Ravenous (8 page)

Panic streams up my arms, but I shove it down. I don't have time to panic.

Instead, I run. I follow his waving arms and bobbing head and hindquarters in the faint cave light. I must figure something out. Or follow the river until he finds something to grab onto.

I will not lose him like I lost my friends.

The only good thing is that since Dalen had a hard time passing through this cave, so will the men chasing us. In fact, this may be the perfect way to lose them entirely.

Provided, of course, Dalen doesn't die in the process.

I run with all my might, ignoring my sore muscles and the vise of fear that seems to be squeezing my chest, but the
river is faster than me. It tosses him around a bend, and out of my line of sight. The faint sounds of slow hoof steps echo from the cave entrance.

It won't be easy for them to follow, I remind myself. Maybe they'll give up. Sure, it might be nice to have a hybrid to sell off, but he's not worth risking their necks over.

I take the turn as fast as I dare, and relief floods over me at the sight of moonlight at the end of the cave tunnel. A way out.

Dalen flies right through it. He might be hurt. I can't imagine trying to maneuver a horse body underwater, not with the violent current tugging me along. And yet he doesn't cry out. Does he know it would give us away?

I don't know that even I could manage that.

What if he's unconscious? His lungs could be filling with more water every second I delay.

I pick up the pace and burst out into the moonlit night. No horses and riders threaten, no wild animals near.

No Dalen, either. Nothing at all.

My heart pounds in my chest, and I ball my hands into fists at my sides as I catch my breath. The memory of tentacles slapping wet rocks reverberates in my mind and drives me to my knees. A girl's scream echoes for ages. The stickiness of salt coats my skin, making it itch. Then I scratch too deeply, the sharpness stinging me back to the present.

I can't leave poor Dalen treading water. Or worse, underwater.

I take off, scanning the river for any sign of a horse or boy. Or any large obstructions that the water has to run
over. My legs burn and all I want to do is lie down and sleep. But I can't rest until I have my centaur back. He wouldn't leave me behind if it were me in that river.

On my way, I find a sturdy-looking stick that isn't too unwieldy. I grab it, then keep on running. It's useless if I can't find him, but I'm operating under the assumption I will.

Up ahead, a tree branch appears to be stuck in the river.

And then a head, hair dripping with water, bursts over the waves, and gasps.

“Dalen!” I cry, then clamp my free hand over my mouth. What a stupid thing to do. Even Dalen knew better.

Fortunately, no sounds of pursuit follow. At least, not yet.

I reach the branch Dalen clings to and tug on it with all my might. It's more like a tree half submerged in the water than a branch, and it doesn't budge so much as creak. It makes me nervous. A wild look takes hold in Dalen's eyes. “Please, Greta. Get me out of this water,” he sputters.

“Of course I will,” I say, faking all the bravado I can muster, as though pulling centaurs out of rivers is something I do each day before breakfast.

I use the branch I picked up on my way over to reach out as far as I dare and still keep my own feet planted on the riverbank. I'm keenly aware of any slight shifts or give in the silt below my feet. One false move, and we'll both be in the water.

He grabs onto the end, and it's all I can do not to tumble headlong after. He's much heavier than I expected, and
he's weighed down by all the water he has soaked up and swallowed.

“Come on, kick your legs to help move your body to the bank.”

Another wave washes over his face, slurring whatever response he makes.

He shakes his head, terror and relief mixing in his expression, and I wonder if one of his legs is broken.

Slowly but surely, I drag Dalen toward the bank against the current, while he pulls himself closer hand over hand on the submerged tree. Finally, he reaches the edge, and with one last tug he pushes off with his legs and he is up and over the bank. He scrambles to get as far from the edge as possible. I'm relieved nothing appears to be broken, especially his legs.

I pat his back while he coughs up river water.

“Remind me to never go swimming again,” he says.

I laugh with relief. “If I'd had any idea you were planning to dive in, I would've discouraged you.”

He rests on the grass for a moment, staring up between the trees. “Where are we?”

For the first time, I look around us—really look around us—and realize the trees are different here. Not many pine and birch and oak, but more spindly trees, shorter and newer. And more vines and greenery.

Truth is, I have no idea where we are.

We are completely lost.

WE WERE TOO EXHAUSTED TO DO ANYTHING BUT MAKE CAMP LAST
night. I helped Dalen dry off and start a small fire. We risked giving away our position, but if we hadn't warmed him up, he might have become ill, and that was just as risky. At first he shivered violently, but while the fire's heat warmed his muscles, I read him fairy tales until he fell into a fitful sleep.

