An instant later, he spotted the cats. Storm held his breath. When they weren’t calling to each other, they were astonishingly silent. Storm crouched, tense and breathless, as five of them flowed like water beneath his tree. One cat paused and sniffed suspiciously at a shifting breeze, but then he dropped his nose to the trail and followed his companions. Storm heaved a sigh of relief as they disappeared from view.
The foal worked his way through two more trees, then hopped to the ground. For some time, he continued moving directly away from his original path on a course parallel to the Igby. When he was sure that he had gone far enough to escape any cat trying to intersect his original course, he turned and started trotting toward the river again. For a time, Storm felt safe and pleased with himself.
But it couldn’t last. Soon a group of cats found his new trail and sounded the alarm. Storm performed his trick again and moved away. Once more, the pattern repeated. By the third performance, Storm realized that the cats had discovered his ruse. They seemed to be catching up quicker, not running all the way to the end of his scent trail.
However, Storm smelled water, and he knew the chase was almost over. He abandoned caution and ran. Soon, he caught a glimmer through the trees—sunlight on ice! In the same moment a large, gray creasia dropped out of the sky onto the ground in front of him. Storm dug in his heels and slid to a stop.
“We can climb, too,” growled the cat. Beyond the trees ahead, the tantalizing glimmer still beckoned—so close.
Storm dodged to one side and pounded frantically towards the river. He was a little surprised when the creasia followed more slowly. He had a brief impression of the snowy riverbank, the light dazzling beyond the shade of the trees. In one bound, Storm propelled himself out onto the Igby and landed running. However, the previous day’s rain had not frozen, and the ice was unusually slick. Storm had not skated in many days, and he went sprawling.
The river groaned. Storm’s eyes widened, and suddenly he understood the creasia’s lack of haste. A thousand things that he should have remembered flooded his brain—the mild winter, moving water in the little stream, the fact that no one had gone to the Igby to skate in more than ten days. The ice is thawing. Storm lay flat on his belly, afraid to move. Slowly, he turned his head to look over his shoulder.
The gray creasia had advanced a few lengths onto the ice, but he obviously had no intention of coming farther. A large number of other cats stared at Storm from the bank. If the ice creaked under a foal, it could not possibly support an adult creasia.
Storm allowed himself the leisure of studying their leader without fear of attack. He mustered a confident tone that he did not feel and said, “You must be Sharmel.”
The cat cocked his head. He was dark gray—not Storm’s near-white, but the color of wet beach sand. He had a frosting of white fur around his muzzle. Storm thought he must be older than most of the other cats. There was also something familiar about him. Have we met before? Aloud, Storm continued, “You look tired. Long night?”
The cat gave a brief, surprised chuckle. “Where did you learn that trick with the trees?”
Storm pulled his front feet under him cautiously, testing the ice. “Made it up.”
“I don’t believe that. Who’s been coaching you?”
“Believe whatever you like.” Storm focused his attention on his feet. The river creaked again.
“You’ve chosen an uncomfortable way to die,” observed Sharmel.
Storm paused to squint at him. “You were in that group who chased me the first time, weren’t you? Must be embarrassing to have lost me twice. I am just a foal, after all.”
Sharmel’s ears settled back, and his tail lashed. “You’re going to die gagging for air, scratching at the underside of a frozen river.”
“No,” said Storm. “I don’t think I am.” He’d managed to get all four hooves under him. The river creaked loudly, but held. Storm paused, allowing the ice to settle. Then he began an agonizingly slow journey toward the far shore. At first he tried to walk, but the river growled with every step. At last, he gave up and propelled himself in gentle, sliding motions.
Suddenly a creasia yowl split the breathless silence, and Storm barely checked himself from a headlong plunge. Other cats caught on, and a bedlam of noise erupted from the creasia side of the river. Storm’s instincts screamed at him to flee. His exhaustion, frayed nerves, and lack of sleep made it difficult to think.
