4.

A Plea for Help

As I watched, a menacing claw of water lifted the boat high. It hurled the tiny craft and its tinier occupant toward the looming cliff.

I held my breath. I didn’t want to watch. I didn’t want to know. Death was seconds away.

To my shock, the same sea that had propelled the boat forward showed temporary mercy, drawing the rowboat back and away.

But it wasn’t far enough. The respite would be brief. Another surge or two, three at most, and the wobbyk—I was convinced that was what he must be—would die.

Once, when I was very young, my mother made us a dinner of wobbyk. We’d been living on grass and grubs for far too long, and it was the first meat we’d had in ages. If we hadn’t been so hungry, I doubt it would have tasted as good as it did, but even now the memory makes my mouth water.

Still, despite the fact that wobbyk can make an unsatisfying but healthy addition to a dull diet, I wasn’t thinking about eating him. I didn’t wish his death. (Truth be told, I was a feeble and softhearted hunter. In fact, I’d never actually killed anything, except a few bugs.) Instead I was amazed to find that part of my brain was already busily considering a rescue, analyzing angles, rates of descent, and the probable weight of the little creature.

Even as I was calculating, the wobbyk looked up at me, desperate, his mouth open and moving.

I heard a faint “Help!” Or maybe I only imagined the sound, but there was no imagination needed to see the fear, the frantically waving paws.

“I can’t,” I said, and my words flew back at me like windblown leaves.

I could use my glissaires, the thin extensions of our coats that we use for brief glides. Maybe, with incredibly lucky timing, I could actually manage to snatch the wobbyk.

But short of a miracle, I’d never be able to carry him.

Not far, anyway. Just a few yards. Just enough to . . .

The ocean sucked back, uncovering a narrow strip of sand in a cleft between rocks.

No, the timing would be impossible.

The wobbyk looked at me, speaking unheard words. He was begging for life.

My father had a saying: “To rush is not necessarily to arrive.” He said it to me often. He meant: think first.

And so I did.

On the one hand, I would probably die.

On the other hand, what a great story to tell around the fire. How impressed my siblings would be!

On the one foot—but I stopped myself there.

I’d been so absorbed in the wobbyk’s peril that it took me a moment to register the too-sweet smell of domesticated dogs, followed by the unmistakable stench of horses.

A third smell hit me, new and unfamiliar.

Unfamiliar, but not unknowable.

Only one species traveled with horses and dogs as company.

A drumbeat of hooves vibrated the pads of my feet. I turned toward the trees and saw startled birds flap skyward.

How could I have missed such obvious scents? The damp forest, the frantic wind, the distraction of the drowning wobbyk?

I heard a warning call, the piercing howl we use that signals danger.

Strange: it hadn’t come from a dairne. The pitch was wrong. Was that a human sound?

The dense trees ripped open like a clawed hide. Horses emerged behind me. And atop those horses were what could only be humans.

The men were imposing, their limbs thicker than I’d expected, their shouts more terrifying.

Could they be the Murdano’s soldiers?

I flashed on the rhyme Dalyntor had taught us: “If you encounter silver and red, run away, dairne, or end up dead!”

The clothing these humans wore was motley, a mix of dun and gray. Their weapons were mismatched. Two of their horses carried, instead of humans, roped stacks of furs and hides.

Poachers.

The same voice, the one that had signaled danger, was screaming, “No! No! Don’t kill it!”

The leader of the poachers, a great bow in his left hand, rode a towering black-and-white horse. Both man and beast stared at me with deadly intent.

With his right hand, the man plucked an arrow from his quiver. He fitted it to the string in less time than an eye can blink.

“No!” I cried.

My heart banged madly in my chest, all rhythm lost.

I watched in horror as the man’s muscles strained and the bowstring drew back.

His eyes saw nothing but me.

I saw nothing but the glittering arrowhead. The fingers that released. The string that snapped.

And then I leapt.