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  She is trying to make sure that no one follows her. “Well, I know where you’re going,” he said aloud. “Muddy the trail all you like, I’ll still find you.” Why does she want to go to Groth? Why alone? He thought of the way she’d bitten the curb trap when she knew it might be poisoned. He shivered.

  The sun rose and made the grass glow golden. Storm was reminded of coming this way with Pathar. What an adventure it had seemed! Now he just felt worried. His mood did not improve when, about midmorning, he looked back and saw a collection of black dots on the distant plain behind him. He thought he knew what they were—curbs. He’d seen one last year, probably. Only then he was too young to know his danger.

  Storm abandoned Tollee’s trail through the grass and moved into Chelby Wood. The going was slower beneath the trees, among roots and through underbrush, but he thought it possible that the curbs had not seen him, and he wanted to keep it that way.

  He regretted his decision when he emerged from the wood around noon. The shapes were much closer. He could count six of them, and he could even make out individual legs and bushy tails. Only a small pack, Storm told himself.

  They had clearly elected to stay with Tollee’s scent trail, rather than following Storm’s trail into the trees. This had allowed them to close much of the distance while he was moving more slowly through the wood. I am doing everything wrong today.

  There seemed to be no point in going back into the trees. If he could see them clearly, they could see him. Storm knew that curbs preferred to attack animals that were young, sick, injured, or alone. However… I do seem to be alone. Tollee has probably already gotten herself eaten. By size and at a distance, Storm might even be mistaken for a young foal—one of those born that year by the cliffs. They are hunting me, he realized and felt a stab of panic.

  Storm started to run. He ran and did not look back as the sun passed its zenith. He had no idea whether he was still following Tollee’s trail. In the hottest part of the day, as the sun was starting down the sky, he pulled up, panting, and allowed himself a backwards glance.

  To his horror, the curbs were closer. Much closer. They would be on him in moments if he did not move.

  Storm started away again, and then…hesitated. This isn’t working. He remembered Pathar teaching him to turn on the ice instead of running in a straight line. “Not outrun. Outmaneuver.”

  Storm felt like a fool. He’d been doing just that—panicking, trying to outdistance his pursuers in plain sight without a plan. Dare I go back into the trees? The trees had slowed him before and allowed the curbs to catch up. What about the lake? Would they follow me if I tried to swim away? Storm wasn’t sure, but it was a better plan than letting them catch him in the open. However, he didn’t think he had enough of a lead to reach the water.

  He’d been afraid to leave the edge of the trees because they offered some cover, but… Storm veered straight away onto the open plain. He did not know this area at all, but he did know something about the plain. I saw a curb disappear out here last year. Let’s see if I can make it happen again. The grass was tall farther away from the trees—tall enough to crouch down and hide, but that wouldn’t help with the curbs on his scent trail.

  However… They’re hunting by sight, Storm realized. They can run faster when they don’t have to follow a scent. I’ve been providing them with quarry that they can see.

  The ground began to slope gently down, and he felt a thrill. When he looked back, he could no longer see the curbs. I’m in a trough. They’re still very close. I just can’t see them…and they can’t see me.

  Storm changed directions, angling back south towards the herd…and possibly towards the curbs. He’d never once run in that direction all day, and he didn’t think the curbs would expect it. He ran as hard as he could, using precious energy, but this time it would not be wasted. They will be slower, following the scent, and I will be faster. I will get a better lead.

  Storm made a broad loop, hoping that they wouldn’t guess he was headed back towards the lake. He was sure his lead had improved—or at least not worsened—otherwise, they would have been on him by now. At last, he came thundering out of the grass, headed straight for the trees. Subterfuge was over. Now, he needed to reach the water before he was caught.

  Storm heard a yip behind him and felt a new stab of fear. He bounded through the trees, branches slapping his face, thorns and bushes clawing at him. He nearly stumbled on a root. He was sure that, if he fell, he would never get up.

