Spirit Animals Book 1: Wild Born

by Brandon Mull

  “You’ve got assets,” Barlow admitted. “But they aren’t all they once were. You kids need time to grow, and so do they. You’d have to see Arax to grasp it.”

  “We’ll search for Arax with or without you,” Tarik said. “Without you I dislike our chances, but we’ll still try. Conor saw you in a vision for a reason.”

  Essix flew to perch on Barlow’s shoulder. Jhi rose up on her hind legs with surprising grace. Briggan drew near, bit the leg of Barlow’s trousers, and tugged.

  Barlow sighed, his posture slumping. He spoke slowly, his eyes on the animals. “I always knew that green cloak would come back to haunt me. I spent years in places no living man has visited before or since, but deep down, in my bones, I knew that sooner or later, that cloak would find me.”

  Monte glanced at his friend. “Is that how it is?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Barlow said. “We better dig our gear out of storage.”

  14 RAVENS

  GROWING UP, MEILIN HAD TOURED MUCH OF ZHONG. SHE had visited the Wall in the north, the east, the west, the south, and countless points in between. Thousands of miles long, the Wall enclosed much. But she had never traveled beyond it. She had never explored wild country.

  In the weeks journeying with Monte and Barlow, the landscape had steadily become more impressive. What started as prairie grew into hills and high ridges, and finally erupted into mighty mountains. Sharp stone cliffs clawed at the sky, and towering waterfalls fell toward deep gorges. The lower lands were thickly forested, and Meilin caught the sparkle of lakes in the distance, underneath peaks capped in snow. Inside the wall, Zhong’s charm consisted mostly of order imposed on the natural terrain. Meilin had witnessed grand feats of architecture — temples, museums, palaces, cities. She had seen elaborate parks and gardens. She knew how water could be channeled to irrigate fields or held in reserve by ingenious dams. She had traveled on wide roads and over glorious bridges.

  The splendor here was different. Untamed, unaltered, unmanaged, this beauty surpassed anything she had seen in Zhong. What building could compare to these mountains? What canal could measure up against these unruly rivers and cascades?

  Meilin did not voice her wonder. She was not particularly close to any of her companions, and could not help feeling that to praise the magnificence of this wilderness would somehow diminish her and her homeland.

  In spite of the remarkable sights, the trek felt long and lonely. Meilin lacked many comforts she had always enjoyed, and missed the familiarity of her family and attendants. Unwilling to get to know her companions through conversation, she relied on observation. Of anyone in the group, she admired Tarik most. He said little beyond what was needful, and had a competent bearing that reminded Meilin of her father’s best soldiers.

  Monte talked ten times more than necessary. Full of jokes, stories, and idle prattle, he spoke with anyone who would listen. Barlow didn’t seem to mind — in fact he made an effort to ride near his friend, chuckling as Monte yammered about nonsense and memories.

  Conor spent a lot of time with Briggan. It went beyond talking and petting — he seemed to have no fear of looking ridiculous or of insulting his spirit animal with horseplay. He threw sticks for the wolf to fetch, and ran around playing tag. They even splashed in creeks together. She had to admit that as a result, their relationship seemed to grow warmer. The connection between Rollan and his falcon was much more distant, and Essix stayed aloft much of the time.

  Meilin had tried to communicate with Jhi. The day after Jhi rescued her, Meilin had felt very grateful. But their relationship had soon fallen back into the same old rhythms. Jhi was just so docile. The panda liked to play sedately on her own, but showed little interest when Meilin tried to initiate simple games of fetch or catch. Jhi listened whenever Meilin spoke, but offered little reaction. While the group was on the move, Jhi clearly preferred her dormant state, so that was where Meilin kept her.

  Only one sleepwalking episode had occurred so far while on the trail with Monte and Barlow. Meilin had woken alone in the dark woods. Jhi had appeared before panic could fully set in, and led her back to the others. The walk had taken more than twenty minutes.

