The Volunteer (The Bone World Trilogy) (6 page)

I
can't run. Must stay. For the Tribe.
Not that there was
anywhere to run to, he knew.

His eyes were finally adapting to
the dark: enough that he could discern the grey shapes of Clawfolk
shooting over and back across the space and sometimes, too, the sight
of their human prey, evading them, it seemed, all too easily.

He had seen the shelled beasts
hunting many times in the streets of ManWays. As a child, he and his
friends knew no greater entertainment than the watch them stalking
Hairbeasts strong enough to smash through shell with a single blow of
their bone clubs. But the Clawfolk were agile enough that they won
more often than they lost. Nor had they had never been particularly
cruel with their kills. So, why had Cleanhair, and at least one
other, been made to suffer so much?

It took Whistlenose a few moments
to understand the difference between the Clawfolk he had seen in the
past and those before him now. They're children, he realised. This
was where they learned to hunt. Safely. On prey that was too weak or
injured or confused to do them real damage. Cleanhair's slow death
could be explained by nothing more than a lack of experience.

Through the palms of his hands,
he felt the ground tremble. So strange was the feeling, but so slight
that he couldn't be sure it had been real.
Like
the way the light of the Roof dimmed before we came in here.

Then he forgot all about it,
because three shadows had coalesced out of the gloom around him:
juvenile Clawfolk. They stood no more than waist high to him, their
forelimbs waving hypnotically, embedded with the rocks or shards of
old metal they used to kill. He should have stayed put and let them
put an end to his worries and his bad leg forever. Instead, he was
running suddenly towards the centre of the building, weaving and
ducking as new figures popped into existence around him.

Up ahead, the room brightened.
There seemed to be a door there and his feet took him in that
direction, for all he knew that he would never betray the Tribe by
actually escaping. Still, he ran, ignoring the growing, familiar
ache.

Something hit him from above,
landing hard enough to drive him to the floor, sending him sprawling,
scrabbling on torn knees. He had forgotten they liked to hang high
above street-level to drop on their victims! He rolled as claws
smacked next to his face; felt the wind of another strike pass over
his head. And he should have died then, but for some reason the
attack stopped and he dove forward, aiming for the light he'd seen
before. He should be right at it now, at the exit except... except
the door wasn't there any more.
Nothing
was there. His dark-adapted eyes were suddenly useless to him. He
heard... he heard a
rumbling
sound and felt it through the soles of his feet again. It made no
sense: not the complete darkness; not the trembling of the ground.
Whistlenose reached out to find himself standing before a curtain of
hides. It moved easily under his hands. He opened it to the air
beyond, he was sure of that, sure of it. But there was nothing
outside either. No Roof, no streets, no houses. Nothing.

From somewhere high up in the
air, there came a strange, screeching sound. The Roof flickered. Then
the tracklights came on for a heartbeat, followed by the full,
terrible glare of midday. The savage light pulsed once; twice.

And then, the entire building
fell down behind him.

***

A
voice said, "Twisted my ankle. Again!"

Whistlenose groaned, the whole
world a blur. He had his back to a building, his various cuts and
grazes stinging from contact with the moss growing there. He felt
bruised all over and the words he was hearing felt like echoes, or
the whisperings of a ghost.

"Who...?" He coughed,
rubbed his eyes and found he was not alone. Dust hung heavy in the
air, more than he had ever seen before. He couldn't tell where he
was, although he had hunted these streets his whole adult life.

"Don't know why they still
haven't killed us," said the voice. A man. "Probably need
us to stay fresh. Don't want rotting meat in an emergency, right?"

Whistlenose knew where he was now
and it didn't make sense. The giant building in which they were all
supposed to die, lay in ruins. Walls leaned at impossible angles.

He had heard of this kind of
thing before. Houses had fallen in his grandfather's time and the
tunnels of the Diggers were said to have collapsed entire streets.
But this was different; terrifying.

No more than a hundred paces
away, a huge shard, like a spearhead made of bone, rose jaggedly from
the wreckage of another collapsed building.

"It fell from the Roof,"
said the man beside Whistlenose. Charmer. A hunter like himself,
beyond his prime and Volunteered now because of a recent injury. He
waved an arm. "You can see where it came off."

Sure enough, shielding his eyes
from the glare, Whistlenose could see a black triangle in amongst the
panels of the Roof. Other, nearby areas seemed dimmer to him than
usual, but it was hard to say.

"Just as well we're getting
out of this, Whistlenose. We can do some good for the Tribe as
Ancestors."

Hundreds of Clawfolk swarmed
around the wreckage of the slaughterhouse, pulling bodies free. They
made a hissing sound—rare for them. He'd only ever heard it
when they were losing a fight with the Hairbeasts. A sound of
despair, maybe. Or defiance. Curiosity pulled Whistlenose to his
feet. On the far side of Charmer lay another human, a girl whose name
he couldn't remember. She looked healthy and he had no idea why she
had been Volunteered. He left the other two and walked in amongst the
crowd of his hosts, wondering if they would kill him for it, but
uncaring. The mad panic that had made him run for his life earlier
had left him. What did anything matter if the Roof itself could fall?

The Clawfolk ignored him, shoving
him out of the way. Their long forelimbs were dressed in tubes of
shell that humans sometimes fashioned into trumpets for their guards.
But the tips, unlike the backlimb that carried the claw, were soft
enough that tools could be embedded in them. The creatures made
excellent use of them now to pull bodies from the wreckage. Dozens
had died: appalling losses for any Tribe. No wonder they hissed, the
sound all around him now as he picked his way amongst them.

To one side, a large group of
Clawfolk piled wreckage up against one of the remaining walls, as
though making a stair. They must have been working at it for several
tenths of a day, for they had almost completed it.
How
long was I unconscious?

