The Only

by Katherine Applegate; Michael Grant

  Rorid eased off close to the fight and let loose a raucous screech. I heard the defiance, the courage, and the confidence in it. No one needed to speak Raptidon to know that Rorid had ordered the attack to begin.

  Raptidons dived, then leveled, sailing as smoothly as ships on a breeze. The first V formation led the way, and at the point of that V was Dothram, with Tobble and his raggler.

  Woad’s embattled men heard and looked up, mouths dropping open in astonishment. Above them more than five hundred raptidons bore down, dark silhouettes appearing out of the morning sun.

  I saw the Kazar’s archers bend their bows, leaning back to target us, and my heart quickened. They squinted against the nearly horizontal light.

  Arrows flew, black darts rising skyward toward the raptidons. Perhaps a hundred arrows in all were launched, but many fell short, and others, slowed by distance, were easy to avoid.

  One arrow, however, found its target. It buried itself deep in an aged vulture’s wing and he tumbled from the sky, twirling downward. The wobbyk in his talons landed on the upthrusted point of a spear. I couldn’t tell what happened to the raggler he must have been carrying.

  I gasped at the sickening sight, knowing how much it would discourage the wobbyks.

  But I’d forgotten the wobbyk temperament.

  It did not discourage them. It enraged them.

  As the raptidons moved low over the Dreylander army, wobbyks tossed their ragglers down into the Dreyland shield wall.

  I knew that the ragglers were poisonous to most species, but I hadn’t understood how their poison worked. As their spikes buried themselves in exposed shoulders and backs, or even on curious upturned faces, I saw why the ragglers were so fearless.

  The poison worked swiftly and mercilessly. In just a few seconds, anyone who felt the prick of a raggler spike fell to the ground, writhing and gasping for air.

  The Dreylanders were here to burn and kill and destroy. I should have been happy to see them fall. But I couldn’t take any pleasure from their suffering.

  The raptidons swooped overhead again, and this time they released wobbyks—defiant, fierce wobbyks—just a few feet over the heads of the Dreylanders.

  The shield wall, depleted by raggler poisoning, broke and fell back in disarray, into the mass of troops being ripped and scratched and chewed by infuriated wobbyks.

  With a great roar, Woad’s warriors picked up their shields and advanced in an orderly line, pushing into the broken shield wall, stabbing with spears and swords, hammering with axes and maces.

  But the Dreylanders still had greater numbers. And they were well-trained, professional soldiers. They retreated to form a defensive circle around their general.

  Worst of all, they had four terramants. Our ragglers would no doubt be useless against them, given the thick carapace covering most of the huge insects’ bodies.

  Rorid uttered another throaty cry. Rising from the ground, just beyond the village, came a cloud of smaller birds: gulls, ravens, jays, starlings, even little sparrows. They flew fast, tiny wings beating. And to my shock, they went straight for the terramants.

  Terramants remind me of massive beetles. Their natural armor shrugs off arrows, spears, and swords. But they have two weak points. One is their underbelly, which is only lightly protected, but nearly impossible to reach.

  The other weakness is their eyes—eyes now covered with swarms of small birds, pecking and scratching with fury. One terramant, head bobbing frantically, raced off to the north, as if determined to head home. The other three tried their best to attack. But it’s hard to attack an enemy when you’re blind.

  “It is time,” Rorid said. “I will take their general. You will shout a warning if I am attacked from behind. Grip your sword tightly, Byx.”

  It wasn’t a request. It was an order.

  We zoomed down out of the sun, Rorid’s wings spread wide, the icy wind in my face.

  The warriors below must have felt the shadow of the lord of raptidons. They looked up and quailed at the sight. Quailed, but didn’t flee.

  The Dreylander general was hemmed in on all sides, but his defenders had left a little room so he could see the action over their heads, a circle of space around the large, armored human.

  “Now!” Rorid cried, and his talons opened.

  I fell, and as I did, I let out a scream that was part fear and part rage.

  I landed on wet ground, rolled to soften the impact, and leapt up, muddy, but with my sword drawn. There he was. The general. Twice my height, with a sword longer than my body.

