A Hero's Curse (15 page)

“Really!” says the high voice. “I w-w-wondered if you might be somehow c-c-connected to the k-k-king when I saw you coming down the c-c-cliffs. Of course I f-f-followed you to see who you were and what you were d-d-doing and if you might be d-d-dangerous. King Mactogonii called me Chatter b-b-because he couldn’t p-p-pronounce my own n-n-name, and he said it f-f-fit somehow. If you are a s-s-subject of the k-k-king I humbly offer my own s-s-services, s-s-small that they are, unless we all d-d-die first.”

Tig growls. I kick at him. “Chatter, huh?” says Tig. “King Mactogonii wasn’t too imaginative with names, was he?”

“He’d probably name you ‘Annoying Bigheaded Cat,” I mumble.

“I doubt it,” says Tig. “He seems to like shorter, easy to remember names that correlate somehow to the subject. He’d probably just call me Tig.” I kick at him again. A muffled roar reaches us through the claustrophobic tunnel behind.

“P-P-Please, these are the outer r-r-reaches of the tunnels,” says Chatter. “There are s-s-safer and more c-c-comfortable nests farther in, although they are s-s-small, and I doubt you’ll be very c-c-comfortable in them.”

I suddenly feel very weary and nests, even uncomfortable ones, sound good. It has been a long day, and it must be the middle of the night. “How much farther in?”

“A fair p-p-piece.” Chatter pauses, seeming to calculate. “Perhaps an hour or m-m-more if any of us become w-w-wounded or p-p-poisoned or m-m-maimed and have to t-t-travel slower.” I feel a tiny tremor from above run through the ground, even this deep.

“Okay,” I sigh. Tig lashes his tail. I turn in his direction and hiss, “Do you think it’s safe?”

“So it seems, for now. She’s a pretty scrawny pessimist.”

“She?”

“Scrawny,” he says.

“So am I,” I say. “And I can still send you across the room.”

“Okay, let’s go,” Tig snaps. I drop my hand and find Tig’s sleek back and let him act the guide as we make our way into the right-hand tunnel. I get my bearings fairly quickly, so I let go of Tig but keep him close in front of me. I feel his tail lash just in front of my legs almost the entire way. At least the tunnels we are in are bigger now. I can walk at a stoop for most of the way. I wonder if King Mactogonii came through these tunnels. If so he must have been uncomfortable in the extreme. These aren’t warrior-sized tunnels.

We arrive in another central hall that has four tunnels leading off in several directions according to Tig. That makes me uneasy. I hope this
not-
rodent doesn’t lose us in here. We pass a tunnel with a rank odor that smells like rats.
This place needs some fresh air,
I think. The tunnel widens into a chamber, and I am able to stand up. I know Tig will be glancing around, giving the place the cursory review. He gives me the description.

“You probably already got dry, sandy floor, but there are some stacked rows of,” Tig pauses, “. . . supplies? In the corner it looks like she has a nest. We’ve just come in a tunnel that has run due northwest. There are also black holes leading off to the left and right, apparently tunnels to who knows where.”

I sniff again. It isn’t rat. “Excuse me,” I say, “I asked who you are, and you said you weren’t a rodent but
what
are
you?”

“I am a r-r-ringtailed c-c-cat,” says Chatter from the center of the room.

I hear Tig give a derisive hacking cough and begin to wash his paws. Between toes he speaks. “No
cat
smells like a rodent.”

“I’m not a rodent. Neither am I a c-c-cat.”

“Then don’t try to steal the name ‘cat,’” Tig says, pausing his bath.

That seems a bit rude. I cut Tig off. “Er, that’s really interesting. You’re kind of both,” I say, trying to be reconciliatory. Waves of disgust emanate from Tig.

“I am n-n-neither,” says Chatter.

“Okay,” I say, still trying to keep the peace. “So this is your home?”

“Yes, and you m-m-must be hungry!” Chatter says. She turns out to be an excellent hostess. She bounds into the right-hand passage and comes back in seconds staggering under piles of what ends up being dried fruit, berries, seeds, and a couple of dehydrated lizards. I decline the lizards, but Tig growls over his for several minutes. I don’t guess his resentment of our hostess extends to dinner.