  That had happened several days ago. Though Monte claimed they were getting closer to Arax, they still hadn’t found any evidence of the ram. This morning they had crossed a wide valley and now they were making their way up a forested slope with little undergrowth. Barlow and Monte rode in the lead. Meilin came behind them, ahead of the boys. Tarik had the rear.

  As usual, Monte chattered to Barlow. “Remember that forest on the northern slopes of the Gray Mountains? It was like this one — so much space between the trees, you could practically ride at a gallop. And we found that abandoned outpost.”

  “Almost abandoned,” Barlow clarified.

  Monte pointed at him. “Exactly! That one guy was living there all alone. How many pigs did he have? Like a hundred! He was eating bacon for breakfast, pork for lunch, and ham for dinner. And he wouldn’t trade one for anything! What a boar, turning his snout up at us so he could hog them all. I wonder if he’s still —”

  As Essix let out a cry of warning, Barlow reined in his horse and lifted a hand. Monte sat up in his saddle and looked around.

  Barlow raised his voice. “We don’t want any trouble! We’re passing onward to the high country.”

  In all directions, as far as Meilin could see, men came into view through the trees. One moment nobody was around them, and the next, there were dozens. Armed with spears and bows, they stalked forward together, moving intently, as if approaching dangerous prey. They wore leather about their loins and had capes of black feathers. Some had painted their faces in black and white. A few wore wooden masks.

  Meilin’s heart pounded, and she squeezed her reins tightly. How had so many warriors managed to encircle them? She tried to stay calm, tried to remind herself that battles were won with the mind. The Amayans had a huge tactical advantage. Meilin guessed there were seventy warriors, with possibly more still out of sight, closing in from all directions. None were mounted, but many had arrows at the ready. Even if Meilin’s group tried to ride through them, there was no way to escape unscathed.

  Three warriors broke from their pack to address Barlow. The man in the middle touched his fist to his chest. “I am Derawat.”

  Barlow mimicked the gesture. “Barlow.”

  “These lands are under the protection of the Ravens. You have no place here.”

  “We seek no place here,” Barlow replied. “We will not remain and will take nothing. We are going to the high country.”

  “We saw you coming from afar.”

  Barlow nodded. “We were not hiding. We mean no harm.”

  “You will surrender to us, so that we may judge you,” Derawat said.

  In an instant, a huge grizzly bear appeared beside Barlow, a shaggy brute with a hump on his shoulders. The Ravens retreated several paces, weapons clutched warily. The bear reared up to an imposing height, and Meilin felt a pang of jealousy when she considered how Jhi compared.

  “We will not surrender,” Barlow said sternly. “We are free people going abroad. We have done you no harm. If you insist on trouble, we insist on trial by combat.”

  The three leaders of the Amayan group conferred. Derawat announced the verdict. “You will choose a champion, as will we. You will compete in our way. If you win, you may pass. If you lose, you are ours.”

  “Agreed,” Barlow said. With a burst of light, his grizzly vanished.

  A group of Ravens broke off to form an escort. Tarik rode forward to confer with Barlow.

  “How will this work?” Tarik asked.

  “If we lose, we belong to them. They can enslave us or kill us as they choose.”

  Everyone considered that in silence for a moment.

  “What is the competition?” Tarik asked.

  “D
epends on the tribe,” Barlow replied, eyeing the Amayan warriors. “Some prefer single combat between humans. Others want spirit animals to fight. Some contests are to the death, others to submission. I’ve never dealt with the Ravens before.”

  “Sour luck,” Monte grumbled. “Many Amayan tribes are peaceful and fair-minded, even generous. We planned our route to avoid the most dangerous ones and only touched the fringe of Raven lands. They must have spotted us when we crossed the valley.”

  “Any objection to me handling the fight?” Tarik asked.

  “It’s best to wait before we choose our champion,” Barlow suggested. “They sometimes set strange limits, or use odd weapons. I’m not bad in contests of strength. In a straight brawl between spirit animals, Jools is hard to defeat.”

  “Very well,” Tarik agreed. “We’ll wait.”

  The Amayans led them to a village in a meadow not far off. The dwellings were made of hides supported by wooden frames. Meilin noticed multiple fire pits, but no flames and no smoke. The warriors led the riders to a clearing in the middle of the village.

