A Hero's Curse (14 page)

I don’t respond. Just shrug.

“Let’s go then.” He hops down and puts himself on the cliff side of me, close enough to bump my boot and give me some bearing. He is also trying to shelter himself from the storm.

We’ve been in gales before. Dust spinners used to form and howl through the valley. During those we used to hunker down, and Tig would bury his face in my side. The sand is just as bad for his face as it is mine.

Right now though he acts like he doesn’t need me, and it hurts even more. We start along the cliff wall, but the going is still too slow. I don’t know how fast the Urodela thought we would be traveling, but at this rate we won’t make it past the Giants for days. The wind and the sand and the ash pound us mercilessly. My eyes are running, but no tears fall. They crust over and dry before they can leave my face.

M
y body can usually tell me what time it is but now with heavy exhaustion seeping through my limbs I can’t tell how late or early it might be. My lips stopped cracking. There is one big split in the middle that bled for a while but it has stopped, too. I keep my mouth closed because there is so much dust and soot in the air, but it’s hard to breathe through my nose. My lips feel like wood. Except it feels like my wooden lips are being sliced by hot sharp knives. So they are not like wood. Wooden lips might be an improvement.

The dust swirls around us, and I feel the skin around my fingernails splitting. The ash seeps through my closed lips and tastes bitter in my mouth. A severe ache in my head is concentrated just behind my eyes.

“Tig,” I can barely recognize my croaking voice, “my eyes.” We huddle near the wall with our backs to the wind. I feel Tig flick his tail. He’s still angry, too. I find a piece of my voice again.

“I’m sorry,” I say in barely a whisper. I feel his tail flick again, but otherwise he acts like he hasn’t heard me.

“It’s hard being blind. It’s hard all the time, but sometimes it’s harder than others. I . . . I didn’t mean to hit you.”

“You missed.”

“Oh.” Part of me wishes I had hit him. Now I don’t know what to apologize for. “I’m still glad you’re here. I couldn’t have made it without you. Even if you are the most annoying cat I know.”

Tig’s tail twitches again, but it is slower. He isn’t angry. “You’re bleeding again,” says Tig in a dry, raspy voice that has nothing to do with sarcasm. I try to touch my lips but jerk back at the sting.

“Your mouth, your hands, and your eyes,” croaks Tig.

“My eyes hurt,” I say. “I can’t keep them closed.”

“Wrap them.”

“With what?”

“Use the belt. Wrap it around your eyes.” The silk belt from Mom’s dress. Conflicting emotions pour over me. I don’t want to use the belt for anything. I want to keep it safe in the bottom of my pack. I also don’t want to put on a bandana.
Blindfold
. I hate that word. It sets me apart. Tells everyone around me I’m different. It isn’t the first time the suggestion has come up. I’ve rejected the idea for years. It will not define me.

Fresh tears come to my eyes as I fumble with my pack and find the piece of red in the bottom. I find the neat bundles made by the Urodela. I rip out a tuft of moss first. It’s barely damp now, but it helps wipe away the crusty sand and blood. The wind tears at our meager supplies as I exchange the moss for the silk wrap.

Even here the silk feels like water as it runs through my hands. The ash can’t hide the scent of red. I’m glad the rock basilisk didn’t get my pack, but if this had been the only thing I saved it would have been worth it. My fingers are trembling.

Tig puts a paw on my arm. “I know you’re blind, Ess. You’re not hiding anything from me.” I nod but he keeps the paw on my arm. “It’s not who you are.
I
know that. I hope you do.” I nod again before folding the silk into a strip the right length, fighting with the swirling wind. I wrap red around my eyes and tie it in the back. The relief is instant. The pounding subsides.

I tighten the knot hard. Taken prisoner by the bandana my hair behaves better now, too. The silk against my face is soothing. It is also a statement: I’m blind. I tie our pack closed and pull Tig’s face into me, out of the wind.

“What do you see?” I ask.