Chatter even offers me her tiny nest. “No thanks, Chatter,” I reply. “I have my pack. You’re generous to have us. At least let me help with dinner.” I add a spongy cake and sweet nectar packed by the Urodela to the pile in front of us. It isn’t long before we are sitting around on the sandy floor with Tig recounting our adventures so far.

“So we decided we would try to go around the Valley of Fire to get to the Kingdom of Mar,” I conclude after a lengthy description of the Urodela kingdom. “We figured that we could make it back in a few days.” Chatter has whimpered, squeaked, and chucked through our entire story. Now she’s clicking to herself.

Tig leans into my ear. “She’s rocking in a little ball and holding her tail like she thinks I’m going to eat it.”

Chatter stops clicking. “I d-d-don’t think you’ll eat m-m-my tail, although I s-s-suppose you m-m-might if you were hungry enough.” I poke Tig hard.

“I f-f-found a human who had been attacked by dragons near here.” I lean forward and furrow my eyebrows. “He killed the d-d-dragons, but he was badly hurt. He had survived a whole day in the d-d-desert before I found him, b-b-but he wouldn’t have made it through the heat of another day. He w-w-would have died. He gave me the ability to s-s-speak Lingua Comma so I could lead him through the t-t-tunnels. I brought him here and nursed him w-w-well again. He said he was King M-M-Mactogonii.”

“This is starting to be a familiar story. He’s gone then?” I ask. Of course he would be gone, but it would be so much easier to get home if the king could just stay put.

“Of course,” Chatter interrupts my thoughts, “he was v-v-very determined to cross the G-G-Gray Wastelands. Seemed d-d-dangerous to me, but he in-in-insisted. He said the t-t-tunnels made c-c-crossing the Wastelands possible.”

“What was he after?” I wonder aloud, unsuccessfully stifling a big yawn.

“He said he was d-d-determined to kill the d-d-daemon and d-d-destroy something called the Cauldron. He knew b-b-better than to try to face the d-d-daemon alone. He was traveling in secret from what I understand. He even avoided the d-d-dragons. Except he didn’t avoid them entirely. After I f-f-found him he p-p-placed his magic on me, and I b-b-brought him here. He told me a little about his p-p-plan but he didn’t tell me everything—”

“Of course not,” mutters Tig. “That would have made it too easy.”

“—b-b-but I did c-c-catch enough to understand that in the Reach Mountains beyond the G-G-Gray Wastelands is a door to the Kingdom Above the Sun. He said he had heard r-r-rumors that the d-d-door had been left unsealed. He said that there w-w-was something there, in the Kingdom Above the Sun that would help him kill the daemon. B-B-But first, he had to get to the mountain, and to do th-that, he needed to cross the G-G-Gray Wastelands. He asked if I could take him through the abandoned t-t-tunnels. I could, and these tunnels lead to others, some nice, some n-n-nasty, that travel all the way to the roots of the R-R-Reach Mountains.”

I want to know more, but I’m already falling asleep. Tig pats me with a paw. “You need to lie down before you fall over.” I fumble with my pack and grin at Chatter’s yip of fright when I hear Tig yawn and stretch. Too many big white teeth for her. It sounds like the not-rodent part of her isn’t quite as tough as she would like to portray.

I curl up against the wall with my pack as a pillow, and Tig curls up beside me, purring softly. Chatter scuffles and sighs several times in her nest until she’s soon breathing evenly. I guess her guests haven’t frightened her so badly she can’t sleep.

My breathing slows, and I think about the Kingdom Above the Sun. I’ve only heard about it in the games the kids from the market at Nob play, or from the old folks who say that back before the drought if there was a bad storm you could hear music from the Kingdom Above the Sun come down with the rain. But now it’s hard to tell if it’s myth or not. I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone refer to it as a real place. I’m asleep in minutes—the last thing I hear is Tig’s rumbling lullaby. I know he is only dozing, one eye slightly cracked on the tunnels, the door, and Chatter, watching, waiting. He’s protective of me. I appreciate that. Not that I would ever tell him. Not that he would ever admit it to me. But I promise myself if we get home in one piece maybe I’ll say “thank you.”