They finished as he watched.
Without pausing for breath, three of them clambered up their new ramp
and swung themselves onto the top of the wall with their hook limbs.
But there, they halted, hissing and hissing, a whole row of the
shelled beasts making a choir of despair.

Whistlenose followed, up the pile
of shaky masonry, two stories high, until he stood balancing on the
wall right in amongst them where any could have pushed him to his
death.

He saw now what had upset them so
much. A thin arch of stone separated this wall from another with a
drop beneath so high, that not even the Clawfolk could have survived
it.

Beyond the arch, on the far wall,
a full dozen youngsters hung by their clawlimbs. They were smaller
even than those that had chased Whistlenose within the building.
Perhaps they had been left there by their elders to witness the hunt
and learn from it. But they had been hanging for several Tenths of a
day already and, as he watched, one of them lost its grip. It slid
down the wall, tumbled and smashed itself amongst the debris below.
More hissing. Several of the adults sidled up to the arch of stone
leading across, but the human could see their bodies were too wide,
too rounded to balance there.

"I'll do it."

Of course, they didn't understand
and wouldn't get out of his way. He had to lower himself back onto
the stair they had made and climb across until he could push up in
front of them. Only when he stood at the arch, did they seem to get
the idea and finally made room for him. The hissing stopped at once.

"What are you doing?"
Charmer called up, but Whistlenose ignored him.

The light of the Roof was dimming
now, but in a natural way, with the approach of dusk. He lay flat and
pulled himself up the arch, wondering at the damage it had suffered
and thinking it must surely collapse under him. "I'm already
dead," he muttered. No need for his pulse to beat so insistently
in his ears; no need for all that sweat. "Already dead. Food for
the Clawfolk so the others can make it Home." For the first time
in his life, he wondered where Home actually was. Aagam knew, the
horrible stranger.
Earth
,
he had called it, whatever that meant. Oh well. Whistlenose would
learn the answer soon enough, when he became an Ancestor.

Another of the Clawfolk children
tumbled, sickeningly into the rubble, and another. The hissing
started up again and the Roof continued to darken.
mossbeast
s
flew in around Whistlenose's body, tasting it, flying off again. He
reached the top of the arch, slid forward on his belly, squealing in
terror like an infant as he slipped sideways and hung with legs
dangling over the abyss.

"Nothing to worry about, no
need to hiss for me. I'm there now." Painfully, he pulled
himself back up, until he sat on the far wall, the first of the
"children" already within reach.

After that, it went quickly. The
shelled bodies were much lighter than they looked and far from
stupid. The first of those he rescued, moved out of his way and began
pulling its fellows out of danger until all stood on the wall, their
claws digging into its surface for balance. Then, it was half a night
of waiting until the Clawfolk working at the front of the building
had finally cleared a way through from below.

Whistlenose found his way back to
the surviving two humans. "Thought they'd eaten you already,"
said Charmer. "Here, they gave us a few skulls of water. Look
like you need some." Whistlenose did. More badly than ever he
had in his life, although the Roofsweat had cooled him down as he
waited on the wall. He collapsed beside the other hunter and the
strange, silent girl.

***

"Wake
up!" Whistlenose felt a dig in his side. The Roof was
brightening again. He was stiff and cold, his leg aching. He dimly
remembered feeling the pain in a dream. "Unless," said
Charmer, "you prefer to die in your sleep?"

"That would have been a
favour," said Whistlenose.

"Suppose so," said
Charmer. "Sorry. Didn't think of that."

A dozen adult Clawfolk were
gathering before the last Volunteers. They had sharpened bits of
stone and metal embedded in their forelimbs. "They look hungry,"
said Charmer.

"I'm afraid," said the
girl out of the blue. Her voice sounded hoarse. "I'm so afraid."
And yet, she stood up. There really was nothing wrong with her. No
limping, no shattered limbs. She strode right over to the nearest
beast. And then, she was on the ground, gurgling and bleeding out.

Charmer was gasping now too, but
from fear. "Wish... wish..." He couldn't walk, of course,
with his injury, so the Clawfolk came for him. "I," he
said. "Maybe—?" A creature shattered his skull with
an embedded rock.

Whistlenose surged to his feet,
breathing hard, heart hammering, desperate for life. He realised he
wasn't as brave as the girl had been, that he couldn't look his fate
in the eye. So, he lowered his head and forced himself to step
forward. It was like walking with stones tied to his feet. Every part
of him hurt. Even his eyes stung.

He jumped as he felt a brush of
shell against his skin. He was hiccoughing with terror, ready to be
sick. Another touch, a shove this time, and he stumbled forward.
Another push, and yet another.

He raised his head, only to be
nudged forward one more time. "You... you're sending me away?"
He was already standing on the far side of the group. He could see
them butchering Charmer's body. He had witnessed such scenes all of
his life, but only now did he feel sickened by it.
That
should be me!
One of the Clawfolk kept pushing him
farther and farther away, until eventually, he found the strength to
turn around and walk off of his own accord.

Alone
and helpless and old, Whistlenose had no idea where he should be
going.
I'm
supposed to be a Volunteer
. He couldn't stay out in the
open, that was for sure. A friendless human was little better than a
free meal. So he ducked into the first abandoned house he found.

He was thirsty again already, but
he needed to think this through. He had a duty. He
had
to persuade the Clawfolk to take him back, even if it meant killing
himself in front of them. Surely they wouldn't let his flesh go to
waste?

He wrapped his arms over his
head, hearing the wheezing of his nose working in time to the pulse
of pain in his bad leg. The problem was that he still wanted to live.
He had done everything he was supposed to do, had offered himself up.
It wasn't his fault he had been rejected.