  Through the trees ahead, he saw a blue glimmer. Then hot pain stabbed his flank, and Storm screamed. His body lashed instinctively, and the pain fell away, but they were all around him now, running with him, jumping at him, snapping, and then he was skidding and stumbling down the muddy, root-tangled bank of the lake. He landed heavily in shallow water with a curb beside him, leaping at his throat. It clamped down with horrible force, and its weight forced his head underwater. He couldn’t breathe.

  And then he could.

  Storm’s head shot out of the water. Dimly, through his fear and pain, he heard a piercing yelp—snarls, a whimper. Someone was shouting his name. “Storm! Get up! Get up, you lizard turd! If your leg is broken, I swear I’ll gut you myself! Get up!”

  Storm was already on his feet, staggering through hock-deep water. Tollee stood on the edge of the muddy bank, head low, hackles high, teeth bare to the gums. She was snapping and darting at three curbs. The body of a fourth lay sprawled at the base of the bank.

  Another curb leapt at Storm. This time, he reared back and his lashing hoof caught it a glancing blow. The animal yelped. Before it could get its balance, Storm brought both front hooves down on its head and back, driving it deep into the muddy water. He felt the animal struggling and applied all his weight. A moment later, it was still.

  When Storm looked back to the top of the bank, Tollee was standing there alone, panting.

  “Are they gone?” Storm managed between gasps.

  “Think…so…” she said.

  After a moment, Tollee skidded down the bank, nearly tripping over the body of the curb she’d killed. She buried her muzzle in the water and drank. Storm watched the trees, but nothing moved. He looked back at Tollee.

  “I thought I came out here to save your life. Seems to be the other way around.”

  Tollee smiled. Storm didn’t think he’d ever seen her smile. “They probably would have killed either one of us alone. Two of us aren’t worth it. Why did you run from them? Better to put your back against something and fight.”

  Storm shook his ears. “Running is what I’m good at.”

  Tollee smiled again. This time it was more of a smirk.

  “And, yes, I know that it wasn’t working very well,” said Storm.

  “You’re bleeding,” she said.

  Storm twisted around to inspect the bite wound on his flank.

  “Looks like more of a large bruise than a deep bite,” said Tollee. “You get that when they’re trying to latch on and drag you down. Your neck will probably be bruised, too.”

  Storm nodded. He felt sore, but not badly injured. The curb that he had drowned had floated to the surface. Storm examined it curiously. The animal did look superficially like a fox, but it was much bigger—almost as tall as Storm—and it had stripes along its lower back. Its short, tan and black fur covered lean muscles. It looked rugged and fierce, even floating dead in the water.

  Tollee nosed around her own kill, then clambered up the bank. Storm saw that she’d hamstrung the curb. From the way it was lying, he guessed that she’d then broken its back. It had no other wounds—a very neat kill. Storm was impressed.

  They moved through the wood until they found a patch of nut-bearing trees. They proceeded to comb over the ground for the rich, flavorful nuts. “Did you see Groth?” asked Storm as they ate.

  “Yes.”

  He felt relieved. “I thought maybe you wanted to—”

  “To walk away in there?” She twitched her tail. “I though
t about it.”

  “Why?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  Storm frowned. “Is Mylo…unkind?”

  Tollee laughed. “No. No, I chose Mylo because he wasn’t asking.” She glanced at Storm sidelong. “But you didn’t have to join a clique at all. You were doing fine on your own.”

  Storm shook his ears. “Because I’m good at running away.” He had a flash of insight. “But you never ran, did you? You fought.”

  Tollee said nothing.

  Storm remembered how ragged she’d looked the first time he’d seen her. He’d thought it was just malnutrition, but maybe not. Maybe she had a lot of scars under that glossy summer coat. “You can run from a whole clique,” said Storm, “but it’s pretty hard to fight all of them, even if you are good at it.”

  Storm remembered what Tollee had said on the cliff before she’d bitten through the curb trap, the contempt in her voice as she’d said, “Cowards.”