Chapter 16

I
dream of home. Mom is there. I can see. She is wearing the red dress and laughing with Dad. Dad is laughing, too. That’s how I know it’s a dream. They are about to sit down to eat dinner, but there are only two settings. I look around for my corner, my bed and chest of drawers. It isn’t there. Nothing of mine is in the room. I don’t exist. I try to reach up and tug at Mom’s sleeve, but I can’t move. I can’t yell. Dad laughs at something Mom says. It is a full, deep laugh. A wonderful laugh. I wake up with a start, breathing fast. Tig is asleep. I can feel him twitching and murmuring. I gently stroke his silky fur and drift back into oblivion.

A full night’s sleep makes the world a different place. I feel like we might make it. Chatter’s first comment after breakfast is therefore startling.

“Not that I would r-r-recommend it, but I s-s-suppose you’re going to follow King Mactogonii?” Chatter asks in what I am beginning to understand is her usual breathless excitement.

“I’m sorry?” I say.

“Well, I assumed th-that’s why you were here, to f-f-find and assist King Mactogonii, although that w-w-will probably end in pointy teeth or boiling p-p-pits.”

“Not at all,” I say, not disguising the surprise in my voice. “We told you, we were chased into the Valley of Fire a week ago by mercenaries, thugs really. We barely escaped rock basilisks, and we’ve been in the Kingdom of Crypta for three days. We’re just trying to get home.”

Chatter is silent for a rare moment. “That’s wise. B-B-But you say home? To the K-K-Kingdom of Mar? It’s still th-there?”

I shake my head, confused by her comment. “Of course it’s still there. Why wouldn’t it be? I mean, it’s a little dry and there’s the rebellion, but our kingdom is still there.”

Chatter clicks her teeth and scampers around the room twice before stopping in her original spot. Then she continues in a shrill voice. “I think it was r-r-ridiculous but the k-k-king didn’t troop all the way out here for nothing. He knew the K-K-Kingdom of Mar was about to collapse, and I don’t m-m-mean a rebellion, or even the d-d-drought. Although I’m sure b-b-both of those things will make it much w-w-worse before it’s all over. The d-d-daemon is using the Cauldron to b-b-build an army. A couple of weeks ago things started m-m-moving in the Gray Wastelands, big n-n-nasty things. I thought maybe the d-d-daemon had started the attack. Mactogonii said the army w-w-would march around the Valley of Fire, so w-w-without overthrowing the d-d-daemon, you won’t have a home to r-r-return to. At least not for l-l-long. That’s why I asked if you were here to h-h-help the king somehow, except I would have th-thought you’d have been b-b-bigger, and possibly more of you,” she says, without taking a breath.

“I wish we’d been bigger and more of us, too,” I whisper out of the side of my mouth to Tig. “That just confirms it then,” I say. “We have to get out of here and back to Mar. We can warn them.”

“That’s the s-s-spirit! Except you c-c-can’t survive up there,” says Chatter. “Nothing s-s-survives the wind, even if the d-d-dragons wouldn’t get you. The d-d-dragons wouldn’t even be here if n-n-not for the d-d-daemon. Not that the wind b-b-bothers them. It’s because of the d-d-daemon. If the d-d-daemon didn’t feed them there j-j-just wouldn’t b-b-be anything to eat.”

“If dragons can survive out here so can we,” I counter, hoping she gets the point. We are going home; nothing can stop that.

“What courage, but l-l-listen,” says Chatter in what she must think is a patient voice but instead comes across as whining. “There’s no w-w-water in the desert, but if there is it steams and b-b-boils in the sun. If the trees hadn’t been t-t-turned to st-st-stone they would have b-b-burned a long t-t-time ago. Only the d-d-dragons or desert wyrms and a few other c-c-creatures, none of them very p-p-pleasant, can survive in the G-G-Gray Wastelands.”

“Mmm, I agree that nothing around here is very pleasant,” says Tig. I ball my fists and press them against my forehead.

“Tig, be nice,” I say. I turn back to Chatter. “Others have done it. The Urodela escaped. And the heroes crossed the desert twice. And then apparently you led King Mactogonii across as well.” I am getting a little annoyed. “What alternative do we have?”

“The Urodela f-f-fled for their lives when this was st-still a swamp, and thousands d-d-died. King Mactogonii told me that the Urodela have a s-s-song about the R-R-Redlan River called the ‘River of Poured Out S-S-Sorrows.’ The heroes crossed the desert because they’re h-h-heroes, and there were hundreds of them the s-s-second time. Even then they had to f-f-fight b-b-beasties all the way to the St-St-Stone Forest and still several of them d-d-died. The k-k-king tried to c-c-cross alone, undetected, in s-s-secret, and he nearly d-d-died. So it just seems extraordinary that you w-w-would attempt a f-f-feat that looks impossible.”

