Warning Cry

by Kris Humphrey

  If this was the case, it was doubly important to stop Ona from being taken.

  But as she ran behind the guards, Dawn knew that they had no chance of reaching Ona in time. Her only hope was that Ebony would.

  Princess Ona walked swiftly behind Captain Niels through a quadrangle she barely remembered setting foot in before. It was so far away from her own chambers, and so drab-looking. The captain’s dark cloak flapped in the wind. Fallen leaves from the flowerless border shrubs crunched beneath Ona’s silver-stitched shoes. If she had known she would be walking so far, she would have worn something less pretty and more comfortable on her feet.

  She peered up at the grimy windows that overlooked the quadrangle. There barely seemed to be anyone around at all. The smell of horse dung drifted on the wind and Ona screwed up her nose. She glanced behind at the second guard. He was younger than the captain and he looked almost as confused as she felt.

  At the far side of the quadrangle, Captain Niels led them beneath a low archway and into a dim cobbled yard. The smell of dung intensified and Ona reached for one of her perfumed handkerchiefs. One side of the yard was lined with stables, the other was a blank wall, and at the far end there was an open gate through which Ona could see and hear the everyday bustle of the city. In the centre of the yard stood a covered cart with a grocer’s insignia painted on the side. The horse harnessed to it looked healthier than the ones who snorted and shifted nervously in the reeking stalls.

  The captain continued into the yard and Ona became suddenly nervous at being so close to an open gate in the palace wall. She never left the palace without considerable planning – her father simply wouldn’t allow it. The guard at the rear seemed to be having similar reservations.

  “Sir,” he called out. “The princess’s new quarters are that way. The king said…”

  Captain Niels turned, his eyes narrowing as he strode towards the guard. Ona stepped out of his way, still holding her handkerchief to her nose.

  “Sir?” the young guard said.

  The captain walked straight up to the other man and placed the palm of his hand on his forehead. The guard’s eyes rolled back in his head and an instant later he crumpled to the floor.

  Ona gasped, staring at the man now sprawled on the hay-strewn cobbles.

  Captain Niels slowly turned to her. There was a change in him, a blankness that sent a chill through Ona’s flesh.

  She knew then, without a doubt, that this was the demon Dawn and the whole palace had been hunting.

  The captain advanced on Ona and she stumbled back. She turned and began to run, but after just a few panicked strides the demon’s hands clamped down on her arms. She twisted and cried out as it lifted her from the ground and carried her to the cart in one swift motion. The demon shoved her inside, her knees scraping on the rough wood planks. Ona spun and lunged for the door.

  As the demon reached to slam the cart door shut it seemed to flinch away from her. Ona stopped, wild-eyed with panic and confusion. The demon’s eyes were focused on the necklace she was wearing over her dress. Ona glanced down. The central gemstone felt hot against her collar bone. Where it was normally a clear white it had darkened, clouding over like a stormy sky.

  “It can’t be!” she muttered.

  She and Dawn had searched so hard for the earthstone. Could this really be it?

  The Narlaw recovered itself and shoved Ona back into the depths of the grocer’s cart. “If you scream, I’ll kill you,” it said.

  Ona stared in horror as the door slammed shut and the weak daylight of the yard was snatched away. The cart jerked forwards and the princess grabbed at the uneven slats beneath her to keep from being knocked over. She steadied herself and touched the burning stone with her free hand.

  Dawn had been right. The Narlaw really were seeking the earthstone. And now, she thought, with tears welling in her eyes – now they had it.

  Dawn arrived in the yard at the tail end of the group. She saw an open gate and the city streets beyond, and a man in uniform lying flat on the ground. She panted hard, gulping in the musty sweet air of the stables.

  Ebony, where are you? she called.

  The reply was a distant burst of frustration through the bond. Then Dawn felt her companion draw closer. A loud caw announced her arrival.

