Bravelands #4 Page 7

  “Father still hasn’t got over that wound you gave him at the Great Battle,” he said. “He’s got a permanent limp, I reckon.”

  Fearless just managed not to say, “Good.” He simply nodded and rasped his tongue across a leg bone.

  “But he’s still acting oddly,” the cub added. “He’s always given the pride the weirdest orders, but I swear they get stranger and stranger. He asks for injured prey to be brought to him, still alive. He takes it off and eats it by himself.” Ruthless frowned at the warthog’s torn belly.

  “Really?” Fearless twitched an ear in surprise. “Where does he go?”

  “Off to the Misty Ravine. You know, the one at the edge of Titanpride territory? Nobody sees him till he limps back, licking his jaws. But nobody ever asks him why he does it. Nobody dares.”

  “That does sound odd.” Fearless wrinkled his lip. “But your father’s never been a normal lion, I guess.”

  “That’s for sure,” said Ruthless with feeling.

  Fearless paused, then asked quietly, “Have any new males joined the pride? Any been scouting around my territory?”

  Ruthless creased his forehead in surprise. “Funny. I was going to ask you the same question. We’ve picked up a strange scent on our boundary, too.”

  Fearless said nothing, but growled thoughtfully as they settled back to their meal. They ate in silence for a little longer, and it was Ruthless who drew back first, rolling onto his side with a deep sigh.

  Fearless eyed him. “What’s up? You can’t actually have finished before me? That’s a first.”

  Ruthless didn’t return the banter; he was gazing up at the darkness of the den roof, his eyes sad. Fearless stood up and stretched out his forelegs. His belly felt wonderfully round.

  “What’s wrong, cub?” he asked more gently.

  “The thing is,” Ruthless murmured, “I’m not sure I can keep coming to see you like this. I’m raising suspicions already, and some of my father’s seconds are watching me.”

  Fearless nudged him with his muzzle. “You’ll get away with it. Titan and Artful think you can do no wrong. The sun shines from your nonexistent mane, remember?”

  “I wish that were still true,” growled Ruthless despondently. “They’ve got a new cub, Fearless. She’s called Menace, and she’s well named.”

  “Oh,” said Fearless. He could just imagine.

  “Mother and Father have only got time for Menace, now. And what’s more, the other lions know it. I don’t eat in my usual turn anymore, because they’ll swat me or growl, and Mother barely even notices. She certainly doesn’t bother to stick up for me.” He buried his muzzle in his paws. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they throw me out.”

  Fearless felt a stab of angry sympathy. He knew very well what it was like to be an outsider in Titanpride; without Titan’s approval, survival was almost impossible. How much worse must it be for Ruthless, who had once been the golden son of the leader?

  He gave Ruthless a sympathetic nuzzle and licked his ear. “Whatever happens, Ruthless, I’ll protect you. Maybe you should leave before that happens. It’s time, anyway—you could join Fearlesspride. We’ll accept you—all of us. I’ll make sure of that.”

  “Nah,” muttered Ruthless, though he gave Fearless a grateful look. “Thanks, but I can’t leave. I still love my parents. They’ll stop fussing over Menace soon, and they’ll remember they love me too. I know they will!” There was an edge of desperation to his voice that cut Fearless to the heart, but Ruthless gave a defeated, slightly-too-casual shrug. “Anyway, don’t worry. Once Menace stops suckling, Mother might be back to her old self.”

  “I hope so,” Fearless told him sincerely. However much he disliked Artful, Ruthless had always been close to her. “But if you’re being watched, you should probably get back to your pride soon.”

  “I will.” Ruthless got to his paws and licked Fearless’s nose. “I’ll try to see you again, but I can’t promise.”

  “Don’t take any risks,” warned Fearless, as Ruthless padded out of the den ahead of him. “You’ve had a lot of courage to keep coming this long. Thank you.”

  They separated at the foot of the kopje, and Fearless set off toward his own pride through the twilight. Sparkling points of light were blinking into life in the dark blue sky above him; without a moon, the long sweeping crest of stars was clearly visible, stretching up from the horizon. That, he knew, was where lions went to hunt after death: forever pursuing sleek zebras and gazelles along its glittering silver track. Fearless peered up, wondering if he could ever make out the ghosts of Gallant and Loyal and Swift. Hello, Mother. I know you’re happy now. You have eyes again, and you hunt better than you ever did.