“Not much,” he replies, his voice muffled in my shirt. He untangles himself, and I feel him look out at the desert. I try to spit out the fine dust and ash in my mouth, but I don’t have enough spit.

“I can’t see the sun very well. Just a hazy spot in the western sky. Daylight is dying. The dust is gray and isn’t coming from any particular direction. It’s catching on the dunes and creating towering dust spinners hundreds of feet tall. That’s where the stinging sand comes from, when one of those hits us,” he explains.

“I miss Mom and Dad,” I say, at a loss for any other comment. “I hope they’re okay.” My eyes are running behind the silk. The damp on the bandana feels good without the wind against them.

Tig’s body jumps as he coughs. “I miss breathing.” He twists in my lap, and we slump in silence for a moment. I can feel Tig staring into what must be the dying embers of the red sun now dipping into the western horizon.

“The sun is setting.”

“I can feel it. Is it red?” I know that dust makes the sun red.

“Very.”

“Of all the colors, I like that one best,” I say. Tig knows.

Tig kneads his sheathed paws against me. “Yeah, red’s alright.”

Tig hops off my lap and drops a quick warning. “Dust spinner.” I push myself around, sling the small pack onto my back, and push my collar up. Tig buries his head in my side. Just in time I remember to shield my arm from the blast. Sand and ash don’t feel good in a cut.

After the worst of the sand rips past I spit and scramble to my feet. “Just a bit farther?”

“Let’s hope we can find some shelter in this cliff to crawl into,” says Tig. We both know we have to get out of the wind for the night. I know he is thinking it, too, though every other creature will want to find a hole as well. And down here, in the swirling ash of the Gray Wasteland, there are probably some pretty nasty beasties.

We don’t talk about it, though. It’s too hard to talk in the wind, and there’s nothing to be done about it anyway. We stagger along the base of the Giants, alternately leaning into or hurrying away from the gale that swirls around us.

Unmarked time slips by, the only noticeable change that the roar around us has lessened. It’s either very late in the night or early in the morning. I left exhausted behind several hours ago.

Tig has left his own hurt feelings behind and is trying to be encouraging. “Come on, Ess,” he gently prods the back of my legs with his head. I know he’s been scanning the cliff face for shelter, but I’m beginning to think that he doesn’t want to stop if he can help it.

“It’s nice to be able to walk horizontally, hmm?”

“Shush, Tig.” I freeze and tilt my head, listening to the night. There is only a strong breeze now, and I can hear again. There it is, a slight shuffling, and it sounds as if it’s coming from underneath us. It sounds small; if we were at home I would guess badger, maybe a ground gopher. But we aren’t at home. Ten to one whatever is moving out here isn’t friendly. “Tig, what do you see?” I whisper.

Tig is silent for a moment, and I know he is making the same analysis of the night. He leaps gracefully onto my shoulders to see a bit farther. I feel his tail twitch the way it does when he is tense. He doesn’t even know it twitches. My arm shudders involuntarily. I hold my breath as he listens and scans the darkness.

The hair on Tig’s back is only half on end, and it starts to lay flat again. He hears it, too. “It’s close. But it isn’t big. I can’t tell if it’s a hunter.”

After another moment’s silence, I whisper, “But what do you see?”

“There’s a rock formation about a mile from here to the northwest. Out in the desert.”

“Do you think there are rock basilisks there?” I ask, my voice betraying only a bit of nervousness.

Tig is quiet for a moment and then replies, “I don’t know, but my instincts tell me something lives there. Something big.”

Tig sniffs the wind, and I smell it, too. A musty scent, here and now gone. Something is out moving tonight. Tig has taught me in the world of the hunt, there are only two types: hunters and prey. Tig has coached me to think and act like a hunter for years, but tonight, we aren’t hunters.

Chapter 15

T
he knowledge that something big is on the move through the night has given me new energy and kept me moving. Until now. The terrors of the rock basilisk just a few days ago keep replaying in my mind, but eventually even that isn’t enough.

