by J. C. Staudt
With food in such short supply and Lizneth’s belly swelling like a bittermelon these past weeks, she had been forced to tell Deequol she was pregnant. He’d sworn he wasn’t disappointed in her; after all, lecuzhehn who bore litters without a lifelong mate were no rare thing in ikzhe society. But his demeanor toward her had been different since then; colder, somehow.
She had spent as much time as she dared with Raial and Thrin and Nawk at first, but that had ended a few days in when Rotabak discovered who she was. He had been close to kicking her out of the stronghold until she’d told him she wanted to go. That had made it seem like less of a punishment. Rotabak had remembered Sniverlik branding her a calai-thaligheh and decided that since she liked the hu-mans so much, he would never let her go to them. In the end, all he’d done was put a stop to her visits with her siblings—except Deequol, who had insisted on being allowed to help her with her chores.
Less than two weeks into the calai siege, the food ran out. Soon Marauders were plucking grains of wheat and rice from the dirt on the storeroom floors, tossing them into cauldrons of salty rime water to make thin stews with a flavor Lizneth imagined hu-man sweat must taste like. They began to hunt insects, going so far as to bore holes through the hard earth to find grubs and larvae. Some tried to catch the flies that had descended when the corpses started to rot outside the walls. One Marauder opened the gates against Rotabak’s orders and dragged one of the villagers’ corpses inside. He ate the rotting meat and divvied up the bones for others to gnaw on. For his disobedience, Rotabak had him killed and eaten.
Lizneth had been so hungry she’d taken a portion of the meat and sat behind a supply shed, devouring it ravenously. Poor little Ryn was all skin and bones, so she’d given him a healthy cut and let him chew on the gristle. She’d been ashamed and disgusted with herself afterward. But no sooner had she digested the paltry meal than her shame was forgotten, and she found herself craving more of it, eyeing everyone in the stronghold to figure out who might be the next to die.
Though she herself was thinning out, she caught more than one Marauder ogling her swollen belly as they passed her in the yard. She had heard of such savagery in some segments of ikzhe culture. Certainly it happened among the burrow-kin, she had no doubt. Now that she’d taken part in the practice, she thought maybe it wasn’t so terrible a thing.
Worse than starvation itself was the smell of fire-cooked food, which wafted through the cave whenever the calaihn took their meals. The scents of goat and lamb and desert hare enveloped the stronghold in smoky sweetness, prompting every guard on duty to perk up and scent the air and salivate. It was enough to drive Lizneth mad with hunger.
Talk around the stronghold turned from flippant defiance to despondent pessimism. The same Marauders who’d cursed the calaihn and sworn never to give in now spoke of opening the gates to let them inside. Where once they had vowed to kill any calai who came within range of the walls, the Marauders now wondered why the calaihn didn’t launch a final attack and get it over with. Lizneth thought it was because the hu-mans wanted to force the Marauders to surrender. The less fighting they had to do, the fewer men they’d lose… and the more slaves they’d take.
Some Marauders held out hope for Sniverlik’s coming. The days went by, and there was no sign of him or the armies he’d promised. As discouraged as many became, Rotabak refused to budge. He would die here before he let the calaihn take him to slave, he often said.
Then one day Rotabak came to Lizneth while she sat in the outfitting chamber, mending clothes with a needle and thread. She gasped in surprise when he grabbed her by the scalp and wrenched her head back. Ryn began to bark and yip at him, but Rotabak growled at the pup to send him fleeing beneath the table with a whimper.
“Your sister’s time is close,” he said, “and yours will come soon after. Since Sniverlik isn’t here to punish you and your family for your treasons as promised, I’m going to do it.” Rotabak’s grin was wild with hunger, his lazy eye quivering.
Lizneth was long past the point of hunger pains, but she felt her stomach tightening all the same. She kept silent, wincing as his claws dug into her head-fur.
“Your every right is forfeit to the Marauders,” Rotabak went on. “Because of your disloyalty and deception, your sister’s newbirths are to be fattened up and offered to my keguzpikhehn for a meal when they’re born. After we’ve eaten her young and picked our teeth with their bones, you will tell her this punishment was your doing.”