  “The ones who harassed you before you joined Mylo’s clique,” said Storm slowly, “they were attacking you for different reasons than they were attacking me. I made myself inconvenient, so they stopped. They would never have stopped with you. You did the right thing—joining a clique, asking Mylo to be your rogan.”

  “It wasn’t just foals,” said Tollee quietly. “Adult males, too—the ones who didn’t feel they could attract a willing mate.”

  Storm didn’t know what to say, so he chewed on a nut. Finally, he said, “I’m glad you didn’t walk off into Groth. You didn’t drink the water in the bowls, did you?”

  Tollee looked at him curiously. “No. I wanted to. It smelled so nice. But I thought it might be poison.”

  “It is…sort of.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Storm squirmed. “Pathar said that animals drink the water and crawl into the bowls and drown, but he also said that if you drink, you dream the future.” Storm didn’t feel the need to explain that Pathar had given a demonstration.

  Tollee stopped eating. She was very still for a moment. “After the curb trap, for a few days, I had strange dreams.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. The forest…Groth…it was in my dreams…even though no one had ever told me about it or what it was called.”

  Storm waited.

  Tollee shook her head. “There was a blue stone…a black creasia with glowing green eyes…a telshee…and you.”

  “Me?” Storm was surprised.

  “Yes.” Tollee did not meet his eyes. “In the dream, you were running away into Groth. Only I didn’t know what it was called until now.”

  Storm felt a chill. “I don’t believe in dreams.” He spoke without much conviction.

  Tollee smiled. “Me neither.”

  Storm laughed shakily. “How can you say that? You saw Groth before you saw it!”

  Tollee shook her ears. “Maybe it’s only what might happen.”

  Storm liked that better.

  They spent the rest of the evening making themselves comfortable in a dense thicket, where they would hear the crackle of anything trying to approach. They slept in turns, huddled together, listening for curbs, but nothing disturbed them. By the next day, they had rejoined the ferryshaft herd.

  Chapter 18. A Thousand Faces

  Storm saw no more curbs that summer, nor did he travel to Groth again. He did not tell Leep and Tracer about his experience, nor, he suspected, did Tollee tell Mylo and Callaris. However, he did speak more frequently to Tollee. As the summer wound down, they developed a genuine friendship.

  This provoked a certain amount of teasing from Tracer and Leep, especially as the fall season brought mating to the front of everyone’s minds. “Better watch out,” said Tracer. “You’ll be fighting Mylo for her.”

  Mylo did, indeed, fight off three male foals who challenged him over Tollee’s status, and the entire clique helped fight off two adults. Storm knew that, had she been alone, she would have dealt with constant harassment. Mylo’s status as clique leader entitled her not only to his protection, but to the protection of his entire clique. The others did stand to gain from Tollee’s presence as a hunting partner that winter, so they defended her readily enough. She was a good hunter, and no one wanted her to be spirited away by another clique.

  “I couldn’t be Tollee’s rogan,” Storm told Tracer. And she wouldn’t like me if I was. “I can’t fight like Mylo.”

  This was true. Mylo did not seem to regard the diminutive Storm as a rival and showed no sign of jealousy over his friendship with Tollee. They were both yearlings, after all. The other members of the clique were at least two years old, while Mylo was three.

  Meanwhile, So-fet selected a new mate, Dover, from the comfort of her female clique. Storm did not like him much, and the feeling was mutual. So-fet, however, seemed content, and that was all that mattered.

  Soon the trees began to shed their leaves. Storm’s fur thickened, and the winds blew colder off Chelby Lake. One cloudy day with a stiff breeze sighing over the plain, Storm found himself again on the long march to the cliffs.

  As he jogged along with his friends, he watched the new foals—all of them with at least one parent, and most with two. They were wide-eyed with wonder, looking at everything—the broad Igby River, the Southern Wood beyond, the distant cliffs. Some of them capered, pulling the tails of adults and then racing away.

