Darkwing (13 page)

“Maybe you should! And maybe we’d be better off with her as leader.”

“Don’t you dare say that!”

He was startled by his own fury, and Sylph must have been too, because she flinched. For a moment neither said anything.

“If you’d broken that egg,” Dusk told Sylph more calmly, “the birds would’ve retaliated, and things would’ve just got worse. You’re not going to try this again, are you?”

She glared at him.

“Sylph, promise me, or I’m telling Dad everything.”

“Fine,” she snapped. “I won’t do anything. But I don’t see why we should be the forgiving ones.”

“You don’t have to forgive them; just don’t retaliate.”

“You sound like Dad,” she scoffed. “He’s trying to do his best for us.”

“Is he? What about you? You could fly, and now he’s forbidden it. Doesn’t that make you angry?”

“Yes. But not at Dad.”

This wasn’t completely true, but he knew his resentment was unfair. Dad was just trying to keep the peace, and the price of peace meant taking something precious from his own son.

“When are you going to realize that Dad isn’t perfect?” Sylph said. “He’s wrong sometimes, Dusk, and he’s too proud to admit it. He was wrong to abandon the Pact, and he was wrong to punish you instead of the birds!”

“No—”

“If I were you,” his sister said passionately, “I wouldn’t stop flying. It makes you as big a coward as Dad.” And then she glided away from him.

At first, the prey was completely unsuspecting.

Carnassial surprised many groundlings, pouncing upon them
before they could bolt. But even a single kill—the frenzied sounds and smell of it vaulting through the humid air—was enough to make all the nearby beasts wary. And day by day the hunting became more difficult as news of Carnassial and his meat-eating prowl outpaced them through the forest.

Padding stealthily through the twilight undergrowth now, Carnassial sensed everything grow watchful and quiet. The groundlings were hiding. Up in the trees, the beasts climbed higher, concealing themselves behind foliage.

After a lifetime of eating plants and insects, Carnassial found hunting hard work. Sometimes it took an entire morning or evening to make a kill. The beasts they did manage to run down tended to fight back hard now. They clawed, bit, and often escaped. Carnassial found it exhilarating, but he worried that his weakest hunters might desert him, foolishly thinking they could return to Patriofelis and their old lives. Some in his prowl, like Miacis, were natural hunters, sly and cunning as they stalked their prey, and relentless when they struck. But a few hadn’t yet managed to catch anything at all, and had to rely on the scraps of others. Carnassial watched and took note of the weak and the strong.

Yesterday the hunting had been particularly meagre. They’d resorted to their old foods to keep their bellies full. But every time Carnassial ate a grub or root he felt ashamed. He wanted meat. They would have to become better hunters, especially now that the beasts were becoming more and more vigilant.

Carnassial leapt up into the low branches of a tree and, as he suspected, heard the scrabble of claws on bark higher up. His teeth clenched hungrily, his eyes vanquished the shadows. He would make a kill. He was an agile climber, and though he could not scale a sheer trunk for long, he could leap from branch to branch, his hooked claws giving him ample purchase.

Above him, Carnassial caught sight of a blunt-nosed ptilodus, a white stripe running down the reddish brown fur of its back, from head to tail. It wasn’t alone; there was a whole family of them, all scurrying towards the trunk, squeaking in terror.

Carnassial leapt onto the higher branch and gave chase. In dismay he watched as they disappeared into a small hollow in the tree’s trunk. He came close and pressed his face against it, and reached in with his paw, only to be nipped hard. He pulled back, spitting and fuming, and paced the branch, wondering what to do next.

His eyes lifted and he saw the dark outlines of birds settling for the night, preening. One sat on a nest.

His mouth filled with saliva. It had been a long time since he’d fed on eggs.

He’d never attempted to hunt birds; they could simply fly away. But their eggs could not.

He climbed the tree. The mother in the nest set up a shriek, flapping towards him, but Carnassial did not falter. He was hungry, and he would eat meat tonight. He reached the branch and leapt down its length towards the nest, swatting and snapping as the bird strafed him. “Stay away! Stay away!” she wailed.

The mother was in a fury, scratching him with her claws, pecking at his head, but he was bigger. He bounded into the nest. “Egg-eater!” shrieked the mother. “Egg-eater!”