“Tig, I’m about to fall over. We have to try to hide.”

I feel Tig flick his tail against my leg. He’s frustrated again. A few minutes later he lets out a pleased hiss. “A hollow in the cliff wall, more of an overhang really.” It is relatively low and shallow, but by staying on one side of the hollow we manage to get out of most of the swirling sand. It’s probably good that it’s not a real cave. The floor is dusty with no recent scent; nothing lives here. Despite my earlier hurt toward Tig I appreciate his warmth as he curls on my lap. The temperature drops significantly after sunset. I doze off almost immediately. A growl carried on the wind wakes me. At first I think it’s Tig in my lap. Sometimes he growls in his sleep. But then the ground shakes. I figure this isn’t a good sign. Tig is three times his normal size, and his back is arched, making him about a foot taller than usual.

“Can you see something?” I hiss.

“Dragons,” says Tig.

“The Urodela didn’t say anything about dragons!” I yelp.

“I don’t think they knew,” Tig spits. “Not that it helps us. These probably moved in from the Smoking Mountains after the marshes disappeared. Wherever they came from, they’re here now.”

I smell the musty scent again, this time mixed with rotting meat. These are hunters.

I hear a high squeak from somewhere outside and Tig says, “I don’t believe this.”

“What?”

“The largest rodent you’ve ever seen is running from the dragons straight for us.” I hear the terrified squeaking getting louder. It sounds like it is squeaking “run,” over and over in Lingua Comma.

Then the thing scuttles under the overhang with us, the ground shaking tremors stomping up right behind it. “Two dragons,” hisses Tig.

“Sorry,” it cries, this time definitely in Lingua Comma, though accented in what I can only assume is rodent speak.

Tig recovers first. I hear him pounce. “Sorry is all you’ve got to say for yourself? I’m going to need more than that, or I’ll have one more good meal before the dragons get me.”

I don’t even try to analyze another talking animal. I just take it as fact and focus on the immediate danger. Two dragons are snorting at the overhang. I feel the huge vibrations through the ground, and dust falls on us from the ceiling.

A dragon roars into our hollow. The sound is momentarily deafening and leaves my ears ringing. I run through our inventory mentally looking for a dragon killing weapon. I come up empty. I could throw mushrooms and stale warm water at them. I hear Tig through a ringing daze.

“Move against the back wall. They can’t quite reach us in here. They’re too big!”

I scramble after Tig’s tail and bump into a long furry body the size of a loaf of bread.

“What are you doing?” I say, for a lack of a better introduction.

“Following y-y-you!” it squeaks.

“You’re getting us killed!” I yell. I hear scratching and growling. It sounds like the dragons are digging us out.

Tig confirms. “They’re digging out room. They’ll be able to pull us out in a few seconds.”

“We have to g-g-get out!” the rodent squeals. I feel the furry body and a bushy tail dash past me out toward the dragons.

Can dragons express surprise? Both dragons stop digging and one emits a horrible but comic, “Erag?” I can only imagine the look of complete shock as one of their quarry dashes between them. Both dragons thump away, presumably after the rodent.

Tig acts quickly, brushing past me as well. “It disappeared into a hole. It looks like there is some kind of burrow. We have to move now, or we’ll be a midnight snack.” I scramble after his voice and out of our shelter. I tip headlong into a deep gouge in the ground. I come up spitting sand. That is quite a hole. Apparently dragons work fast. I scramble after Tig and grab his tail. He hates that, but these are dragons after all. I think he remembers leaving me to the rock basilisks, because he slows and I scramble after him in a half crouch. I hear a squeak off to our right and try to turn.

“Keep coming!” Tig orders. “There’s a hole directly ahead! It looks like the little squeaker is creating a diversion.” Sure enough I hear a roar and dragons stomp off toward the shrill chittering. The ground shakes violently, and a gust of air washes over me. That was close. I don’t know how close but close enough.

Tig hisses, “Hands and knees, straight forward, looks like you’ll have to belly crawl.”

