The Empty (33 page)

As Charles drew near, Julia looked up at him. She was a bloody mess, her hands and forearms dripping red from the elbows down, her clothes splattered and stained with the stuff. She registered no surprise at his being there, but simply said. “Give me your jacket. I’ve got to wrap the infant.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Donald rushed through the darkness, his keen night eyes taking in the scene, his head slightly cocked as he sniffed at the subtle breeze in search of Tresset’s scent. He’d already addressed his friend once since the onset of hostilities, but had been brushed away as a nuisance. Now, it was time to try again. Perhaps Tresset would see logic as the true fighting was underway. The scenes about Donald tore at the core of his being—reyaqc slaying reyaqc. Mutilating. Cannibalizing. Repeatedly, he sought to intervene, to force these molts to think, to understand what they were doing and of how senseless it was to slaughter one another. But though none attacked him—perhaps out of deference for Dolnaraq’s standing within reyaqc society—neither did they heed his pleas.

Donald came upon a young reyaqc girl of perhaps five or six years old. She was huddled beneath a pushcart as, ten feet away, three invaders raped her mother. Donald shouted at the attackers, demanded they cease, but only one even glanced in his direction. This one, a coyote-like molt of perhaps sixteen years in age, said, “I know who you are, so I won’t kill you, but don’t try to stop this.” And though Donald pleaded for sensibility and restraint, the three simply howled and ravaged with an increased ferocity. Donald stepped forward, laid a hand on the coyote-molt’s shoulder. The youth whirled on him, his teeth bared.

Donald was frightened to his very foundation.

For deep within, he knew that if he dared intervene further, these youth would kill him. So he took the child from her hiding place, carrying her in his arms while attempting to shield her from the horrible sights about them. She cried, of course, called for her mother, but all Donald could offer was a simple, “There, there,” and a promise that things would change someday.

Coming upon two molts, each circling the other, each preparing to engage in battle, Donald shouted, “There’s no need to do this!”

Neither responded, but rather growled at one another, their circle drawing tighter, the moment of engagement drawing near.

“We can negotiate. Find a reasonable settlement. Address your grievances.”

One of the two, a lanky molt with large pad-like paws at the end of each arm, glanced only momentarily at Donald. “No disrespect, Dolnaraq, but you don’t live the life of a molt. You don’t know.”

“I don’t know!” shot Donald as he pulled the trembling child closer to him yet. “I was a molt. I was raised in a pack such as this—and saw it brought to ruin on a night such as this. I tell you, there’s a better way.”

But as Donald was yet finishing his statement, the two lunged at one another; blood was drawn, the moment lost. And Donald felt a lurch in his chest, a shudder through his frame. For the reyaqc, his people, his family were destroying themselves and he was powerless to effect change. Yes, he had a certain stature within the greater reyaqc community; in some ways he was nearly revered. But he saw now that this clout extended only to word and not to deed. Like wayward teens when confronted with parental wisdom, the reyaqc might nod in agreement at all Donald brought forth, but ultimately he was no more than background noise.

Donald caught Tresset as he marched along the west side of the compound barking orders, directing combatants, and coordinating the evacuation of the females and small pups. Leaving the trembling child with a young female, Donald approached his lifelong associate. “Tresset, we need to speak.”

The chieftain stood erect, chest thrust forward, eyes glimmering in the firelight with a fierce passion known only to those who thrill at the heat of battle. “I’ve no time for discussion, Dolnaraq. Narrish! Lead this group of females to cave seven. Take two additional males with you and leave one there as a guard when you return. Hurry. I’ll need you here.” The slender molt to which Tresset spoke, nodded and hurried off to perform his duties.

“Tresset, this is insane. The reyaqc already face extinction. Are you trying to hurry the process along?”

“Survival of the fittest. Isn’t that what Darwin—one of your precious humans—called it?” Tresset cut to his right. “Mardo, join with Jymis and his group. Work to drive the invaders from the northeastern perimeter. Instruct Hennia to secure the food storage building. We’ll need our provisions once this is concluded.”

Donald followed closely on Tresset’s heals. “Think this through. By engaging in battle, you’re decreasing an already emaciated population.”

Tresset jerked his disinfectant cloth from his pocket and cleansed his hands. They appeared raw from the constant friction. “Dolnaraq! I am not the aggressor. We are attacked. I am coordinating a defense, and in so doing, facilitating less loss of life.”