  Calmness filled him. I don’t need to be angry with Valor. There was more to being a good pride leader than hunting, he knew; after all, Swift had been a better hunter than Gallant. Fearless himself had done good work tonight, with his secret meeting with Ruthless Titanpride. He was laying the groundwork for revenge, and one day he would punish Titan, just as he’d always promised, for Gallant’s death. But now he had Loyal to avenge, too.

  I’ll unite the prides. We’ll live well, and in peace, without evil, brutal leaders to intimidate lions as if they were gazelles.

  One day, Fearless knew, the pride would understand and appreciate all he was doing—and so would all the lions of Bravelands.

  Lowering his head, he set out once more toward the camp—and was instantly brought up short. His nostrils flared, and he snuffed the night air.

  Lion. That same scent from before, prowling close to his pride. Exposing his teeth, he broke into a trot.

  Fearlesspride was not far away; he could smell them. But that strange lion scent was still strong and fresh. Breaking into a run, he bounded over a stretch of dark grassland till he reached the low rise that shielded the pride from view. Hunching his shoulders aggressively, Fearless stalked over the crest.

  There he was: a sizable young male with a mane that was already thick. The insolent brute was padding straight for Valor! The stranger looked well built and muscular, but Fearless was too angry to care. Coiling his muscles, he bounded forward, widening his jaws to snap them into the intruder’s neck.

  “Fearless. No!”

  He started, landing on the earth with an awkward thud that made him stumble. Disbelieving, Fearless gaped as Valor came running toward him, her eyes glowing.

  The intruder had spun around, his own fangs bared, and he snarled at Fearless—but he made no attempt to strike. Slowing to a trot, Valor halted between them and swiveled her head to eye them both.

  “Valor?” exploded Fearless in bewilderment. “What are you doing?”

  “Stopping a ridiculous scrap,” she told him, flicking her tail at the strange lion. “Fearless, my brother, I want you to meet Mighty. He’s my new mate.”

  CHAPTER 8

  The sky was like the sky he’d known in life. It was paler, perhaps, its shade the cold blue of the distant mountain horizon, and thin wisps of cloud drifted impossibly high above him. Thorn blinked fiercely. There was something sharp and hard beneath his spine, and his head pulsed with pain.

  So we still feel pain in death? That’s not fair.

  And do we really have to keep our sense of smell, Great Spirit? The pervading stink of carrion was pungent. Worse than that, eerie voices were raised in a chant around him.

  “Great Father Sleek, Leopard of the Greenforest.”

  “Hail to his memory!”

  “Great Mother Cavern, Elephant of the Stonelands.”

  “Hail to her memory!”

  “Great Father Ridge, Elephant of the Desert Plain.”

  “Hail to his memory!”

  “Great Mother Lightning, Cheetah of the Grass Sea.”

  “Hail to her memory!”

  “Great Mother Baobab, Elephant of the—”

  “Oh, will you shut up about the Great Parents!”

  Thorn didn’t know that he’d yelled it out loud, but he must have,
because the chanting was silenced abruptly. He shut his eyes, mortified at his disrespect to the spirits. Then he creaked one open again, cautiously.

  A chaos of beating black wings made him flinch and gasp. Bolts of pain shot through his limbs as he tried to rise, but the great bird did not attack; it touched down right in front of him, folding its magnificent, tattered wings. Ancient black eyes in a wrinkled face gazed into his.

  “Oh no,” Thorn groaned, sagging back. “Not you.”

  “Such ingratitude,” rasped Windrider, though her harsh voice was touched with amusement. “Our flock saved your life, Great Father.”

  “Don’t call me that!” Thorn tried to sit up again, but even the air he breathed felt thin and cold in his chest. Dizzy, he reeled back, collapsing onto what he now saw was a nest of twigs and black feathers.

  The vulture ignored him. “Your life, Great Father. Restored to you not once, but twice. The Great Spirit speaks plainly through us.”

  Wait. I’m not dead?