Lizneth wanted to scream. She held her tongue as Rotabak leaned in close, mouth watering, and whispered, “Your litter will suffer the same fate, in its time. See that you take an extra helping the next time we have a meal. I’ll make sure the cooks give you no trouble about it. I want you strong and healthy when you give birth. And if you even think about defying me, I’ll have that runt of a jackal skinned and spitted before you can blink.”
Lizneth felt herself breaking. The same part of her that had been stretched to its limits aboard Curznack’s Halcyon was not so durable anymore. Her body had grown frail and brittle, and with it the foundations of her sanity. Beneath the thin black cloak she was mending, her fingers found the dagger at her hip. Her hand wrapped around the hilt, sure and steady despite the feebleness of hunger. If she could take it out, she could reach backward and stab Rotabak in the gut…
He’ll notice, she thought. He’ll see. Before I can draw the dagger from its sheath, he’ll suspect it. He’ll be ready for it. The idea was no good, she knew. She’d have to come up with another plan—a more carefully thought-out plan, and one she could execute with minimal help. Somehow, she already knew what that plan had to be.
That was why, after everyone had gone to sleep that night, and the stronghold’s many doors and passages were guarded only by a skeleton crew of tired, starving Marauders, she donned her cloak, lifted the black hood over her head, and circled the yard until she reached the narrow strip of saltrock between the keep and the rear wall of the cave. She had tried to make Ryn stay in the common room and wait for her return, but her faithful pet would hear none of it. When Lizneth dug in and began to climb, Ryn started whining. She had to shush him several times before he finally quit.
That done, she turned her concentration back to the climb, picking out each grip and foothold with careful precision. The first time her protrusive belly scraped the sharp edge of a saltrock stone, she cringed and nearly let go at the thought of splitting open like a sack of grain and spilling out all over the sidewall. She would’ve worn her armor, except it didn’t fit her anymore; it was too loose around the shoulders and too restrictive in front. All she could do was hang on tight while the blood trickled down and the stain spread over the waistband of her chinos.
Her arms were shaking by the time she reached the windowsill above the stronghold’s rear staircase and clambered inside. She lowered herself down and made a soft landing on the closest stair, falling to a crouch and staying there for several seconds to scent and listen. The guards at the bottom might scent her if she stayed too long, so she scampered up the steps and ducked into the upstairs passage.
Sniverlik’s bedchamber was located at the rear of the stronghold. She’d kept an eye on the hallway during her many trips between the mess hall and the outer yard, bringing bowls of watery stew to the guards on the ramparts. Then one day she had overheard two Marauders joking about how Rotabak’s head was getting so big he’d likely move into the back chambers if Sniverlik didn’t return soon.
Under normal circumstances Lizneth never would’ve dared enter here. It was too risky, even without Sniverlik around. She wouldn’t need to be caught while she was there; her haick would give her away for days after she left the room. It was fortunate that few had reason to come this way in Sniverlik’s absence.
She pushed on the heavy door until it creaked open, bringing into view a room larger and messier than she had expected to find. Sniverlik’s sleeping nest was ample and thickly bedded, though the straw was damp and rotten with age
. Beside the massive hearth—the only part of the room made of real stone instead of saltrock—sat a small desk and a short bench seat, both made of rough-hewn ironwood. The dribbly stubs of a dozen candles lay strewn behind the desk, while discarded bones littered the corners of the room, and a handful of forged iron symbols hung from the walls. An overturned bucket, empty but smelling of krahz, sat beneath the largest of these symbols, a three-pointed star punctured by several small holes.
Lizneth didn’t know whether this had been Ankhaz’s original bedchamber when the stronghold was built; she assumed Sniverlik had moved into it when he rose to power, just as the Marauders had joked about Rotabak doing now. If the escape tunnels really did exist, there must be an entrance—if not in this room, somewhere nearby.
The hearth was the first place she checked. It didn’t take her long to find the pair of grooves in the floor on which the hearth’s left face slid sideways to reveal a hidden opening. The stone wall was heavy and difficult to push. When she finally got it moving, she cringed at the heavy grinding sound it made.