  He glared down at me, eyes burning, through a slitted visor. Busy looking at me, he failed to realize that Rorid had flown past, pivoting with acrobatic ease to come at him from behind.

  “Kill this . . . this . . . thing!” the general shouted.

  Three warriors advanced on me.

  Rorid struck. His talons seized the general’s helmeted head. I thought he’d pull the helmet off, but I’d underestimated the power of the great raptidon’s talons. Rorid squeezed. His huge nails pierced the steel of the helmet, driving deep into the general’s head.

  “Ahhhhhh!” I cried, and the soldiers advancing on me lost all interest as they spun to attack Rorid.

  “Rorid! Behind you!” I shouted.

  More Dreylander soldiers rushed to the rescue of their chief. The general’s knees buckled. His sword fell from his hand. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of movement. An archer swiftly nocked his arrow and drew. He wasn’t going to miss Rorid, not at this distance.

  I didn’t think. I acted. I threw my sword.

  It wasn’t an expert throw. The point didn’t bury itself in the archer. But the hilt struck him in the arm and he released his arrow, which flew away harmlessly.

  The general fell on his face. Rorid perched on the dead man’s head, wings spread for balance.

  “Your leader lies dead,” Rorid said calmly. “Who wishes to lie beside him?”

  27

  A Felivet Warrior

  Rorid’s question was enough to make the advancing soldiers hesitate.

  The cry went up on all sides: “The general is dead!”

  Any fight left in the Dreylanders evaporated. All around me the Kazar’s invaders threw down their weapons and raised their hands in surrender.

  I stared in stunned disbelief at the carnage. Dead humans. Dead raptidons. Dead wobbyks. Dead ragglers.

  Frantically, I searched for Tobble, but I couldn’t find him anywhere. A sound rose and grew, the noise of many voices moaning, crying, bellowing in pain or grief. The battlefield had a smell, too, an unforgettable stench composed of blood and fear.

  “The day is ours!” Rorid screeched, and from the sky came an answering cry of fierce exultation from hundreds of raptidons.

  He turned his blazing gaze on me. “This is a great triumph for you and your wobbyk compatriots, Ambassador Byx.”

  “A triumph?” I echoed. “It doesn’t feel like a triumph. I was supposed to stop this from happening.”

  “Did you really think you could stop a war without engaging in war yourself?”

  “Khara . . . the Lady of Nedarra seeks peace,” I protested.

  “All good creatures of any species seek peace, Ambassador.” His voice was as gentle as it could be, given the limits of raptidon speech. “And yet war comes. And when it does, there can be only one goal: victory. I suspect the Lady knows this in her heart.”

  Stepping over bodies and shields, I looked for Tobble, as well as for the felivets I’d seen earlier. Apparently, they’d avoided the fighting, perhaps slipping away during the melee. Interesting, I thought. The valtti Kazar had some felivets, but perhaps they weren’t all that interested in dying for him.

  A small figure staggered toward me, covered with blood on his face and fur. Tobble!

  He was dazed and moving slowly, almost sleepwalking. “Tobble,” I cried, “are you hurt?”

  “Hurt? No. No, Byx, I’m not hurt.”

  I’d bee
n through a lot with Tobble. I’d seen his every expression. But the look in his eyes was like nothing I’d ever seen. He didn’t seem to be looking at me, but through me.

  “The blood . . . ,” I said, realizing too late that I was forcing him to explain something he might not want to discuss.

  He touched his face, then looked at his fingers, as if mystified. “It’s not mine,” he said. “It’s not mine. I . . . I killed a man, Byx. I could have stopped, you know. He was defeated and I could have stopped. But I didn’t, Byx. I didn’t stop until he stopped breathing.”

  Tears spilled from his eyes, cutting channels through the blood. I put my arms around him and held him close. He sobbed and soon my tears joined his.

  We’d won.

  I wondered if defeat could feel any worse than victory.

  Woad’s men moved through the dead and wounded, carrying away their injured and ignoring the pitiful pleas of the Kazar’s defeated soldiers. Woad had only one doctor in his company, and she was busy cutting off mangled limbs and sewing up great gashes.