I obediently drop to my hands and knees and feel a rough outcropping of sandstone. I pat around for a hole.

“Down, Essie!” Tig’s impatient claws grab my hand and push it into the emptiness that is the opening. I scramble forward and perform a violent whack to my head.

“Every time,” I groan. Head stinging, I get on my belly and crawl forward. I hear at least one dragon roar and feel the ground shake as it charges back toward us. I push my head down, use my elbows, and crawl forward as fast as possible. The walls close in, brushing my shoulders and pack. I feel Tig right behind me. I guess he backed in. He is stepping all over me as he tries to back away from the dragons. I feel a tremendous thud above us, and dirt rains down, then a furious digging behind.

“Hurry!” screeches Tig. My elbows are raw. My head throbs, and I can barely breathe through all the dirt. Now I know what a rabbit feels like when it runs into a hole.

I take a quick breath and choke on dirt. I can’t get it out of my throat. Tears well up behind the silk as my lungs choke for clean air. I don’t stop crawling, and then something opens up above me. I think it must be the dragons, and I am going to be snatched up, but then I feel the ceiling again. It is just a bit higher. A few more feet and Tig is able to scrabble past me, scratching my arm in his rush. He takes off ahead of me, spitting like a pirate—only faster and angrier.

I feel around and am able to get on my hands and knees now, which helps my stinging elbows. I hear dragons somewhere behind. They are muffled, but still too close to slow down. I am still coughing, but the dirt stops raining. It’s just a trickle now. I feel a breath of air and jump, acting like an exposed rabbit.

“Oi,” yowls Tig. I ran right into him. “It looks like a central room, Ess. Two other tunnels leading off to the right and left.” I can barely hear the dragons now. I stop and reach up to touch the ceiling. I can’t feel it until I stand. The room is just my height. Almost. I try walking but bump my head against a low spot. I stoop and feel my way around the room.

A moment later the panic starts to wear off, and I slump against a wall. I begin the process of brushing myself off. “Whew. That was interesting.”

Tig begins to emit a purring gargle, which I know is his chuckle. I giggle, too.

“Sorry?” I mimic the rodent’s chittering voice. “What was that thing thinking?” We are both laughing now. I stop. “I wonder if it made it?”

“I don’t know,” says Tig. “But it just about got us killed.”

“True, but it could speak Lingua Comma. I wonder what that was about.” We both sit in silence for a moment. Tig pads up to me and starts washing himself. I can hear his rough tongue working every inch of his sleek coat. I take another stab at my own clothes, and then decide to shake them out properly. “It seems pretty safe?” I ask Tig.

He stops grooming for a moment, and I know he is listening, smelling, feeling, like me. “Nothing,” he says.

I nod, drop my pack, and undress, shaking out my pants and shirt, and brushing myself off. My hair is hopeless again. I get as much of the dirt out as possible, and then pull it back into a tight ponytail. I feel better when I dress again. I feel our little pack and find some of the Urodela food; the moist mushrooms and cake are already almost completely dry. I offer a bit of water to Tig, and then take some myself. It’s what I needed. The dirt in my throat finally washes away, and I am able to take a deep breath. We both sit for a few moments, taking in our new surroundings. Tig is still washing.

“All the same, I hope it made it,” I say. Tig says nothing. “I mean, it spoke!”

“So supper speaks,” says Tig. “Doesn’t make it
not
supper. And it really nettled me the way it pulled those dragons over to us and then panicked and ran again.” Then he mutters something about getting us killed.

“But it did save us, too,” I point out.

“Accidentally. After it nearly killed us. I call that ‘almost even.’” I sigh and feel in the pack for another mushroom. Even dry, they still taste excellent. I can feel some energy trickling into me again. They’re also chewy and take a long time to go through. It makes me feel like I’m eating more than I really am. Tig growls softly as he chews his mushroom.

I sit bolt upright. “Did you hear that?”

Tig goes silent as well, then says, “Sure. Small, rodent, coming from the right tunnel.”