The pack was latched onto Dalen tightly enough that he managed to keep most of the contents. It weighed him down and didn't help his rescue, but I'm grateful to have it.

Even if it is still damp.

Our food, however, did not fare so well. Most of the bread and cheese is ruined, and the bits of jerky we had left are disgusting. We'll have to catch our meals now. Water we have in abundance.

Our breakfast this morning consists of a bit of bread and some of the fruit I had stored in my own pack. We split it between us, and my stomach still growls. At least it isn't raining today.

“Keep an eye out for birds and rabbits,” I say as we set out from the camp. “We might have to have an early lunch.”

Dalen's stomach grumbles in response. He raises an eyebrow, and I laugh.

“Glad to see you agree.”

“Who were those men who chased us last night? How do you know them?” Dalen asks.

“They're part of a band of mercenaries Ensel hired. He paid them to fight for him, guard his castle, things like that. The only loyalty he trusted was to gold.” I lower my voice. “The man in the tavern said Ensel never paid them for the final battle; he died first. They claim they've taken over the city of Belladoma.”

Dalen cocks his head. “This is bad, I take it?”

I sigh. “Very. These are terrible men.”

“It sounds like this may impact our ability to hunt for the cornucopia.”

I groan. “Impact? It will bring it to a screeching halt.” If those brutes have the run of the city, finding the cornucopia will be next to impossible. I can't just walk up the steps of the castle and hope they let me inside to search for something they'd probably love to have for themselves.

“Then we shall have to stay ahead of them. Does this place seem more familiar in the light of day?” he asks, but I shake my head.

“No, if anything it looks less familiar. I have no idea where we are.” The trees are of a different variety than those in Bryre or what I saw on the road to and from Belladoma. I'm accustomed to the old-growth pines and oaks with an occasional birch, but these come in two varieties: thick and short, or tall and spindly. The larger trees have branches that reach out to connect to the others nearby, creating an almost continuous cover of foliage. Everything is filtered in a hazy green light. Long vines hang down from the branches, and they make me nervous. Ever since those nasty briars crept through my city, I've been wary of them. These are different—and don't have thorns—but the way they whisper over our shoulders is unsettling.

Dalen frowns, then shrugs. “We should try to find that village again. That ought to get us back on track. Those men aren't likely to stick around and wait for us, are they?”

I ponder for a moment. “I don't think so. Not all of them anyway. But we'll need to be careful. They saw you. That's why they chased us.”

“Why? What would they want—” His face darkens. “My parts . . .” he says slowly. “My parts are valuable because they're rare and have magic in them. I am worth more to them dead than alive.”

A sick feeling pours over me, but I nod. “Not all humans are kind, I'm afraid.”

He doesn't say anything more. He turns so I can't see his face and finishes packing up the blankets we laid out to dry the night before. Soon we head back in what we hope is the direction we came, this time cautiously taking the long way
around the mountain with the cave. We're in deep forest here, and no sign of a road presents itself. We may have to walk for a while before we reach civilization again.

But before we get far, an owl hoots—near the ground—and it stops me in my tracks.

“What is it, Greta?” Dalen asks, frowning.

I turn in a slow circle, looking to find the source of the sound. “I'm not sure. But I . . . I keep seeing and hearing an owl near us. It's almost like we're being followed.”

“By an owl?”

“Not quite.” I shiver, remembering the striped tail. I'm honestly not sure what it was I saw, but everything odd has me on edge lately. “Owls aren't usually out during the day.”

I take a few steps, then pause. Something shuffles in the underbrush between trees. I head for a small clearing a few feet away. Sure enough, the rustling follows now that I'm listening for it.

When we reach the center of the clearing, I turn toward the rustling. Beady eyes stare back from behind a low bush. This time Dalen sees it too, and tenses next to me.

“Don't owls keep to the trees?” he says.

“Not this one, apparently.” I draw my knife from my belt, just in case it's rabid.

The creature tilts its head at us, then to my surprise steps cautiously out from under the bush. At first, my brain doesn't fully register what I see before me. Then cold horror slithers over my skin.

It must be one of the wizard's creations. Maybe it was one
of the rejects he used to practice his disgusting magic before he created Kymera. But what in the realm could it be doing here?

From the neck up, the creature has an owl's head, and no doubt its keen senses, too. But the rest of the body is gray and furry, and it has the small paws of a mammal. Its tail is striped like a raccoon's, but it's shorter than it should be. Almost like someone or something cut it off. Maybe it was caught in a trap and it got away with all but the end of it.