  The injured Dreylanders cried for water, mostly. Others begged for the mercy of a swift death. Some wept for their mothers.

  “Tobble,” I said, “we’ve got to find some waterskins.”

  Tobble was too confused to argue. I took his paw and pulled him along with me toward one of Woad’s wagons. A big man with just one eye and one arm, a veteran of some ancient battle, stood guard.

  “I’m Ambassador Byx,” I said to him. “I need waterskins.”

  “No need.” He pointed to a tap in a big barrel. “Just twist it and drink all you like.”

  “It’s not for me,” I said. I didn’t want to tell him why I needed waterskins. I doubted he would understand.

  “For the wounded, then?”

  “Yes. Some of the Dreylanders are in need—”

  “So you mean the enemy wounded?” he interrupted.

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “My name is Gorand,” said the guard. He patted his stump with his good hand. “I lost this in battle. I lay in agony forever. You have no idea the thirst of a man who’s fought and lost blood.”

  Gorand paused, lost for a moment in memory. “It was a young warrior who found me still alive. Do you know who he was? The very enemy warrior who’d taken my arm with a well-timed backstroke of his sword. He could easily have finished me off. Instead he gave me water.” He shook his head. “I drank it down. No drink since has ever been half as wonderful. When I was done, I asked him why. Why show mercy to a fallen foe?”

  “What did he say?” I asked.

  “He said the greatest mercy is the one you show to your enemy. And I’ve never forgotten. Take all the waterskins you can carry. If anyone challenges you, tell them Gorand sent you.”

  Tobble and I grabbed three heavy waterskins and made our way across the battlefield. We gave water to the hurt, and to the exhausted, and to those overcome with grief. It was an experience I would never wish on anyone.

  I was about to return for more water when I noticed something moving beneath a pile of bodies.

  “Come, Tobble,” I said. “Help me.”

  Together, with great effort, we yanked bloodied bodies clear until, at the bottom, we saw a young felivet with a terrible cut down one flank. Her black fur was striped with deep blue, from head to tail.

  “Friend felivet, are you thirsty?”

  “Friend?” the felivet snarled in what I took to be a female voice. “When have felivets and dogs been friends? Even talking dogs?”

  “I’m a dairne, not a dog,” I said. “My companion and I are both friends with a felivet named Gambler.”

  “Gambler is not a felivet name,” she muttered. She winced with pain and couldn’t stop her pale blue eyes from darting toward the waterskins. But she had the pride of her kind.

  “Gambler’s what we call him,” I said. “But his true name is . . .” I’d only heard it once, and long ago. What was Gambler’s full name?

  Tobble’s memory was better than mine. “He told me his true name is Elios Str’ank, Hadrak the Third, Lonko of the Dread Forest.”

  The felivet blinked. “What did you say?”

  “Elios Str’ank, Hadrak the Third, Lonko of the Dread Forest,” Tobble repeated. “He said there were more names, but that was plenty to start.”

  “Your friend is a Lonko of the Dread Forest?” She said it as if I’d announced that natites could fly.

  “So he tells us,” I said. “And Gambler doesn’t lie.”

  “Although he does tease sometimes,” Tobble added, sounding a little more like himself.

  “I will have some water, if I may,” the felivet said. Tobble sprayed a long stream of water into her rather terrifying mouth. When she was done, she seemed calmer. “I am called Naleese B’del, Lenka of the Urbik River Valley.”

  Tobble and I introduced ourselves.

  “You have been both kind and brave,” Naleese said. “But I must ask still more. First, I need a surgeon to sew up this unfortunate wound. Then I would like to be taken to this Lonko of the Dread Forest. I have a message for him, or any felivet in authority.”

  “Message?”

  “Yes. Two messages, in fact. The first was entrusted to me by the Kazar. It urges all felivets in Nedarra to rise up against the Murdano and welcome the rule of the Kazar.”

  “I don’t think Gambler will like that message,” I said.

  “Nor should he. The Kazar is a monster, a valtti, a traitor to his own people. I was sent with this raid in order to make contact with felivets fool enough to join him. But I carry a very different message, one that does not come from a traitor, but from the oppressed felivets of Dreyland.”