“No way . . .” I don’t finish my thought. It could be dangerous, so I get up off the floor and brace my hands behind me against the wall. My best defense in this tiny space will be my feet—especially as I’m in boots and armored leather pants. Maybe the pants will hit it with energy if it attacks.

“Have no f-f-fear,” a thin voice says, “this t-t-time I’m alone.”

Since we seemed to have skipped formalities due to dragons trying to eat us, I ask the obvious question. “Who are you? And why are you following us?”

There’s a pause, and then the rodent—which does smell very much like rodent—replies, “I’m c-c-called ‘Chatter’ in Lingua Comma, and I thought you m-m-might not want to get eaten b-b-by d-d-dragons or cooked by the s-s-sun. I mean, we might d-d-die anyway, and it will probably be worse than d-d-dragons, but we can always hope it w-w-will be quick and p-p-painless.”

“Maybe we want to get eaten by dragons and cooked by the sun,” growls Tig.

The rodent, or Chatter as it calls itself, ignores Tig and speaks to me. “T-t-tell your c-cat to behave and you c-c-can come further in.”

“Do we want to come further in?” I ask. The tunnel we are in seems safe enough for the night, and Chatter does reek of, well, it is a tunnel dweller after all although it doesn’t smell exactly like any rodent I have ever come across. I turn toward Tig and raise my eyebrows. Not that he catches the eyebrow message. I still have my bandana on. He must see the look though. “I don’t like following rodents. Unless, you know . . .” he says, loud enough for Chatter to hear.

“I’m n-n-not a rodent,” Chatter growls.

“Tig!” I scold. I drop my voice to a whisper. “It speaks Lingua Comma. And we seem to be safe for the moment.” I turn back to Chatter. “You’re not a very brave . . .
non-
rodent, but we’re glad you distracted the dragons.”

“Excuse me, but I feel we need to deal with you bringing the dragons to us before we go thanking you for anything,” says Tig. “I’m tempted to eat you for that. Then maybe after dinner I’ll say thanks for momentarily diverting their attention.”

“Tig.”

“I do apologize for the d-d-dragons,” says Chatter, “b-b-but you see, they t-t-tracked your scent. You can’t c-c-cross the Gray Wastelands anymore, not unless y-y-you’re a hero who can fight off d-d-dragons.”

“What makes you think we’re not heroes?” says Tig.

That makes me snort in quite an unladylike fashion, but since Mom isn’t here I guess it doesn’t matter.

“Again my h-h-humble apologies,” says the high voice, “had I known you were heroes I m-m-might not have interfered. I noted the d-d-dragons, I saw they were tracking you and would find your camp, and I-I-I panicked. My first intention was to m-m-make contact with you without alerting the d-d-dragons and show you a better p-p-place to hide for the night, here, in these t-t-tunnels, although, even these tunnels aren’t s-s-safe from earthquakes or—”

“How did you know where we were?” I interrupt.

“I t-t-told you, I followed you,” Chatter says, “mostly from underground. I n-n-noticed you on your way down the cliffs.”

“We heard you,” mutters Tig, a little aggressively.

“How do you speak Lingua Comma?” I ask. Even though I expect it, I’m still not prepared to hear the king’s name again.

“King Mactogonii p-p-placed his magic on me nearly a year ago so I c-c-could lead him through these t-t-tunnels and across the Gray W-W-Wastelands.”

“Across?” I ask. Before Chatter can answer my mind races through the new information. This confirms part of what the Urodela thought. I figured the king would have been trying to find the daemon somewhere in the middle of the desert or go around it back home, just like us—but across?

Aloud, I prompt again, “Why was he crossing the Gray Wastelands? Alone?”

“That is a story that d-d-deserves more than a s-s-summary telling . . .” Chatter pauses, “but I don’t know your name.”

“Right. I’m Essie, of the Kingdom of Mar,” I say, “a subject of King Mactogonii,” I think to add.