring me in my sleep, but that’s more about me than him—my lack of confidence in his true feelings about me. I have heard of animals turning on their masters and killing them. Never monsters, though; not unless it is a situation like the one those terrible villagers trade in—taking monsters from the wild and selling them as pets. In that case, yes, a monster can be even more dangerous than an animal. It has been enslaved and will kill for its freedom.
That is not what this is. So what is it?
The answer comes as soon as that sleep-fog clears from my brain. Last night, Doscach very clearly wanted us to keep walking. I’d worried he didn’t like the spot we’d chosen, but that hadn’t seemed to be the problem. What I never considered was the other end of the spectrum. He wasn’t warning us against staying in that spot—he wanted us to continue on because there was something farther upriver he wanted us to see.
We’d been so close to his goal, and then we stopped, and his reaction was frustration and annoyance. And now, sleepy and mistaking the moment for a dream, I’d climbed onto his back and he was taking advantage of it.
Fully awake, no matter how much I might have wanted to see what the ceffyl-dwr thought was so important, duty and responsibility would have won out. I have a duty to my guardian—Wilmot—not to go tearing off into the most dangerous part of our world, no matter how curious I might be. I have a duty to my people not to risk my life satisfying that curiosity. Yet even while I think that, I struggle to feel it. I can blame sleepiness, but I think the true blame lies with my blood. My Clan Dacre blood.
Earlier, in that dreamlike state, I’d sworn my blood was catching fire, urging me up, urging me toward something. An unknown something. The urge still beats there, like a second heartbeat, pushing me onward. Prodding me to just see. Just take a look.
This is important, it whispers.
I do try to stop Doscach. I must. I could never face Wilmot otherwise. But we’re moving so fast that I must feel like no more than a gnat on his back. I yank on his mane, and I knock my heels into his sides, and I shout at him to stop. He does not.
And then, just as I am wondering whether I could throw myself free—whether that truly does risk death—Doscach veers…and leaps from a rock. I scream, one arm holding tight around Jacko, the other grabbing as much of Doscach’s sticky mane as I can hold.