He turned back towards the creasia with a snarl and shouted, “Coden! He’s the one who coached me!” He was rewarded with instant silence. “He comes to me in my dreams,” continued Storm, inventing wildly. The consternation on their faces spurred his inspiration. “I am Vearil. I am Storm. I am the cloud before the Volontaro. I am your ill-omen, your bad luck. I am your doom!”
Some of them were actually bristling and backing away. Storm had become so enthusiastic over his performance that he forgot to distribute his weight evenly on the ice. He took several threatening steps towards the creasia, and a terrible snapping noise sent echoes skipping across the river.
Storm whirled and jumped.
Crack! He could feel the ice buckle and shift under his hooves when he landed.
Jump! The section where he’d been standing broke loose and flipped over.
Jump! This time, when he landed, he broke through, but he was only five lengths from the shore. Gasping in the frigid water, Storm managed to get his front hooves over the lip of the ice. His hind feet found the river bottom, and he gave one last surge. Moments later, he lay panting on the bank—wet and trembling, but safe.
* * * *
“Well, I’m glad we let you try a second time, Sharmel,” said Treace at council the next day, “what with the gossip now circulating among the common animals. Coden’s ghost? That was a very productive outing.”
“Storm was making it up,” snapped Sharmel. “The clutter was taunting him, and he taunted back.”
“Of course he was making it up!” laughed Treace, “but I’m not sure the subordinate creasia know that.”
Sharmel wrapped his tail around his haunches defensively. “At least I wounded him. No one else has done better.”
“Or worse,” Halvery snorted. “A buck won’t give you his haunch just because you wound him. This foal got lucky a few times, and you all panic! You’re like cubs on your first hunt!”
“Storm is a foal, true,” said Sharmel quietly, “but he’s not lucky. He’s resourceful, intelligent, and dangerous.”
“Dangerous!” mimicked Halvery. “How many creasia has he killed so far? None. Oh, but of course, he’s also injured…zero. Storm is only a danger to himself. Intelligent ferryshaft do not attack creasia. He’s an impulsive misfit. He probably can’t even attract a mate, what with his size and odd color, so he’s doing this to get some attention.”
“Well,” said Roup brightly, “he’s succeeded.”
Halvery scowled at him.
Sharmel growled. “He used trees, Halvery. How many ferryshaft would even think of that, much less have the skill to do it?”
“Trees...?” Halvery hesitated. “Did you say that he used trees?”
“Yes! Have you ever heard of such a thing?”
“Once...” Halvery shook himself. “I still say that he’s a foolish youngster, taking risks without a plan—certainly not a danger to a competent clutter.”
“Well, now you have your chance to prove it,” said Arcove.
Halvery grinned.
Roup and Sharmel shared a look over his head as the meeting broke up. I do believe one of us is in favor of Storm’s success in this instance, thought Roup.
Chapter 12. Round 4: Halvery
That afternoon, Storm lay sunning himself in his clique’s favorite resting place, trying to banish the last of the river’s cold from his bones. He’d told his story twice—once to his friends and once to his sister. Sauny had met him on the edge of the ferryshaft feeding grounds. She’d listened to every detail with absolute attention.
When he talked about the river, she grinned. “I bet I wouldn’t have broken through. I’m even lighter than you, Storm!”
Storm frowned. And not quite a year old. “Sauny, please don’t try to do what I’m doing. Not yet.”
“Someday?”
Storm hesitated. “Someday. Maybe.”
“Will you teach me to run on the cliffs?”
Storm was surprised. He’d tried to teach his friends about the sheep trails, and they’d always refused. He looked at Sauny—small and fearless and too young to know better. “I’ll think about it. You’ll have to promise to do exactly as I say…and probably not tell your parents.” Dover will try to kill me if he finds out…again.
Sauny capered around him. “Storm, we’re going to kill creasia together!”
Storm laughed nervously. “I can’t kill creasia, Sauny. You stay away from them.”