She raked him with her claws. There were three eggs. The shells were much thinner than the saurian eggs, and cracked easily under the weight of just his paws. But he only had time to eat one of the unhatched chicks before more birds joined the winged maelstrom over his head. Even he could not keep them all at bay.

He leapt from the nest and down to the next branch, his wounds stinging.

“There are many who will come to eat your eggs before long!” Carnassial howled back at them. “The world is changing!”

“Beware,” the mother bird shrilled in outrage. “Beware, beast! The hunters too can be hunted.”

Carnassial snorted with derision and continued down the tree. Now that the saurians were gone, he was the only hunter of any consequence. And he would continue to hone his skills and eat meat—and reign, as he was meant to do.

Sylph was avoiding him. She didn’t even ask if he wanted to go hunting any more; in fact, she’d hardly spoken to him since he’d caught her in the bird nest. He hadn’t told Mom and Dad. He’d kept her secret. But she was far from grateful. He kept waiting for her to come and tell him he’d been right, and thank him for stopping her. He’d saved her from the worst mistake of her life, but somehow she still managed to be angry with him, and glide off with her mangy little friends.

Dusk missed her terribly. All their lives they’d never been far from each other, gliding together, jostling in the nest, grooming at day’s beginning and end. Without her near, he felt he was only half living. He found it infuriating that she was disgusted with him for not flying. What did she expect him to do?

Mom and Dad seemed fed up with him as well. The first few days he’d refused to glide, his mother had been kind and sympathetic, but now she just shook her head sadly, as if she didn’t know what would become of her poor, odd son. This morning Dad had barked at him to grow up and stop sulking—and then
had pushed him off the branch. Dusk had glided, but only for a few minutes, fuming the whole time. Dad had no way of knowing what it was like to be able to fly, and then not.

He wanted to avoid the sequoia altogether now, but that was just another thing he wasn’t allowed to do. Mom told him to stop venturing off into the forest. Everyone was nervous about the birds now, and Dusk saw a lot of parents keeping a closer eye on their newborns. Icaron had even declared the Upper Spar off limits for the time being.

So Dusk wandered the sequoia, eating aphids and larvae. Being amongst the colony, yet ignored by everyone, made him feel lonelier than when he was truly alone. But it was amazing the things he overheard while crawling along the underside of a branch, or resting concealed in a fissure in the bark. The tree was alive with chatter, mostly about his father, and the birds.

“… saurians at heart, that’s what they are …”

“… been waiting for a chance like this for centuries …”

“… wouldn’t have stood for this ten years ago …”

“… getting old, that’s why …”

“… he’s just inviting the birds to do it again …” Even though he was angry with Dad, every time he heard something said against him, he felt a double flare of outrage and sadness. It wasn’t just Nova complaining about their leader any more.

His mind felt like a small cave reverberating with too many echoes: the destroyed saurian hatchlings deep in the forest; Sylph climbing into a bird nest; a vast winged creature in the stars. He longed to tell someone about his vision, but he dared not mention it to Mom or Dad. If they heard he’d nibbled a mushroom, they’d probably never let him leave the nest again.

If he was smart he’d just forget the whole incident. A poison mushroom had given him a nightmare—that’s all it was.

But its vividness made it impossible to forget. In his mind he still saw the hot swirl of stars birthing a million winged creatures. They’d had the bodies of chiropters, but naked sails, just like him.

You are new,
the voice had said.

It made his heart pound just to think about it. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be new, not if it meant he was no longer a chiropter. He didn’t care if there
were
others like him. He just wanted Dad and Mom to tell him he was their son, and that he belonged. He’d have to try harder to fit in.

But he could never change the way he looked. And could he ever suffocate his desire to fly? Maybe he could sneak off and do it somewhere no one would see. He’d stay low so not even the birds could spot him.

Ignoring his mother’s wishes, he left the sequoia, passing from tree to tree until he was well out of sight. When he found a good spot he crouched, ready to launch. In his mind he saw Aeolus’s amputated sails; his father’s grave face, asking him to promise. He sagged against the bark, groaning with frustration.