  Derawat indicated a circular patch of dirt. He walked over to a vat just beyond the circle and dipped his knuckles into black sludge. “Two combatants enter the circle. Spirit animals must be dormant. The first to land ten strikes wins. Hard or soft, ten touches ends the contest. I will fight for the Ravens. Name your champion.”

  Meilin watched with wide eyes as Barlow, Monte, and Tarik leaned together to confer. Should she intervene? Derawat looked quick and wiry, perfect for the type of competition he had described.

  “This is a matter of speed and precision,” Barlow said. “Not my strong suit.”

  “I bet I could do it,” Monte said.

  “Let me,” Tarik said. “Even without Lumeo’s help, I have experience with close combat, often with sharp weapons, so I’m used to avoiding blows. I’m quick with a long reach.”

  “Okay with me,” Barlow said.

  “I’ll face him,” Meilin announced.

  The three men looked so taken aback that Meilin tried not to feel insulted. They had never seen what she could do.

  “He’s a large opponent,” Tarik began, trying to be polite.

  “I wouldn’t offer if this contest weren’t made for me,” Meilin said. “I’ve been schooled in Zhongese combat arts my whole life. It’s my specialty. If any of you attempt this, the outcome is far less certain.”

  Her companions looked at each other awkwardly. Tarik folded his arms and squinted.

  “An answer?” Derawat asked.

  “One moment,” Barlow replied. Turning back, he said, “Absolutely not. She’s too young.”

  “I’ll do it before Meilin!” Rollan broke in. “At least I’ve been in some scrapes before.”

  “Meilin,” Tarik said gently, “you may be right, but we haven’t had the chance to assess your talents.”

  “I could show you, but I would rather surprise him,” Meilin said. “Trust me.”

  There came a cry from above, and Essix dove down to land on Meilin’s shoulder. Meilin tensed. She’d never had contact with the falcon.

  “Essix votes for Meilin,” Rollan said, his voice stunned.

  Meilin watched the falcon soar away, hardly able to believe Essix had endorsed her. How did the falcon know about her skills? She hadn’t even realized the bird had been aware of their discussion.

  Tarik gave a curt nod. “I won’t argue with that. Win our freedom, Meilin.”

  “You sure the bird wasn’t voting against her?” Barlow mumbled.

  “I agree with Rollan’s interpretation,” Tarik stated firmly.

  Barlow walked over to Derawat. “Our champion is Meilin.” He stepped aside, extending a hand to introduce her.

  Meilin came forward, and Derawat recoiled. “Is this your trick to avoid the competition? Only the lowest coward would hide behind a child.”

  Barlow glanced back at Tarik, who nodded. “She’s our champion,” Barlow said, his voice betraying his uncertainty. “We’re not hiding. Defeat her if you can.”

  Derawat’s eyes blazed. “This is an insult! You claim the least of you can match the best of us! I will not show mercy. You must honor the outcome the same as if I faced a grown opponent!”

  “Win or lose, we abide by your rules,” Barlow growled. “Ten strikes only. Meilin is our champion.”

  “There is no honor in this,” Derawat spat. “Afterward, you will suffer double for this offense.”

  Barlow kept silent, but cast a meaningful glance at Meilin.

  After Derawat’s cape was removed, he stormed over to the vat and dipped his knuckles in the sludge again. Meilin followed him and did likewise. It was neither warm nor cool, and had a thick, greasy feel.

  The rest of the Ravens gathered to watch in silence, more than two hundred strong — old and young, male and female. Meilin hoped she was right about her chances. She had no way to gauge the skill of her opponent. What if he had hands like Master Chu? She would lose in two heartbeats.

  This was obviously a contest these people practiced frequently. Derawat had the right build and acted confident. His reach would give him an advantage, as would his greater strength. If he connected solidly, she would go down, and he would rain blows on her.

  Derawat led Meilin into the circle. He looked down at her fiercely. “Any strike to the arm below the elbow does not count,” he said, indicating his forearms. “Anyplace else is a hit. If you step out of the circle, you lose. No second chance. Ten strikes. Mohayli will count.”