  Thorn’s head spun with relief and confusion. He put his paws over his face and rubbed his eyes. “You brought me up here? Why?”

  “We brought you to the mountain to embrace your destiny.”

  Thorn peered out between his fingers. The vulture’s black stare was unflinching, and he couldn’t hold it. Risking a glance around him, he saw dusty, windswept stone rising in steep walls around him. Vultures perched there in shadowy ranks: some were ranged on the valley floor, others high on sharp outcrops of pale rock. If this cold and barren place was not the home of the spirits after all, he was glad. But if he wasn’t dead—

  “The battle!” he cried, leaping up suddenly. Instant agony shot through his hind leg, sharp as a crocodile’s fang, and he collapsed, gasping. “Tendril! My troop—”

  “You can do nothing,” croaked Windrider. “Your troop’s fate is its own to control, for now. You, Great Father, must rest and recover.”

  Thorn stared down at his hind leg, stunned by pain. “But—”

  “A bone in your leg is damaged, perhaps broken.” Windrider shook out her wings. “You have no choice.”

  “You don’t understand,” he shouted. The leg was unresponsive, as if it didn’t belong to him, but Thorn dragged himself forward with his forepaws. “I—”

  He couldn’t finish. The bolt of pain returned, and he gagged as his head spun. Blackness swept over him, and he had to fight to remain conscious. When he clenched his teeth, blinking, the sky was blue again and the rocky slopes were gray, but it all seemed distant from him, like a dream. Windrider’s voice sounded so very far away.

  “Rest, Great Father. All is beyond your influence, for now. Even the Great Parent cannot direct the lives of every creature in Bravelands. You can only guide, and advise.”

  “I’m not . . .”

  The walls of rock spun in his vision, and Thorn fell back onto the nest of feathers. His last sight, before his senses left him, was the unremitting gaze of Windrider, glittering and black, piercing him down to his bones.

  There was darkness when he woke. The stars were closer than ever; he stretched out a feeble paw to touch them, but they stayed just out of reach. Black wings blotted them out, and he slept again.

  A white, hot sun, at the highest point of the sky’s arc. His throat was parched. Shade fell over him, and a curled leaf was brought to his muzzle. Greedily he sucked cold water from it. You are the one. You, Thorn Highleaf. The whispers around him were like the voice of the mountain.

  Pain again, seizing him in its jaws. No, not jaws: talons. An ancient vulture had hold of his leg, shifting its position, jerking it straight. Thorn thought he screamed, but no sound came out. The old vulture muttered and croaked; then its shabby feathers brushed his snout as it took to the air.

  Food. They’d brought him food. He tasted a fat beetle in his mouth, then broken chunks of melon, then torn flesh. They made him swallow before they would let him lie back again. Leave me alone, he tried to say; I only want to sleep. But again, the words didn’t come.

  There were stars again, a whole river of them, sweeping above him like the path of the spirits. He couldn’t see the vultures but he could hear the scratch and tap of their claws on the dry stone, the rustle of their feathers. He didn’t try to turn his head sideways; the sky was too dark and beautiful and calming. He’d forgotten about the pain. Perhaps he was used to it. Perhaps it was ebbing.

  Food again. Water again. A beak clicked at his ear, and a voice whispered: Thorn Highleaf. Great Father of Bravelands. He couldn’t protest. He didn’t even want to. He felt too serene.

  The dreams came in fits and starts, etching themselves on the inside of his skull, and they left his head in excruciating pain. They showed him places he knew he’d never seen. The dark close warmth of a jackal den; the creatures’ dusty, sharp scent was in his nostrils. A nest of intertwined branches, high in a pine tree; those smooth, curved objects against his belly were eagle eggs. As the vision changed, he was soaring above a watering hole, and it vanished swiftly behind him; he was heading for the cliffs in the distance. He tilted his wings and plunged down, deep beneath the earth’s surface; and now he was scurrying through a narrow tunnel, his tiny claws clicking on unseen roots.

  “It is not unheard-of,” said Windrider’s hoarse voice. “Not unprecedented.”