Something shimmered in his peripheral vision, and Dusk looked around in surprise. On the branch above him he caught sight of yellow-feathered chest, the underside of a white throat, a beak. A bright eye flashed.

“Teryx?” Dusk said uncertainly.

“Good—it
is
you,” Teryx warbled with obvious relief. He hopped out into full view. “It was hard to find you, especially when you’re not flying any more.”

Dusk snorted. “Of course I’m not flying! After what you did to our newborn.”

“I didn’t do it,” Teryx chirped indignantly.

“Well, your fellow birds, then,” Dusk said. He couldn’t stop looking at Teryx’s beak, wondering just how much damage it
could inflict. He’d never quite been able to imagine him doing anything so brutal. But maybe he was wrong.

“There are many birds in our flock who hate chiropters,” Teryx said.

“But why?” Dusk demanded.

“They think all beasts are murderers for hunting saurian eggs. We too are egg layers, remember. And when they saw you flying, they were furious. They don’t want you near our skies. Who’s to say you won’t suddenly decide our eggs are prey?”

Dusk was about to object, but remembered Sylph and her friends clambering into the nest with murderous intent. Still, that was different: retaliation, not hunting.

“Was it me they meant to kill?” Dusk asked hesitantly.

“Yes. And they still think they succeeded. But when I saw the body, I could tell the markings were different and I knew it wasn’t you. I didn’t say anything, in case they were determined to keep trying.”

“It was a friend of my sister’s.”

“I had nothing to do with it. Believe me,” Teryx said. “We’re not all so bloodthirsty.”

Dusk remembered the terrible dawn chorus the birds had sung after they’d murdered Aeolus.

“Your mother seemed pretty bloodthirsty when she chased me off.”

“She’s protective,” said Teryx. “Any mother would have done the same. You were in our territory after all.”

“You’re in mine now.”

“I know, but I came to tell you something.” Teryx’s head jerked from side to side, as though checking to make sure no one was watching. “There’s something dangerous coming.” Dusk’s heart kicked. “On the island?”

“On the mainland.”

“Is it saurians?”

“No. Felids. A large group of them, migrating up the coastline.”

“What kind of creatures are they?” he asked. He’d never heard of felids. “Beasts,” Teryx told him.

Dusk exhaled in relief. Fellow beasts. “Why would they be a danger?”

“They’re hunting other beasts,” Teryx said.

“But that’s not allowed!” Dusk exclaimed. “Is it?”

“They’re attacking birds too. They’ve been eating eggs out of our nests. I think that must be one of the reasons my flock killed your newborn. They’re worried you chiropters might start doing the same.”

“But we’ve never tried to eat your eggs!”

“I know,” said Teryx. “But my flock is scared. And you should be too. These felids are monsters.”

“Are they big?” Dusk asked, trying to steady his voice. “Bigger than us.”

“But we’ll be safe on the island,” Dusk said hopefully. “Not if they decide to cross.”

“It’s really hard, though.” Dusk remembered what his father had said. “The sand bridge doesn’t last for long. They probably wouldn’t even spot it.”

“It depends how vigilant they are,” the bird replied.

“It’s fine for you,” said Dusk, feeling suddenly resentful. “All you have to do is fly away if they come.”

“You can fly too.”

“I’m forbidden, thanks to your lot. Anyway, I’m the only one who can fly.”

“We can’t take our nests with us,” Teryx pointed out.

“That’s true,” said Dusk, regretting his outburst.

“I told you because I wanted you to be ready. In case they come,” Teryx said. His head flicked about nervously. “I should go now.”

“Wait. Why are you telling me all this?”

“Yesterday, I saw you stop the others from killing the eggs.” Dusk stiffened. He’d been hoping desperately that no one had seen.

“Don’t worry,” Teryx chirped quickly. “I didn’t tell anyone else.” Dusk swallowed. If the birds had found out, there surely would have been more attacks, maybe even a war.

“They were friends of the chiropter who got killed,” Dusk said, feeling he needed to explain. “They wanted revenge, so they decided to act alone. Our leader didn’t tell them to do it.”

“I understand. Thank you for stopping them,” said Teryx, and he fluttered up and disappeared into the branches.