The raccowl takes a tentative step forward and tilts its head—all the way around.

“That cannot be natural,” Dalen says. “And that says a lot coming from a hybrid.”

I snort. “It isn't. It has to be one of the wizard's failed projects. That's the only thing that makes sense.”

“What should we do with it?”

“Do with it? Nothing. Raccoons are scavengers. It probably thinks our leftovers would be an easy meal.” Not that we have leftovers with our food getting ruined last night, but I can't blame it for trying.

Dalen examines the creature thoughtfully, and it seems to regard him with the same consideration. “It does look hungry. We could feed it.”

My fingers run over the small scars from the peck marks the wizard's goat-chickens left on my arms. I'll never underestimate one of the wizard's creations, but I almost feel sorry for this one. Kymera found her original family, Pippa the sperrier has Delia, and even those awful goat-chickens have the chicken hut.

This creature doesn't have anyone. Kind of like Hans and me.

I shrug. “If you insist.” The little beast shambles over to Dalen's front legs and weaves between them, flicking its stubby tail. “It doesn't seem to be rabid, at least.”

Dalen tosses the raccowl a bit of dried meat, which it holds in its paws and pecks, devouring the treat in a matter of seconds.

Slowly but surely we press on until the trees become more familiar. The raccowl follows us closely, almost like it thinks it's joined our group. I wonder what lands are beyond the river, but this is not the time for that sort of exploration. Maybe someday, but not without Hans.

The old familiar ache returns. Are my parents out there? What really happened to them? Could someone have taken them like the witch took Hans? The way Mama would smile and tuck my unruly dark hair behind my ears while we cooked supper together haunts me still. As does how Papa would look so proud when he gave us sparring lessons and I scored a hit. They wouldn't have just left us.

I find myself sneaking glances at Dalen all morning. At first I'm not sure why. Perhaps I feel a bond with him because he lost part of his family too, and the rest is in danger until we deliver the cornucopia to the witch. I can't quite explain the relief that billows every time I see his face. I'm glad he didn't drown in the river, and I worry about what might happen to him if the mercenaries were to get hold of him.

Everyone who's dear to me has left or been taken.

I don't like the idea of entering Belladoma without him.
It's a strange, dizzying thing to feel I need someone's help. I've always been able to depend on myself alone. But he feels for my plight, risks much, and is willing to help for nothing in return save my continued silence about the existence of his hybrid species.

That isn't something one finds often.

If Dalen notices my distraction when we stop to cook a rabbit for lunch, he doesn't remark on it, and for that I'm grateful. He does remark again on how scrawny the raccowl looks as its unsettling eyes watch us from the tree line. It may want food, but it's wary of fire.

“Since he's followed us all this way, I think we should name him. I've decided to call him Stump,” Dalen says, chewing on a piece of rabbit meat.

I laugh. “Stump. Because of his tail?” Then I shake my head. “Don't get attached. He's a wild thing. He won't stick around.” I neglect to mention he's been following us for two days. I can't imagine what he wants, aside from food.

When we finally draw close to the village, Stump circles in front of me to cut off my path. I frown and sidestep him, and he nips the tail of my cloak.

“What was that for?” I say. Stump merely tilts his head in response.

Dalen grabs my arm. “Look, Greta.”

The buildings of the village peek through the trees, and pungent woodsmoke steadily approaches, billowing through the forest like fog.

Strangest of all, brilliant flames dance over the rooftop of the inn and tavern.

We blink in disbelief. We're well hidden in the shadows of the woods, but we can see the villagers running to and fro, none of their water buckets able to douse the fire. It burns the water up too.

“Magic.” I mutter it like a curse. It is the only explanation. But who would have—

Oh no.

Dalen and I exchange a look, and I can tell we're thinking the same thing.

“The mercenaries.
They
must have done this. A man at the tavern said they were cleaning up after the wizard,” I say. Dalen grips his pack a little tighter, unable to pull his eyes away from the flames.

But how would they have gotten their rotten little hands on magic? Do they know where the wizard once lived? Or did they happen upon it by chance?

If the mercenaries are able to use magic, my task in Belladoma will be much more dangerous than I ever imagined. The city of my nightmares, bubbling over with horrors.

I shudder. I can't decide which is worse—wizard pretenders or that awful witch in the wandering chicken house. I'll have to take my chances with the pretenders and hope it all works out for the best.

Dalen paws the ground nervously. “We should leave here immediately.”

I agree, and we take off at a brisk pace, putting as much distance between us and the village as possible.