That afternoon, as he lay in the sunbeam, Tollee came and sat beside him. She didn’t say anything. The air was pleasantly warm and full of the drip, drip, drip of thawing snow and ice. Finally, Storm said, “Tollee, what’s going on with Mylo and Kelsy?”
She shifted uncomfortably, but still said nothing.
Storm laughed. “I think everybody knows, except me. They all talk about me, but nobody talks to me. Not even you, anymore.” Maybe you really do want to be Mylo’s mate.
Tollee sighed. “Kelsy is trying to split the herd, Storm.”
Storm was surprised. He’d expected something more mundane.
Tollee continued. “He wants to take a group of ferryshaft—this summer or next—and circle the lake. There is supposedly grassland on the far side, where no ferryshaft live. He thinks the cats won’t bother us there.”
Storm sat up. “And what do the other ferryshaft say? Why is Mylo angry about it?”
“Apparently, it’s against the creasia’s rules. There is only supposed to be one herd. The creasia choose the leader. Right now, that’s Charder. If we leave, they’ll come and slaughter us. Ordinarily, no one would even consider breaking their rules, but…because of you…ferryshaft are talking. If one foal can defy the cats and get away with it, what could a hundred adults do? Why do we follow their rules and let them kill us if they’re so easily outwitted? The elders say that the hunting parties are only the tiniest part of creasia strength. If a large number of ferryshaft defy them, they’ll come in great numbers and kill us.”
Storm thought for a moment. “Has anyone mentioned someone named Coden?”
“Not that I’ve heard. Who is he?”
Storm shook his head. “Someone who died, someone who fought the cats. I think they feared him.” He hesitated. “Does Mylo side with the elders?”
Tollee snorted. “Mylo says that Kelsy has always had his eye on herd leadership. But Kelsy knows that he can’t lead this herd. The elders follow creasia rules, and only the creasia can decide who leads. When you got away the first time, Kelsy talked a little about fighting the cats, but the adults got so angry that he stopped. Instead, he started talking to the younger ferryshaft about forming a new herd. He can’t have this one, so he’s trying to create another.
“Mylo thinks he’s just using you and your success to capture support and attention. He’s not associating with our clique because he likes us or because he wants to give us status. It’s the other way around. We—you, especially—are giving him status and leverage with the younger adults. Kelsy is very popular and one of the best fighters in the herd, but no one would listen to him about leaving if you weren’t having such success. If the herd elders are right, he stands to get a lot of young ferryshaft killed.”
Storm considered this. “What do you think?”
Tollee was silent for a long moment. “Ferryshaft are talking about things that haven’t been discussed openly in our lifetimes. I didn’t know there was a rule about only one herd. I didn’t know that the creasia chose our leader. I didn’t understand that the creasia rules are part of a treaty. I didn’t know that, if we break the treaty, we could be at war with the cats. I didn’t know we’d lost a war. I think it’s important to know those things.”
“What do you think about Kelsy and the idea of leaving the herd? Would you go?”
Tollee hesitated. “Would you?”
“Of course!” It’s probably the only way I could have you…if Mylo stayed behind.
Tollee took a deep breath. “We’re talking about most of the four to eight-year-olds in the herd, Storm. If you encourage them, and if you’re wrong… Think about it.”
“I have thought about it.”
Tollee stood up and started away. “Says the person who’s never lost anyone.”
Storm felt a little angry. “You’d fight if it came to that.” You’d fight for me…wouldn’t you?
Tollee turned. She started to say something, then stopped. At last, she said, “Get Kelsy to teach you how to fight. He’s better at it than I am.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” But Storm had a sinking feeling. Somehow, although he’d won the race against Sharmel, he’d lost his friend.
* * * *
Storm knew by the next day that he had lost his clique, too. No one would admit it. Mylo claimed that the clique had simply broken up. He would be five years old that spring and fully capable of defending Tollee on his own, given her willing assistance. Callaris and Valla were in a similar position. Leep and Tracer had both paired off with their prospective mates. They would be four years old and could make the transition to adulthood with a modicum of luck and cooperation. Tarsis had surprised everyone by fighting, and beating, the leader of another young clique and thereby advancing himself into a secure position.