  I missed them, said Ebony. I was too slow. She hopped distractedly on the cobbles, twisting to look in every direction. I need to get up there, she said. I need to enlist the city birds before it’s too late.

  Go, said Dawn. She strode to the open gate and joined the guards who were already out there questioning passers-by and shopkeepers on the bustling street. Down the hill she could see evacuees arriving from all over the country – the city was full to bursting. She cast her senses wide and was overcome by the mass of people. She pulled back, giddy from the sensation and struck by the impossibility of finding Ona in the midst of all this chaos.

  She had failed. She had let a demon walk into the palace and take the princess – and, perhaps, the one thing that could save the kingdom, too. She had felt fear before, but never this, never panic.

  Dawn stumbled back to the gate and grasped the wooden frame for support. The city surged around her – voices, footsteps, the clatter of carts and the percussion of the smithies and the carpenters in their shops.

  She breathed deeply and thought of her mentor, Esther, and Queen Amina.

  What would they have done?

  Dawn looked up and faced the world.

  Panic was no good. Panic wouldn’t bring Princess Ona or the earthstone back.

  She strode out into the street, her pulse thumping and her mind racing. She had a new challenge to face, the most important one yet. If she failed, if Ona and the earthstone remained in Narlaw hands, then all of Meridina would be lost.

  Alice hurried through the narrow streets of Catchwood. Today was market day and the village was packed with traders from all over the mountainside; boots, hooves and cart wheels rumbled across the hard-packed mud. Alice clutched a heavy wicker basket and the jars and pots within clanked together as she wove through the market-day traffic.

  She stepped aside to allow a line of mules to pass and, as she did so, she noticed an elderly man sitting beside her in the doorway of a low-ceilinged cottage, carving a chunk of wood. Alice nodded at him politely as she waited, but the man simply narrowed his eyes, casting her a look of unconcealed suspicion.

  Alice turned back to the street, her cheeks burning with embarrassment and anger. She should have grown used to this by now, but her visits to the village remained as uncomfortable as ever. She tried to believe what Moraine, her mentor, had told her: that although the villagers feared her now, they would come, in time, to respect her as their Whisperer. But how long would she have to wait? She was twelve years old now and had been living here, apprenticed to Moraine, since she was old enough to walk.

  She stared down at her boots and the mud stains on her long, patterned skirt – the one Moraine always insisted she wore into the village. When the last of the mules had gone by, Alice left the old man to his work, wishing she were back in the forest already.

  The market square was a chaos of stalls and wagons. There were so many people – and so many animals, pulling carts or tethered to the posts and fences around the edges of the square. Colourful awnings flapped in the breeze and the stallholders bellowed their prices, vying for the custom of the crowds. Above it all stood the festival tree: a solitary pine that rose up, ancient and proud. And above the tree, the autumn sky raced with clouds.

  Despite the cries of the sellers, with their ferocious bustle and salesmanship, one fact could not be hidden – most of the stalls were pitifully empty. There was simply not enough food to fill the market.

  It had been a hard summer on the mountain. Edible plants had grown sparse, the streams and rivers were all but empty of fish, and those who hunted rabbit and deer were forced to travel further than ever before. In fact, the village’s main hunting party had set out four d
ays ago and not yet returned. This was the first time in years that they had missed a market day and people were beginning to talk.

  Alice edged through the crowd. She hefted the wicker basket and aimed for Sal’s grain stall, her first call of the day. The shadow of the festival tree slid over her and with it, like an all-powerful tide, came the smells and sounds of the traders. Alice was shoved aside by people carrying huge sacks and crates; elbows jabbed at her from every angle. It was simply the bustle of market day – she knew this – but every nudge and push made her feel even less welcome in the village than she already did.