I change course since this line of conversation is getting us nowhere. “What can you tell me about the Cauldron? And what about the daemon?” I ask. “He lives near here?”

“I only know what K-K-King Mactogonii told me while we were t-t-traveling. I led him for t-t-two days, so there was a lot of t-t-time for him to t-t-talk. He didn’t talk as much as I did but that’s b-b-because I’m just more interesting.”

“Right,” I interrupt, “but about the Cauldron . . .”

“Oh, yes, the B-B-Burning Cauldron is the source of the d-d-daemon’s army and much of his p-p-power, according to your king. It’s some kind of p-p-portal. King Mactogonii said that’s wh-wh-where the d-d-daemon came from, and now he’s b-b-bringing other things through, too.”

“How did the daemon get through?” I ask, my curiosity piqued. I’d never heard it called “the Burning Cauldron.”

“I don’t know
how
he g-g-got through,” says Chatter, definitely exasperated now. “I think s-s-something about the C-C-Cauldron makes both the wind and the heat. He c-c-controls it somehow. He f-f-feeds the d-d-dragons stuff that comes out of the p-p-portal so some of the d-d-dragons will do what he s-s-says. Everything he’s b-b-brought through the portal is impervious to this d-d-desert. You aren’t hearing me! You m-m-might not have a home in two w-w-weeks, and here you are, and have a ch-ch-chance to do something about it! But I w-w-would recommend you try to avoid t-t-teeth and slime and f-f-fire and sandstorms.”

“Why are you so pushy?” I ask, “Really, what can I do except try to get home and warn the kingdom?”

Chatter raises her voice to a frustrated bark. “Warning won’t do any g-g-good!” Her shrill little voice cuts through the tunnel. “Don’t you s-s-see? Something more is n-n-needed! King Mactogonii b-b-believed that! You’re so insistent on f-f-facing insurmountable d-d-dangers to go home, but you can’t s-s-see that since you’re already here n-n-now, you might be able to do s-s-something about it!”

“What do you mean I have a chance to do something? I’m nobody!” I shout. “And, I’m blind!”

“Are you?” says Chatter. She’s quiet for a moment. Tig’s tail is swishing back and forth in a regular, angry rhythm. “I’m s-s-sorry, I thought you just c-c-couldn’t see because we were in the t-t-tunnels. King Mactogonii couldn’t s-s-see down here, either.”

I blush. I didn’t mean to make her feel sorry for me. She and Tig can see in the tunnels, and it would be natural that I couldn’t see down here. The issue hadn’t come up.

“She’s b-b-blind?” asks Chatter again, but this time to herself. I raise an eyebrow. “That’s interesting,” she says and begins clicking her teeth again. “P-P-Perhaps the doors . . .” Her attitude changes before I can interrogate. “I’ll t-t-take you as close as I can to the Kingdom of M-M-Mar, even though it may n-n-not be there by the time you r-r-reach it, but f-f-follow me,” she says, scampering out a left-hand tunnel.

“Why is that ‘interesting’?” I ask Tig as I grab my pack and head after her.

“No idea,” he responds, his voice flat, but I know it’s bothering him, too. “But I don’t like the idea of following a coward. She’ll run at the wrong moment, and that could be it for us.” I don’t respond. We don’t have a choice.

Chatter is, well, chatty. She talks and whistles away, telling us about the tunnels, stories of what the swamp had been like years ago, King Mactogonii’s quirks. I had no idea he clicks his tongue in his sleep or hums when he’s pleased. Actually, I didn’t really know anything at all about him. Tig is strangely quiet during Chatter’s nonstop flow of information. I note the irregularity. Tig rarely allows a conversation to go uninterrupted.

If I wasn’t so distracted myself I would poke him in the back and ask if the cat’s got his tongue. Instead I follow his tail, and let Chatter’s voice wash over me. The tunnel is smooth stone most of the time, high enough for me to walk. At times we take a fork, or it turns to hard dirt, or gets narrow, but there aren’t enough landmarks or dramatic changes to track without being familiar with the tunnels, so I stop trying. Thoughts of family and what to do if they aren’t at the farm are interrupted when Chatter stops.