“We could talk with Bytneht Noavor. Reason with him. Perhaps he’d call off the attack.”

“You’re naive, Dolnaraq. You’ve spent a century studying both human and reyaqc history and yet you are too blind to recognize the nature of both species.” Tresset paused, gazed at Donald for a moment, his expression firm, but not absent compassion. “Speak with Noavor if you please. And pray he doesn’t execute you on sight. But leave me alone. I’ve no time for distractions. Tehmys! Take three molts to the northeast side. Slay those with torches. Quickly. Do you hear me? Go!” Tresset rubbed furiously with his rag.

Naive, thought Donald. No, he was all too aware of the reyaqc condition, the propensity toward violence, the pack instinct, the perpetual aggression of molts. No, his flaw was not in naivety, but in that he yet hoped for change. Would this occur this evening? Of course not. But if these two factions could take even one step away from their barbaric ways and toward a more civilized existence, could this influence other packs? He could hope so, and would continue to hope, for without it, there was little reason to continue.

* * * *

Donald located Bytneht Noavor on a low rise just to the southwest of the compound. In truth, only calling his own well-regarded name allowed him to pass through the ranks unmolested. Noavor stood amidst a small group of followers, barking orders and adapting strategies much as did Tresset. Donald was surprised at the chieftain’s youth, for he could be little over twenty years of age. Donald thought of Tresset at that age and hoped this one carried a more rational perspective than had his friend. Like Tresset, Noavor had chosen a feline as his sustaining species, Donald suspected a cougar, but jaguar was also a possibility.

Noavor was slender and most likely agile. His muscles, taut and ready to spring, rippled beneath his bare flesh. He had shoulder-length blond hair, human-like in appearance, but knotted and ratty. His head was round, ears erect, his teeth white and without fangs. He had a powerful looking neck and jaw. His back, arms, and legs bore no fur, but a short silver-gray coat covered him from the chin down to his upper abdomen. His legs were thick and powerful and his hands and feet large. Even in the uneven light, retractable claws bulged just beneath the surface. The young chieftain laughed as Donald approached. “Dolnaraq! That’s right, isn’t it? You’re Dolnaraq! They told me you were here but I thought it was a rumor. Ha! This is perfect.” Noavor had a cocky swagger about him that Donald found unnerving. This one would be slow to negotiate.

“Bytneht Noavor, I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. May I have a word?”

Noavor laughed and in doing so prompted those about him to do likewise. “‘Make my acquaintance?’ ‘Have a word?’ I didn’t know this was a formal occasion.”

“Formal, no. Urgent, most assuredly.” Donald’s tone was even, his expression neutral.

“Stiff! This one is stiff,” shouted Noavor. “Too many years behind the desk. Ha!” The young molt moved close to Donald, his pale eyes locking onto the elder reyaqc. “Did Bremu send you to negotiate surrender? Is he afraid to meet me face-to-face?”

“I represent nothing more than myself alone and nothing less than the reyaqc species as a whole.”

Noavor clapped his hands in amusement. “Oh, this one is priceless! I think we should keep him.”

Donald glared at the foolish youth. “Bytneht, the reyaqc are endangered. The human world continues to encroach on our minimal territories as our numbers decrease. Soon the human race at large will learn of our existence. It’s amazing that so few have done so already. These ridiculous raids, this senseless taking of reyaqc life doom us all. Our only hope of survival is to unify our efforts, to adapt, to grow as a people so that as the humans become aware of us, we do not appear frightening and barbaric. We cannot be perceived as a threat or we will be slaughtered or caged.”

Noavor smiled. “But, we are a threat.”

“No. It is we who are threatened. Our very existence as a species lies in the balance, yet you continue with this folly.”

Noavor cocked his head and offered a low purring chuckle. “You are a self-important old molt, Dolnaraq. I don’t get it. You know that? I don’t get it.”

“What is it you don’t understand?” Donald’s tone was terse, humorless.

Noavor laughed. “I don’t understand why everyone makes such a big deal out of you. Because all I see is a narrow-minded old molt who thinks he has all the answers. I see a fool of a reyaqc who doesn’t even have the common sense to realize the trouble he’s found.” Noavor turned his attention to those about him, a cocky smirk on his narrow lips. “Dolnaraq seeks to be a savior to the reyaqc. I say we treat him as a proper savior should be treated.”

