I see more animals and monsters on that run than I saw on our entire walk through the forest. Not one does more than glance our way. After a river of colocolos, two human children fleeing a warg-riding jackalope is simply another sign that the world is ending and they should eat while they still can.
And then we hear the screaming.
At first, my heart stops, imagining Rhydd and Alianor and the others being swallowed by a sea of colocolos. Of course, that makes no sense. We must have gone at least two miles, and the sound comes from in front of us.
As we pause, Dain doubles over to catch his breath. I focus on the source of the screaming. How far away is it? What is it?
“It’s the colocolos,” Dain says between heaving breaths. “That’s what they sound like when…when they’re being attacked.”
He means being killed. He’s just putting a gentler face on it, and I bristle, thinking he’s sparing my feelings. Killing is a part of my job. A last resort, but even when I regret it, I know it’s the right thing to do.
Then I realize this isn’t about me.
It’s about Dain.
When he was only five—a time when my own parents were giving me a colocolo hunt in our barn—Dain’s family sold him into indentured servitude as a ratcatcher. Killing rats, because there was no chance that anyone cruel enough to use child labor was going to release the pests, as my parents did after my “hunt.” Dain grew up killing these rodents and, undoubtedly, killing colocolos, too. What he’s saying here is that he knows what they sound like when they’re dying. He stopped himself because he didn’t want me thinking of him killing them.
He didn’t want me judging him for a choice that was never his to make.
I peer in the direction of the squealing and screaming. “What could do that? A cath palug didn’t faze the colocolos. Nor a wolf, a wildcat, warakins…”
“Exactly. What could be bad enough to scare the colocolos when none of those other predators did? A terrible, terrible monster that we absolutely, positively should not get closer to. We should just count ourselves lucky—princess? Get back here, princess. We…”
I don’t hear the rest. I’m already jogging toward the screams.
Dain is still grumbling. Grumbling, but following. When I point this out, he shoots back that he’s just keeping an eye on me, because if I die on his watch, my mother will throw him to a pack of wargs. Ludicrous, of course. We’ve never had capital punishment in Tamarel. Also, like Rhydd, my mother knows that when I put my mind to something, nothing can stop me. That’s why I’m in the Dunnian Woods with my ebony sword in hand. Believe me, if she had her way, I’d be safe inside the castle walls with my history book instead.
Dropbears and colocolos live in and near the mountains to our west. Something has them—and other monsters—migrating east. That’s a problem for the country that lies in the east: ours. Now something has the colocolos screaming loud enough to be heard a quarter mile away. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I ran in the other direction.
I’m walking now and assessing with each step, listening and peering into the forest. The shrieks have died down to the occasional squeal. When Malric stops and snorts, I nod.
“Time to get off the trail.”
I’m looking for a good route when Dain taps my arm. He motions for me to follow him. When I hesitate, we exchange a series of looks that communicate as well as words. It helps that Dain expresses as much with body language as any beast—in his case, mostly scowls and glowers and grunts and eye rolls. It’s really amazing how many different things you can say with an eye roll, each little nuance giving it a whole new meaning.
In those looks and gestures, I let him know that I’m hesitating because he doesn’t want to investigate, so I suspect he’s leading me astray. He responds—via a hard stare—that he wouldn’t do that. He’s taking the lead because he’s the one who has spent a third of his life in this forest. If I want to sneak up, he’s better at doing that. True.
With a nod and a wave, I tell him to carry on. He cuts wider around the noise than I’d have, farther from the epicenter of the situation.
“Epicenter?” he whispers, face screwing up, when I tell him so.
“It means—”
He waves his hand. “I can figure it out, princess. Smaller words work just as well.”
“Words are like tools. Another might do the job, but there’s usually one that’s exactly right.”
He mutters about show-off princesses. Three more steps, and I grab him around the shoulders so fast, he stumbles against me and then shoots me a glower.
“Was that necessary?” he whispers.
“Hugs are always necessary.”
The look on his face makes me sputter a laugh and then slap a hand over my mouth to keep quiet. Malric moves up against me. On his back, Jacko strains forward, nose wriggling. I nod ahead, where the forest has gone silent.
“Something’s wrong,” I say.
“There are many things wrong today, princess. You’ll need to be more specific.”
I bend and place one hand on the ground. Jacko hops down to sniff beside me. “I could feel the earth vibrating. Even before the colocolos. It’s stopped. Maybe you’re right. We should head back.”
“Come on, princess,” he says. “Let’s go solve your mystery.”
“If you insist.”
CHAPTER FOUR
We’ve solved the mystery. And our problem has been solved at the same time. There is no longer a colocolo stampede, and I don’t feel one heartbeat of relief at that.
We’re standing at the edge of what was once a riverbank. Below used to flow a tributary of the Michty River, which mysteriously dried