  They don’t know what’s coming, thought Storm. For the first time since spring, he thought of the creasia. There’s nothing to do about that. Better to think on things I can do something about.

  As much as he dreaded the hardships of winter, Storm felt he had a firm grasp on what to expect this year—the dangers he might face and how to avoid those that were avoidable. In this, he was entirely mistaken.

  The first hint came with the weather, which seemed increasingly oppressive. By noon, thick clouds had gathered, with the sun only a faintly brighter spot above the haze, drenching the plain in eerie half-light. The wind—which usually came off the lake during the day—was blowing from the west. It gusted and tore at the grass, whipping the Igby into choppy waves.

  The herd seemed depressed. The new foals stopped playing and hung close about their parents. Storm was surprised when his own mother sought him out. “Storm, come and walk with me.” She’d not been so direct since last winter.

  He came to her, though he felt awkward with her new mate walking nearby. “Mother, why is the sky so dark?”

  “A storm.” She seemed distracted.

  “I don’t remember the winter storms looking like this.”

  So-fet didn’t answer.

  Storm was pleased to see Pathar up ahead. He was about to go to him and ask about the weather, when So-fet put her head out and stopped him. “Not now, Storm.”

  Storm saw that Pathar was talking to two other elders as they walked. They kept looking up at the clouds. As he watched, Charder—the big, dark red ferryshaft who led the herd—approached them and joined in the conversation. They all looked quite serious.

  At last, the four of them split up and hurried off in different directions. Moments later, the word came trickling down through the ranks of ferryshaft: they needed to reach the shelter of the cliffs as soon as possible. They needed to run.

  * * * *

  “What are we doing, Mother?”

  “Just eat, Storm.”

  “But I’m not hungry.”

  “I said, eat!” Her tone brooked no argument.

  Feeling like an infant, Storm bent his head and obeyed. A moment later, So-fet turned her back, and he looked up rebelliously. It was evening, nearly dark. The exhausted herd should have been nestled among the warm rocks and in the caves below the cliffs, resting after their long journey and sheltering from the coming storm. Instead, they were scattered over the plain, eating as if they had not tasted grass in a season. A few stragglers were still trailing in along the edge of the river, and these, too, fell upon the grass as soon as they’d caught their breaths. />
  We should be taking shelter, thought Storm. The wind had become fierce, peppered with stinging rain. Storm stared at the roiling clouds now filling the western sky. Not a star showed, and the moon peeked down only occasionally.

  Yet all the oddities of nature paled in comparison to the latest mystery. When Storm went to the river to drink, he had seen several creasia across the Igby and on his own side as well. Normally the ferryshaft ran when they saw a creasia, at least until the killing began. But tonight neither species paid any attention to the other. The cats paced or lay on the bank, eyes closed, breathing quickly.

  Storm struggled to recall exactly what had happened this time last year. He remembered that the herd had been nervous, had appeared to wait for something. Mother said it was a conference, and Pathar said it had something to do with the cats. But it was nothing like this.

  He wondered where his friends were and what they thought. He’d lost track of them after the herd began to run. He kept hoping to see someone he recognized, even Pathar, but in the deepening twilight, with everyone milling, heads down to feed, it was difficult.

  “Storm!” So-fet’s voice made him jump. With a sheepish expression, he lowered his head to the grass again.

  At last, Storm did recognize someone. Charder came trotting out from among the boulder mazes, Pathar at his heels. A dozen other elders and high-ranking adults came forward to talk. Storm tried to observe from a distance, but shifting animals kept blocking his view. Then Charder said something that Storm did not hear, but the order passed through the ranks, echoed and repeated by hundreds of voices. They were to move...somewhere.

  He looked to So-fet and found her whispering with Dover. “What is happening?” he demanded. “Where are we going?”

  So-fet turned to her foal. “Listen closely, Storm. Soon there will be a lot of confusion, and everyone will run forward at once. Stay near me if you can, and don’t fall no matter what. Do you understand?”