  “I’ll be counting too,” Barlow put in.

  “Questions?” Derawat asked Meilin. “I will still let you choose another champion.”

  Meilin sized him up. They weren’t allowed to use spirit animals in this fight, otherwise she would have let Tarik take her place. The way he could jump and move with Lumeo was unreal. But without help from the beasts, she felt certain that if Derawat could defeat her, he could easily beat any of the others. She had to win. For the mission, for personal honor, for her life.

  “No questions,” she said.

  Derawat’s lips tightened and he backed away to crouch into a fighting stance. “Mohayli will start us.”

  Meilin shook her arms and legs, trying to loosen up. What if the masters she had trained with had all gone easy on her? She knew they often held back, but what if it was more than she realized? What if she was about to be humiliated?

  No! Such doubts were poison. She had to keep her head.

  A short Raven held up a hand, then dropped it, shouting, “Go!”

  “You can do it, Meilin!” Conor called.

  She appreciated the sentiment, but would have preferred no distraction.

  Derawat danced lightly toward her, lean muscles rippling. She held still, fists ready, stance balanced. He made a couple of fake attacks, but she didn’t flinch. Drawing near, he tried to coax her into attacking, but she resisted. First she wanted to determine his quickness.

  Growing impatient, he finally took a true swing at her. She dodged it, sliding away from him. He attacked with more vigor, swinging multiple times and forcing her to spin and duck to avoid getting touched.

  He was quick. There would be no room for error. She let him back her toward the edge of the circle, positioning herself so that a well-placed punch would push her out.

  Derawat took the bait, and Meilin gave him a taste of her actual abilities. Instead of dodging away, she ducked toward him, slipping under his punch and striking the side and back of his thigh three times, left-right-left, then skipping away before he could retaliate.

  “Three,” Mohayli called in a surprised tone, holding up three fingers.

  Meilin heard Conor and Rollan laughing with delight, but she tried not to savor the small success. She had to stay in the moment.

  Derawat looked down at his leg. She had hit him in
three distinct places, to ensure the marks from the sludge would be easily distinguished. He gazed at her with new respect, and no longer stepped quite so smoothly. Meilin knew what spots on the thigh would provide maximum discomfort, and she had hit her targets.

  Derawat drew near with real caution, his guard up, ready to dart forward or back. It would have been easier if he had remained overconfident.

  He attacked suddenly. Twice Meilin felt the breeze from his fist before she blocked the third swing and almost tagged him in the ribs with a counterpunch. He hopped away, hands raised protectively.

  His next attacks were more measured, almost hesitant, and he stayed ready to defend himself. Meilin realized she would have to take the offensive. She showed him three subtle feints, and he committed hard to defend the third. Then she slid close and delivered a flurry of sharp blows — stomach, stomach, thigh, side, block, stomach, block, block, knee. She somersaulted away and scrambled to the far side of the circle.

  “Five for Meilin,” Mohayli said.

  “Six,” Derawat corrected, wincing. The blow to his knee had been ruthless, and her blocks had hammered the weak parts of his wrists. He was much stronger, but she knew how to focus her blows, and precisely where to land them.

  As he tried to walk off his knee injury, Derawat looked at Meilin in disbelief. She returned his gaze gravely. Any gloating would dishonor him and fuel resentment. She ignored the onlookers outside the circle and stayed near the edge as Derawat claimed the center. He shook his head and waved her toward him.

  With her hands down, Meilin walked slowly toward him. When he tried a sneaky punch, she avoided it and struck him twice below the ribs.

  “Two,” Mohayli announced. “That makes eleven for the girl.”

  As Meilin backed away, Derawat acknowledged her with a nod. She returned it politely.

  Tarik, Barlow, Monte, Rollan, and Conor gathered around Meilin, barely restraining their excitement, showering her with astonished praise. The compliments made her glow inside. Only her trainers had ever seen her fighting skills, and they had never praised her like this — like it really mattered.