After the first few inches the stone began to slide more quietly. She peered through the opening to see a tall, roughly ovular saltrock tube snaking away into glowing blue darkness, sloping downward at a steep angle. The tunnel’s air had a wet, fetid smell, and it was so thick with humidity it was hard to breathe.
Her heart leapt at the discovery. It was the first stroke of good fate she’d encountered in as long as she could remember. She pulled the stone panel shut and retreated from the bedchamber, closing the door behind her. Now she had only the long climb down to worry about before she was back in the yard and out of suspicion’s reach.
Lizneth waited at the top of the stairs, listening. Voices came to her from below, deep and gruff. It’s just the guards telling jokes, she told herself. She needed to get to that window before it turned out to be something else. Like Rotabak moving in, the fates forbid it…
The windowsill proved harder to climb up to than it had been to lower herself down from. When she tried to grab hold from the stair beneath, her fingers barely reached. The stronghold’s interior walls were smooth with plaster, unlike the rough saltrock ledges she’d used for handholds and footholds while climbing up the outside. Without the weight and bulk of her belly she might’ve been able to pull herself up, but now it was no use.
“Beh dyagth,” she cursed, too loudly.
The voices at the bottom of the stairs went silent. Lizneth heard the flat, sibilant sound of dry nostrils sniffing the air. Her mind raced; there were two other staircases leading down from the upstairs hallways, but those would both be guarded too. The bench, she realized. Sniverlik’s bench. She could use it to boost herself toward the window, but only if she didn’t get caught first.
Her footfalls rang through the empty stairwell as she scurried to the top. Seconds later she heard the stomp-bang rhythm of spear-wielding Marauders ascending from the foot of the stairs. She opened Sniverlik’s door, slipped inside, and closed it behind her. She couldn’t spare the time or the noise to open the tunnel entrance, so she dove into Sniverlik’s nest and burrowed beneath it, covering herself with handfuls of limp brown straw. No one’s been searching for bugs up here, she thought wryly, feeling her fur crawl. Her every instinct was to scratch at the things skittering over her skin, but the room’s door opened before she got a chance.
The butt of a spear clicked beside the soft thud of footsteps. Again she heard it—sniff-sniff, like two sheets of fabric rubbing together. Lizneth lay on her side, dagger-side up, her cloak bunched behind her. She had no hope of escaping the room without the guard noticing. The best she could hope for was that this damp, rotting straw was enough to mask her haick, and that after a moment of scenting he’d go away.
It wasn’t, and he didn’t.
“Bligg. Zhe ru ghi,” she heard the Marauder say.
He knows I’m here, Lizneth thought with sudden panic. She heard the second guard enter the room, but not the sound of the door closing behind him. That meant it was open—and if it was open, she could run.
She wished with all her heart that the calaihn would choose this moment to attack, or that Sniverlik would make his miraculous late-night return. In either case the alarm would be raised, and every able-bodied Marauder would go rushing to the walls. Even a small disturbance, like Ryn barking too long in the yard, or two drunk Marauders getting into a brawl, might send them running to help—or just to see what all the commotion was about.
Lizneth waited, but no such event took place to save her. She felt one of the guards begin to poke around in the hay with his spear, and knew she dare not make the slightest movement to give herself away. That was when she had an idea. The more she thought about it, the more she realized it was the only idea. The only one she had, and the only one that had any chance of saving her.
She jumped to her feet and shouted at the top of her lungs, waving her arms like some creature of the darkness. Both guards gave a start and pointed their spears toward her. Lizneth broke into laughter, trying to relax and hoping it didn’t sound as forced as it felt. She lowered her hood to show them her face and said, “I’m sorry, I just couldn’t help it. It was too tempting. I got you good, didn’t I?”
“What are you doing up here?” said Bligg, tightening his grip on his spear.
“Go easy,” Lizneth said, sobering. “I miss my Sniverlik. I miss him so much I just had to come up here and see if there was any of his haick left. I wasn’t trying to make trouble. I fell asleep under the hay. Then I heard you coming, and I thought I’d play a trick. Don’t be angry with me.”