  Groggily, Thorn managed to sit up. He blinked in the sunlight. There was a throbbing ache behind his eyes, but for once his head did not spin, and he did not tumble back into unconsciousness. He felt lucid for the first time in . . . I don’t know. I don’t know how long. Had it been days? It could have been moons, for all he knew. Thorn’s leg ached dully like his head, and his ribs showed through his chest fur, but he felt remarkably lively.

  “What isn’t unheard-of?” The words scratched against his throat, but he’d definitely said them out loud.

  “Your dreams.” Windrider cocked her bald head toward him. “You’ve been telling us about your dreams.”

  “Oh. Have I?” He didn’t remember.

  “Well,” croaked another vulture. “You’ve been muttering and rambling, but we listened.”

  “The Great Spirit reveals itself in many ways, Blackwing,” said Windrider. “Each Great Parent may sense its power differently.”

  “Once,” rasped an elderly vulture with scraggy wings, “there was a baboon Great Parent who could see through the eyes of other creatures, just as easily as elephants can read bones. Great Father Orchid of the Goldenforest, it was.”

  Windrider gave the old vulture a nod of respect. “Hail to his memory.”

  “It seems a baboon trait, then,” remarked Blackwing, with a sidelong look at Thorn.

  “Indeed,” said Windrider. “Yet another sign that Thorn must accept and embrace his destiny. He must train himself to use this power, to hone it for the good of all creatures.”

  “I wish you’d leave me alone,” mumbled Thorn, but without passion. Tiredness was seeping into his limbs again. “Those dreams—they give me rotten headaches.”

  “It is natural. But sleep now.” A crooning sound rose from Windrider’s throat, and the other vultures began to join in; in moments there was a harsh, monotonous chorus that rose and fell in volume. To Thorn it was like giant ants skittering around and around inside his head.

  “Vultures sing?” he mumbled drowsily. “I never knew. Horrible racket.”

  Yet there was something soothing about it, and it eased the pain in his skull. Thorn drifted into sleep once more, but whenever he woke after that, he could still hear it all around him: the ancient, strange song of the vultures.

  Thorn’s eyes snapped open to a bright, clear morning. He sucked in a breath, realizing he’d grown used to this thin, cold air; it cleared his head, and he needed that. He’d dreamed again, and that pounding was back behind his eyes; he’d been a leopard, dragging an antelope high into a tree.

  His nostrils twitched. Headache or no, the gamy scent of flesh was enticing, and he rolled over to see a dead ground squir
rel at his side, along with a small pile of marula nuts and wizened figs. Ravenously, he grabbed a random handful of the fruits and began to eat.

  He was just picking the last scraps off the squirrel’s bones when he heard the rush of wings, and Windrider flapped down to his side.

  “You look much recovered this morning, Thorn Greatfather.”

  “Thorn Highleaf, and yes, I do feel better.” He glanced at her gratefully. “Thank you.”

  She dipped her head a fraction. “Now follow me.”

  She took off and flew low up a craggy slope, and Thorn turned to follow. He’d almost forgotten his injured leg; he lurched and stumbled, but righted himself. It still ached, but the pain was blunted now and much more bearable; the long, fevered time on this mountain must have healed his leg, at least to a degree.

  More carefully this time Thorn limped up the incline, his paws slipping on loose scree, his underused muscles stinging with effort. Windrider touched down now and again, hopping across rocks, as if making sure he could keep up.

  She vanished over a ridge of sharp stone, and Thorn stumbled after her. Halting, he stared around.

  The crater in the mountain’s crest was almost circular, its floor covered with smooth white stones and pebbles. Right in the center of it lay a still pool, sunlight sparkling from its surface. As Thorn watched, the water began to bubble, air popping on its surface, and a strange and unpleasant odor drifted to his nose: dank and noisome, like eggs that had lain too long in an abandoned nest.

  Thorn felt the fur on his neck rise, and his hide began to prickle. This place felt ancient, and somehow sacred, as if it held unseen spirits. It was far, far older even than the vulture who stood over the pool, his feathers ragged, sparse, and gray.

  The old bird raised his deeply creased head and eyed him, but he said nothing. Beside him, Windrider spread her wings.

  “Come forward, Thorn. Stand with Grayfeather and drink from the pool.”

  Thorn shut one eye, sniffing skeptically at the air. “Why?”