With that, Noavor’s lieutenants were upon Donald.

CHAPTER FORTY

Two guards hustled the jackrabbit molt to stand before Tresset, the captive trembling to the point of near nausea, his short gray fur on end, his small white eyes darting from side-to-side. Tresset turned, glaring at his people as if they might just be fools. “It took two of you to bring a bunny rabbit forward?” The compound was burning down around them and they wasted their time with this?

The senior of the two molts mumbled an apology and then both scampered away at Tresset’s terse command.

“So,” said Tresset as he moved toward the molt. “You are again brought before me as messenger. Or is it that you were again caught spying?”

The jackrabbit shuffled in place, his right foot thumping involuntarily upon the ground. “I am a messenger only.”

Pathetic. Tresset would never allow one such as this to exist within his ranks.

“Noavor surrenders?” mused Tresset, though he knew better. His compound was falling. Though his molts would likely drive Noavor back, their settlement was in ruin. It would take months to rebuild. No, Noavor was playing his advantage, possibly toying with Tresset, attempting to rile him further, hoping he’d make a catastrophic mistake. Whatever the message was to be, it was a ploy, a maneuver.

“Bytneht Noavor does not surrender,” offered the jackrabbit molt in response to Tresset’s question.

“Then what?” asked Tresset. Already he was playing through possible responses to each imagined scenario. Battles were won by words as well as by bloodshed. He wondered what information he could glean from this cowering molt, if he might best secure information through torture or through guile. Neither, he surmised. It was doubtful that Noavor would entrust any but the most rudimentary tidbits to such a cowardly creature.

The messenger seemed certain to flee, his legs jerking, nose twitching; but somehow he managed to stand his ground. “I bear a demand for your immediate surrender.”

Tresset nearly lunged at the trembling molt, but restrained himself only because the jackrabbit had use as a messenger. No, the battle had not gone well, but they had been caught unawares. Now that his pack had assumed formation, the tide would turn. “You expect me to surrender to that—pup?”

“Bytneht Noavor promises that upon your surrender there will be no further loss of life. Your pack will be absorbed by ours, and you, being the only true liability, would be exiled.”

Liability! Noavor was audacious, that was a certainty. Pulling his cloth from his pocket, Tresset paced before the molt, rubbing the sterile cloth furiously between his hands. “Noavor does not seriously expect me to accept such an offer.” Of course he couldn’t think that. He was goading Tresset, seeking to enrage him. He hoped Tresset would behave rashly, deviate from his strategy. No. Noavor was yet a young fool. Did he really believe Tresset might be duped by such a simple maneuver? Madness. The thought was madness.

“There is another aspect to our position as well,” offered the trembling messenger. And here he stood just a bit taller, his twitching lips curling almost imperceptivity at the corners.

“Yes?” asked Tresset as he stepped one way, then the other, his hands rubbing harder, harder against the cloth.

“Dolnaraq is our captive.”

* * * *

Tresset marched forward, five of his best lieutenants following close behind, the jackrabbit molt leading the way through Noavor’s ranks. Even now, Tresset saw the figure upon the rise just south of the compound. They had stripped Dolnaraq naked, and, using wooden beams from a dilapidated building, had fashioned an x-shaped cross on which to hang him. And though this cross was not the more traditional T, still Tresset knew enough of human history to recognize the imagery. If the circumstances hadn’t been so grim, he might have found the scene amusing. Yes, Dolnaraq did have a bit of a messiah complex at that. But the old fool was well intentioned, he always had been. It was just that his academic mind had difficulty grasping the real world. What made perfect sense in theory did not often play out well in practice. Now here he was, a fool tethered to rotting pieces of wood—bargaining fodder for two warring factions. Pathetic.

Still, he could not pull his eyes from Dolnaraq. His friend’s face was bruised and swollen, his limbs bloodied. A patch of his beard had been ripped free. Even in the dim light of the flaming compound, Tresset saw the way his chest heaved, could almost hear the labored breaths and tight agonized gasps. Dolnaraq was conscious, as was evidenced by the periodic tightening of his arms as he sought to heave himself up on the torturous planks in order to better breathe. But otherwise his chin rested on his breast, his tangled red hair clumping loosely just above his eyes.