  “And what is that message?” I asked.

  “That,” she replied, “will be for the ears of Elios Str’ank, Hadrak the Third, Lonko of the Dread Forest.”

  28

  Gambler’s Surprise

  Woad’s men returned to the mountains, many bandaged, some trying out crude wooden legs. They were able to confiscate all the weapons of the Dreylanders, as well as their horses and provisions. Woad seemed quite pleased.

  “You arrived in the very nick of time, Ambassador Byx,” he said. “In another ten minutes, we’d have all been dead.”

  “Thanks should go to Lord Rorid and the wobbyk elders,” I said. “Not to mention the ragglers.”

  “And I do indeed thank them. But it was you who brought raptidon, wobbyk, and raggler together.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that, but it was good to hear. Until Woad went on: “All those dead Dreylanders? You deserve much of the credit, my friend.”

  He meant it as a compliment, so I nodded and made polite noises. But my heart dropped like a rock at the thought that he was right.

  Rejoining the Army of Peace meant a long ride, and it was neither easy nor pleasant. I’d had to leave poor Havoc back at Bossyp, and my new pony, a little roan lent to me by one of Woad’s men, was a grumpy sort, given to sudden bucks and indignant snorts. His name was Taboo, but Tobble nicknamed him “Achoo,” because he had a habit of sneezing at odd moments.

  Snow fell, then sleet, then more snow. We followed the Telarno River south, so there was always plenty of water, at least. We’d added a large contingent of raptidons, wobbyks, and ragglers, and I knew Khara would be pleased to see the new recruits. But we were a weary, cold, and hungry group, to say the least.

  Naleese, the felivet, rode in a wagon for the first two days. On the third, she walked part of the day, and by the time we reached our goal, Naleese was almost back to normal. Still, she never gave any hint of the message she carried for Gambler.

  We found the Army of Peace camped at the confluence of the Telarno and its tributary, the River of Reeds, a narrow, slow-moving stream bordered by wetlands and stands of stiff brown cattails.

  Sabito spotted us first. “I am told that no less than Lord Rorid Headcrusher joined you in a terrible fight!” he said, with obvious excitement.

  “Yes. I
n fact, it was Rorid who carried me,” I said.

  “Lord Rorid,” Sabito corrected.

  “He gave me permission to address him simply as ‘Rorid.’ You know, among friends there’s no need for formality.”

  Sabito’s eyes blazed with envy. “You. You and Rorid Headcrusher, friends. You.”

  “Tobble and I are very friendly people, Sabito.”

  He made a sound of disgust. “I can’t believe I missed a chance to fly into battle alongside Lord Rorid Headcrusher. But once I’d spread the word among our people, the Lady ordered me back here.”

  “Did Maxyn sail safely?” I asked.

  “He did. But whether he arrived at his destination, I cannot say.”

  “And Renzo?”

  “Renzo and Gambler returned with two hundred horses. I am told they even paid for them.”

  “Shocking.”

  We were welcomed by one and all, then summoned to Khara’s tent. Tobble and I found Renzo and Gambler there, along with General Varis and Bodick the Blue. How good it was to see them all, weary though we were!

  Khara gave us each a long hug. She asked how we were. And then she got right down to business. “Tell me everything.”

  We did. The telling lasted through lunch and into the afternoon. Finally Khara said, “Fine work. But you haven’t explained the presence of a felivet in your group.”

  “She has a message that she’ll deliver only to you, Gambler,” I said.

  His tail whipped the ground. “Me?”

  “Yes. We told her your name, and she reacted as if you were someone important.”

  Gambler licked one of his huge paws. “As if?”

  I laughed. “You’ve always been important to me.”

  “What name did you give this felivet?”

  I had a mouthful of cider, so Tobble answered for me. “Elios Str’ank, Hadrak the Third, Lonko of the Dread Forest. I remembered it!”

  “Indeed,” Gambler said cautiously. “And her name?”

  “Naleese B’del, Lenka of the Urbik River Valley,” Tobble recited.

  I won’t say that Gambler turned pale. Black fur doesn’t allow for that. But his eyes went wide and his jaw dropped open, which was at once frightening and funny.