“There’s a d-d-door above us here, we’ll j-j-just pop up to have a l-l-look,” she says.

I can almost feel Tig arch his eyebrows and shrug. We follow up a narrower sloping tunnel, and I can feel the cool stale tunnel air turn hot and stuffy.

“Qu-qu-quiet now,” hisses Chatter.

“Look who’s talking,” I hiss back. The air goes from hot to burning and sweat breaks out on my forehead above my blindfold. “Wow, that’s hot,” I whisper. I hear a rock scrape aside and what sounds like brush being moved. The wave of hot air is almost overwhelming. In that second I get a taste of what Chatter was trying to tell us about nothing surviving here. I crawl forward after Tig anyway.

“Stay low,” says Tig. I feel him halt about a foot in front of me and give a low growl. “What’s the idea, ringtail?” A buzzing shoots up my spine.

“I wanted you to s-s-see it. To know it’s b-b-beginning,” says Chatter in a small, panicked voice.

“Know what?” I ask in a fierce whisper.

“The d-d-daemon’s army,” she says.

“What do you see, Tig?” I ask, trying to suck in a breath of air, but it’s too hot, and I gag instead.

“We’re on a rise looking north, Ess. There are thousands down there.” Tig’s tail lashes against my face.

“What are they?”

“I can’t tell. They walk upright, two legs, two arms, like humans, but these aren’t humans. For starters, they’re too big.” Tig’s chest starts a low growl that continues through the rest of his description. “They move too awkwardly. Their arms are too long, their legs too short. Their bodies look just like hard black shells, like those horned beetles that eat wood. Their heads are like a beetle’s, too, really small, and they tuck them down into their body.”

“Do they have weapons? Do they look dangerous?” I ask. I can hear the muffled movements now—the far away sound of confused tramping thumps and the clink of metal on metal.

“They’re armed for battle, Ess. Big, ugly cleavers. There are arcus vultures flying overhead.” Tig’s tone changes, and he gives a short spit. “What is that?” He backs into the hole a step. His tail is very bushy.

“A d-d-desert wyrm,” whispers Chatter. Her teeth clack together a few times. “They l-l-lived under the Smoking Mountains far to the N-N-North, but the d-d-daemon brought them here several y-y-years ago. They eat anything.”

“What does it look like, Tig?” I ask.

“Its head is the size of our house. It’s moving like an inchworm, dragging its tail and some kind of stinger behind. It has great black horns all around its head and a round, tentacle-filled mouth.”

“That sounds awful,” I interrupt.

A high-pitched “screeeeee” floats to us from the plain below. Tig spits again and backs another few inches into the hole.

“The w-w-wyrm,” says Chatter in explanation.

I have to know one more thing. “Where are they going?”

Tig is quiet for a moment, even his low growl has ceased. The hot air surrounds me, and my clothes stick to my body as my skin pricks.

“They’re headed southeast.” I know what he’s thinking. There isn’t anything to the southeast except the Kingdom of Mar, Uncle Cagney, Nob, Lilan Garrig, my parents, and our little farm, nestled against the Valley of Fire.

“Too many, too c-c-close, c-c-closer than I thought they would b-b-be,” says Chatter. “We should get b-b-back underground.”

We duck back into the tunnel, and I’m grateful as the hot rush of air slows. Chatter scrambles past, her thick tail so bushy it is bigger than she is. We crawl back down, each step cooler.

“We have to do something,” says Tig, again breaking character. He rarely volunteers for anything. This, perhaps more than anything we have heard so far, shakes me.

I take a deep breath and press my knuckles against the fabric over my eyes. “I agree. We
should
do something.” I put a careful emphasis on
should
. “But what can we do besides warn Mom and Dad?” I ask, a pleading in my voice.

Chatter volunteers her advice. “Not that it’s s-s-safe, but it m-m-might be safer than heading back to your K-K-Kingdom of Mar. Y-Y-you could find your k-k-king. He knew something about how to st-st-stop this army and the d-d-daemon. Maybe you c-c-can even find what he n-n-needed in the Kingdom above the S-S-Sun. I wouldn’t advise it b-b-but if you insist on d-d-doing more than staying s-s-safe in the t-t-tunnels I can take you to the door in the Reach Mountains, and t-t-tell you everything I know on the way.”