“No one is allowed in here, except by the brood-father’s leave,” said the other guard.
“Then why did you come in? I suppose you’d like me to tell Sniverlik about you barging in on me, is that right? I’ll have you know you nicked me with that thing when you were poking around in the hay.” She wrapped tender arms around her belly, making sure they could see the cut she’d gotten climbing. “If that’s really what you want, I’ll see that he hears about you trying to run me through with your clumsy probing when he returns. I’m sure he’ll be happy to know what almost happened to his babies, and who was responsible for it.”
The guards exchanged a glance. “No, don’t do that,” said Bligg. “We didn’t mean to disturb you. We were told no one was allowed in this part of the stronghold.”
“By whom… Rotabak? That feeble-minded ingrate is just waiting for something horrible to happen to my Sniverlik.”
“Rotabak is no brood-father,” said Bligg, “but Sniverlik left him in charge, so we must follow his orders. You should go now… what was your name?”
“Pryxe,” Lizneth said.
“Pryxe. I’m sure we can put this misunderstanding behind us, can’t we?” When Bligg grinned, a false tooth gleamed in his gums.
Lizneth didn’t like the way he was smiling. It made her nervous. “Just as long as it doesn’t happen again,” she said, feeling her composure falter.
“Right. Get on with you, then.” Bligg stepped aside to let her pass.
When she walked by him, she heard that dry sound again, softer this time. He was sniffing her; making sure he got a good strong scent. This can’t wait any longer, Lizneth thought. He knows I’m bluffing. Or if he doesn’t know, he suspects it.
She hurried down the steps and made for the nursery, a big cluster of rooms where nestlings and expectant dams all lived together and took care of one another. A guard sat slouched and snoring in a chair outside the double-hung door. The door’s top half was open, so Lizneth opened the bottom half and slipped inside.
First she found Nawk in one of the nesting rooms, a tiny box she shared with three other pregnant females. Lizneth clamped a hand over Nawk’s snout and woke her gently. “Nawk, we’ve got to leave here. Tonight.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Sh-h-h.” Lizneth leaned in and whispered into Nawk’s ear. “We have to go. Rotabak told me today he’s going
to feed your newbirths to the Marauders. He said he’s going to do the same thing to mine.”
“That’s impossible. He would never…”
“We’re starving, Nawk. And I’m… I’m a traitor to Sniverlik.”
Nawk winced as if in pain. “What?”
“I helped the calaihn. Sniverlik and Rotabak have branded me a traitor and threatened to punish our family for it. I thought you should hear it from me.”
“What have you done, Lizneth?”
“There isn’t time for that. I’ll tell you later… when we’re out of here and safe in the tunnels.”
“What tunnels? Lizneth, you’re sounding like a quinzhe right now.”
“I know, I know. You have to trust me. Can you do that for me? Please?”
Nawk’s jaw unhinged in a massive yawn. She rubbed her eyes and stretched. “Are you sure you didn’t have a bad dream?”
Lizneth grabbed Nawk’s tail and squeezed it in her palm. “Wake up, Nawk. It wasn’t a dream. Now please… come with me.”
One of the other dams in the nesting box shifted in her sleep.
Nawk frowned, pried her tail loose from Lizneth’s hand, and labored to her feet. She put her hands on the small of her back and stretched. She was thin, her bulbous belly larger than Lizneth’s. “Okay. Alright. I’ll come. Where are we going?”
Lizneth’s heart surged, and she nearly squeaked with gladness. “Yes, yes. We just have to get Raial and Thrin and then we can go.”
“What about Deequol?”
Lizneth had left Deequol out of her plans for one very important reason: he would’ve tried to stop her. There was no convincing him to come along; he would’ve refused and then reported her to Rotabak for what he thought was her own good. “Deequol isn’t coming,” Lizneth said. “He feels his duty is here, with the Marauders.”
“That skunk,” said Nawk. “Let me speak with him. I’m sure I can—”