  These errands were vital to Alice’s training as a healer, but Alice knew there was more to being a Whisperer than quietly producing medicines for the villagers. There had been a time when the Whisperers were respected, and even obeyed, throughout the kingdom. Under the leadership of Queen Amina they had protected Meridina from the Narlaw and banished the demon armies back to the Darklands. Nowadays any mention of the Narlaw was greeted with a condescending shake of the head. They were little more than monsters from the history books, used for scaring children into doing their chores.

  Alice wished that the demons were just ancient history, but she knew better than that. The missing hunters and the changes in the forest were small things, coincidences perhaps, but Alice felt a growing fear that something sinister was behind it all – and she knew Storm and the other wolves shared her suspicions.

  She felt a pang of loneliness at the thought of Storm. But she could only ever enter the village alone. The people of Catchwood didn’t understand her bond with Storm, and a fully grown wolf was not a welcome guest in any village.

  She arrived at the grain stall and made her way to the front. The goods on display were meagre: half a dozen loaves, a stack of wheat-flour parcels, some salt and a single coil of dry red sausage. There would normally be four or five times as much, and an extra table of wheat and barley sacks in reserve behind the stall.

  Alice waited her turn, listening in as Sal finished her conversation with another customer.

  “They’ve been gone four days now…” said the boy. He was about Alice’s age, but his face was drawn with worry. He wore the short leather apron of an apprentice blacksmith or carpenter.

  “Don’t you fret, Owen lad,” said Sal. “I’m sure they’ve just gone further out, looking for a better hunting ground.”

  “Four days, though,” said Owen. “Something has to be wrong. Dad’s never been away so long before.”

  Sal smiled sympathetically and the boy glanced sideways at Alice as he turned to leave.

  Alice met his gaze silently. Perhaps he recognized a similar, troubled expression on Alice’s face because he nodded to her solemnly before he turned and vanished into the crowds.

  “The usual, is it?” Sal asked cheerily.

  Alice smiled and nodded, putting the frightened eyes of the apprentice boy out of her mind. She picked two jars from her basket: one ointment for the gums and one powder to help with aching of the joints – both for Sal’s elderly father. Alice liked Sal and hoped she was right about the hunters – that they had simply extended their search and would return soon with a healthy stock of meat to trade. But she couldn’t help agreeing with Owen.

  The tension she had noticed in the village over the past few weeks was even more obvious now. The people here were forest people, just like she was. They too would sense the change in the woods – small things, hard to pin down – as well as the lack of food and the poor hunting. To Alice it seemed as if everyone knew something terrible was looming, but nobody wished to voice their fears. It made her keener than ever to return to the forest and see what news Storm had from the wolf packs.

  She added two pounds of flour and a fist of salt to her basket, thanked Sal and began pushing her way out towards her next stop. The villagers barged and jostled her, casting their sidelong looks as she passed.

  Once her rounds were complete, Alice wasted no time in leaving Catchwood and the market-day crowds behind. She wove quickly towards the north gate, nodding to the guard as she passed through the wall of thick wooden stakes that surrounded the village. Immediately she felt the deep relief of being back on the wild mountainside. The breeze flowed over her, lifting her hair and catching in the folds of her skirt. The musty, human smells of the village were swept away, replaced by the sweetness of the pines and the crystalline mountain air.

  Alice turned uphill towards the trees and reached out with her Whisperer sense. The tree line altered minutely as a familiar grey silhouette padded into view. Alice smiled. She ran the rest of the way, swinging the basket of supplies at her side, and plunged into the forest, letting its coolness envelop her. Dogwood and sagebrush whipped harmlessly at her legs as she ran. She ducked the low sweeping branches of oaks, and dodged between the slender aspens and pines.

  And then Storm was there, grey and black and golden-eyed, nuzzling into her. Alice ran her hands through the thick, soft fur behind her companion’s velvety ears. The bond between them pulsed with the warmth of their friendship – and with anticipation: Storm had something to tell her.

  You’ve heard from the wolf packs? Alice said, her words entering Storm’s mind directly. She stepped back, sensing that bad news was coming.