“Dad, I spoke with the bird again,” Dusk told Icaron quietly.

It was near midday, and he’d found his father alone in the nest.

“You sought him out?” Icaron asked sharply.

“He found me,” Dusk said quickly. “I never left our territory. He flew down to tell me they’d seen something dangerous coming towards the island. A group of beasts called felids.”

“I know them well,” Icaron said, without any sign of concern.

“You do?”

“Of course. They’re active members of the Pact. They’re our allies.”

“Oh.” Dusk felt both relieved and a bit ridiculous. “But the bird said they were hunting other beasts.”

His father grunted dismissively. “No beast has ever eaten the flesh of others, except maybe as carrion. I wouldn’t pay any attention to this bird. We’ve seen what treachery they’re capable of.”

“But Teryx—”

“You know his name?” Dad’s voice sounded angry. Dusk nodded silently, cursing himself for this slip. “And does he know yours?”

“Yes,” murmured Dusk.

“That was foolish, Dusk, very foolish. And what else does this bird know about you? Does he know you’re the leader’s son?”

“No! I don’t think so, anyway. I never told him.”

“How do you know he wasn’t sent by his elders to spread panic and confusion amongst us?”

In his father’s face and posture was the same bullying fierceness Dusk had seen when he sparred with Nova, or snapped at Sylph. Dusk felt himself shrinking.

“I didn’t think—” he began feebly.

“Who’s to say the birds aren’t trying to scare us off the island altogether?”

Dusk was mortified. He’d never even considered these things. “I expect more of you, Dusk,” his father said, more gently now. “Birds are notorious liars.”

Dusk swallowed. “He didn’t lie about the saurian bones.” Icaron’s eyes flared again, and for a moment Dusk cringed, afraid he was going to be bitten. But then his father sighed and looked away.

“True enough, but I think his aim was to kindle paranoia in our colony. It wasn’t kindly meant. As for this latest piece of information, ask yourself, Dusk, why a bird would want to help us, especially after what they did to Aeolus?”

“Maybe he was just …” He trailed off, wanting desperately to explain how Teryx was thanking him for saving the bird nest, but knowing he couldn’t without getting Sylph in a great deal of trouble.

He sighed. He supposed his father’s theory might be right, but he still didn’t think Teryx was lying. If Teryx had wanted to hurt the colony, he could have told his flock about Sylph’s attack on the nest, and created a hurricane of trouble.

“I just thought it was best to tell,” he said humbly, unable to meet his father’s gaze. “In case the bird was telling the truth.”

“You were right to tell me, Dusk. But ignore what the bird says. This island has kept us safe for twenty years. The water recedes for a very brief time twice a day. Not many beasts would notice, or attempt a crossing.”

“But if they did—”

“Right now, the only creatures that should concern us are the birds. Other beasts have never been a danger. The felids are friends. I’ve never known them to be anything but honourable and peace loving.”

Dusk wasn’t sure it was wise to completely ignore the bird’s warning. He caught himself wondering what Nova would say, and felt disloyal.

“You don’t need to worry so much,” his father said, and nuzzled him.

“I just wonder if the colony should know,” he blurted.

“Trust me, we can spare the colony any more anxiety. You’re shrewd, Dusk, but you’re still a newborn. You can’t know everything. One day perhaps, but not yet.”

Dusk knew he was being gently rebuked, but still felt a grateful rush of reassurance. His father was leader, and had been for decades. Of course everything would be all right.

That afternoon Dusk glided in the clearing. He was hungry, and tired of scrabbling for bugs on the bark. Most of all he was tired of being a skulking recluse. He didn’t want to lick any more poisonous mushrooms and hear voices and see the stars shifting. What he really wanted was for life to go back to normal—or as normal as it could be after all that had happened. It was good to be in the air again, and maybe he didn’t need to fly. He’d try to forget all about it.

He hunted for a while, trying not to care that the other chiropters still steered clear of him. Perhaps that would change in time. He caught some food, including a rather interesting-tasting snipe fly. When he first saw his sister he thought she was going to ignore him. His heart warmed when she pulled alongside. “Thanks,” she said. “For not telling.”

“I did actually,” he said. She looked at him in shock. “What?”