Only Storm was left, at three years of age, to fend for himself. Tracer and Leep both invited him to hunt with them “from time to time,” but no one told him where they were sleeping, and no one returned to the clique’s old haunt. Storm could hardly blame them—a group of social misfits, caught suddenly and frighteningly in the midst of major herd politics. Rather than appear to sanction Kelsy’s actions or to argue with him, they simply disbanded and attempted to get out of sight.
Still, Storm felt betrayed and rejected. Never had he imagined that success could feel so lonely. He wondered whether another clique would take him. Many probably wanted to, but he wasn’t sure any would dare. He had a few things he wanted to say to Kelsy, but he never got the chance before the creasia attacked again.
They came in a typical raid pattern early one morning when most of the herd was grazing on the edge of the plain. Storm was deep in the boulder mazes when the raid began, and although he heard the screams, it took him some moments to reach the plain. When he arrived, the cats had separated a small group of ferryshaft—only three animals—from the herd and were pacing around them, waiting.
Storm felt reckless, and he strolled out of the boulders into the space between the herd and the cats without so much as a pause to identify their leader. “I expected you two days ago,” he called. “Were you waiting to kill the newborn foals? Maybe you could catch them.”
A dark brown creasia answered. He was a handsome animal with black points, though he had a curiously short tail. “The creasia kill when and where they please, foal.”
“I have a name,” snapped Storm.
“No one will remember it after today.”
“On the contrary, I think that you will recall it vividly tomorrow.” Storm spun away towards the boulders, expecting the cats to follow. However, as he clattered into the rocks, he heard the unmistakable scream of a mortally injured ferryshaft, cut horribly short. It was joined briefly, by snarls, the sounds of a struggle, and another desperate cry. He realized, with a jolt, that the creasia leader had stayed to kill the selected ferryshaft. And I can do nothing about it. Some herd protector I am!
For a moment, his stride wavered, but then he picked up his feet again. No, I can do one thing. The creasia’s decision to sacrifice a few moments killing ferryshaft had been an act of calculated arrogance. Storm felt
a flame of anger. Are you so confident that you can afford to give me a head start? Well. Let us see what I can do with it.
Storm suspected that the creasia leader would have posted cats near the major cliff trails to ambush him. There was no point in heading in that direction anytime soon. The plain, however, was recently free of snow, the grass still short, and the damp ground crisscrossed with the short-lived streams of spring snowmelt. It would provide any number of ways to confuse a scent trail. Storm angled in that direction, running south towards the river.
As he reached the edge of the plain, he glimpsed curb tracks in the soggy ground. Their trail ran in the same direction as his own. An idea blossomed in Storm’s head. He slowed and spent a few precious moments finding the curb trail again. The tracks were definitely fresh.
Storm raised his head and looked out across the plain. He could not see the curbs, but that did not mean they were not close. Storm’s explorations had taught him that curb tracks would generally be found in the troughs, where the curbs could stay out of sight of potential prey. He knew the dips in this area well, and had a pretty good idea of where the curbs must be.
Storm considered. He thought back to the time when he’d been attacked by curbs. Tollee saved me. I was trying to save her. The curbs were small compared to a creasia, but they were fierce, especially when they came in numbers.
The flame of anger still burned hot in Storm’s chest. It mingled with the pain and frustration that he felt over his friends’ recent rejection. He felt a little numb.
Methodically, ignoring the approaching yowls of cats, Storm began to follow the curbs’ trail. His plan, he reflected, would be every bit as arrogant as the creasia’s behavior and probably quite foolish. However, if it didn’t work, he would only die.
* * * *
Eyal looked over his pack once more before settling down in the short grass. He was a new leader, still wondering whether he’d made a mistake by volunteering for the long patrols. It was a position of unparalleled freedom and responsibility, so far from his queen in the Southern Mountains.
Hunters Unlucky Page 18