  There’s a trail, said Storm. Lifeless forest on the high ridge – scorched earth and dead trees. It leads to the mountain pass, to the Darklands.

  Alice stared blankly off into the pines. Her heart thumped in her chest.

  Narlaw, she whispered.

  Yes. Storm bowed her head. We must tell Moraine. And the elders. The village is in danger.

  Alice nodded in a state of shock. Generations had passed since the Narlaw had been banished to the Darklands. They were shape-shifters, beings who lived only to destroy the natural world. Their touch had the power to wither anything that lived. It seemed so wrong to think of such things, especially here in the great forest, with the trees swaying gently and the birds trilling their midday songs overhead.

  But the wolves did not lie. And they had smelled the scent of demons.

  Together, Alice and Storm moved swiftly through the forest. They had no need for roads or paths. This was their home and it always had been. Even before they had met, before they had been joined by the ancient Whisperer bond, they had each spent their lives in the cool, sweet-smelling shadows of the pine trees. Alice had been chosen as a baby, when the sacred raven had dropped a white feather on the doorstep of her birth home. For Storm it had been different; animals are closer to the earth than humans and are born with the knowledge inside them. But both Alice and Storm had left their families and come to Catchwood to be trained by Moraine.

  Alice often wondered about her mother and father, and she knew that Storm also thought about her own parents, sisters and brothers out there in the roaming wolf packs of the forest. Alice felt sad sometimes, not knowing about her family, but this was part of the Whisperer life, and it made her bond with Storm all the more precious. As she walked, she ran her hand over Storm’s thick-furred back – a back that rose almost to her chest. It was no wonder the villagers viewed her with fear and suspicion, this young girl from the forest who walked with the wolves.

  They continued through the dappled light, between hanging clusters of pine needles and the ridged bark of the trunks. The forest could give you everything you needed to live: food, shelter, water, even clothing – just as long as you took no more than you required. Greed upset the balance of the wild. As a Whisperer, this was the very first thing that Alice had been taught. And it was the reason why the recent changes in the forest – the lack of prey and plants – had to be taken very seriously.

  As they approached the small hollow where their cottage lay, Moraine’s voice became audible. She was speaking with a man, but Alice was not close enough to recognize his voice.

  Elder Garth, Storm told her. Perhaps they have heard of the Narlaw already.

  Perhaps, said Alice, through the bond.

  William Gar
th was the village’s chief elder. He was a shrewd man and he ran the village well, but Alice couldn’t help thinking he had much too high an opinion of himself. As they entered the clearing they found Garth’s horse tethered to a tree beyond the small cottage and outhouses. It shied nervously from Storm, and Alice reached out to the beast with her Whisperer sense, attempting to calm him as they passed. She could hear the deep tones of the village elder clearly now, along with Moraine’s soft, thoughtful voice. She unlatched the front door and she and Storm entered the cottage, their home.

  “If it’s a seasonal thing then we must know when it ends…” Garth stopped mid-sentence as Alice and Storm appeared in the doorway. He was seated beside the empty fireplace and his jaw hung open for a second before he composed himself and nodded a silent greeting.

  “I see you’ve finished at the market,” said Moraine. “Elder Garth and I were discussing the worrying changes taking place in the forest.” She stood in the kitchen area that was part of the large, open living space of the cottage. Behind her, on her favourite perch, sat Hazel, Moraine’s tawny owl companion.

  Alice shut the door behind her and nodded politely at the elder before addressing Moraine. “The wolf packs have found something,” she said, glancing nervously at Storm. “Signs of Narlaw moving down from the mountain pass.”

  Moraine narrowed her eyes. “What signs?”

  “Dead trees, lifeless earth. The pine sickness seems to originate there, too.”

  Moraine stared down at the stone-tiled floor in contemplation. She calmly smoothed the folds of her skirt, as she often did when thinking.

  “The wolves are sure,” said Alice. “The trail leads to the Darklands.”

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