CHAPTER TWENTY

 

Tresset Bremu sat at his old wooden desk. The finish had worn thin years ago, and there were subtle grooves on the center right where most of the writing was performed. He was not writing now, but reading a dog-eared biography of Alexander the Great. The office looked as worn and battered as the desk. Originally, the space belonged to the foreman of the defunct silver mine, which Tresset’s pack now occupied. The room was forever dusty, an unavoidable condition as gaps in the walls and windows allowed sand and dust to whistle through the grooves, coating the unfinished wooden floor and peppering the sparse furnishings. Tresset dusted his paintings constantly, each of which hung on the uneven pressboard walls upon completion. Most depicted a reyaqc society as he envisioned it—strong, dominant, sophisticated. One day this art would be proven the work of a visionary. Today it was merely a hopeful fiction.

It was just past dawn. Already the temperature had climbed into the upper nineties. In many ways Tresset resented the desert with its harsh dry winds and spiraling sand devils, with its snakes and scorpions, and dried up riverbeds. Though lush in places, he’d hated his native Siberia nearly as much. The bitter cold could be just as vengeful as the searing heat.

Both locales were refuges, places for the reyaqc to hide from the eyes of man. But the reyaqc were a strong species, truly superior to the humans, infinitely adaptable, intelligent, capable. The fact that they’d been forced to spend century upon century in hiding, blending into the background, masquerading as humans, or hiding off in barren wastelands, was anathema to Tresset. One day soon the reyaqc would unite. When they did, they would claim their proper place at the helm of the world.

Tresset wiped the dust from his hands with an antibacterial cloth, and then sniffed the hot dry air. Someone was approaching. Ordool, by the smell of it, a molt who had selected the western yellow bat as his sustaining species. A curious choice, thought Tresset, who drew his animal essence from the fierce and formidable mountain lion. But the selection had some small contributions. Though neither Ordool nor any other reyaqc had ever attained flight by infusing from a species capable of such, Ordool had acquired the bat’s acute hearing and sonar-like abilities, thus making him an accomplished spy and hunter. Though, another species of bat might have been a better choice, as the yellow fur was nearly canary-like in its brilliance.

There was another’s scent as well. Ordool was not alone. Tresset did not recognize the other, and so rose from his seat. “Ordool, you may enter,” he said as the footsteps drew near. There were three sets, not two. Interesting. The yellow bat’s companions must each be of comparable essence to smell so similar.

The ill-fitted wooden door opened a moment later, and Ordool entered followed by two young molts, each with thick, powerful legs and tiny noses that twitched continuously. “Spies,” said Ordool with no preamble.

“Messengers!” blurted one of the jackrabbit molts. “Messengers, not spies.” The noses twitched, and each shuffled nervously in his place.

“Where were they?” Tresset moved to inspect the intruders. He could smell their fear, sense their muscles tightening in preparation for flight. What cowards.

“They were over the eastern ridge. Just beyond the abandoned mines,” said Ordool. “I monitored their movement for several minutes before sending Rethis and Frym to retrieve them. They were not coming forward as messengers might, but were stationary, simply gazing down upon our compound.”

Tresset nodded and moved to just before the two. Both molts were several inches taller than Tresset, but this was not unusual. Most everyone was taller than he. But stature was not what made Tresset imposing. It was the very force of his will, of his intellect, of his potential savagery that gained him respect. “Is this true? Were you spying on my compound?” He kept his tone even, controlled, soothing even. These molts had inherited the rabbit’s natural fear, and would need to be comforted in order to be of use.

“No,” said the one on the right.

“Not exactly,” said the other.

“Explain ‘not exactly,’” coaxed Tresset.

“We are messengers,” said one.

“But, we were frightened,” added the other.

“We wanted to wait for an appropriate time.”

“We were afraid of disturbing you.”

“So, we waited.”

“And watched.”

“But, we’re not spies.”

“Just messengers.”

Tresset held up his hand. “Stop. Please. You make my head spin.” He turned his attention to the molt to his right. “You are from Bytneht Noavor’s pack.”

“Yes, that would be right.”

“Bytneht sent us,” agreed the other.

“Did he receive the supplies we provided?”

The two looked at each other. Tresset smelled the dread rising between them and feared they might foul his office. “Do not fear me. Simply answer the question.”

“The supplies were received,” said one.

“They arrived.”

Tresset nodded. “Very good. And you claim to be messengers, so I assume Noavor has a response.”

Their noses twitched; their thick powerful legs became jumpy. They were about to flee. A quick glance to Ordool and the yellow bat shifted to his left, blocking the doorway. He was not particularly strong, but the bat essence had given him a peculiar appearance that many found off-putting. His nose was small and black, his face and body spattered with bright yellow fur. His eyes were wide and round, far from blind as many falsely believed of bats. His arms, though human-like, bore leathery drapes that may one day resemble bat wings, but now only added to Ordool’s macabre appearance. His fingers were long narrow claws capable of opening an animal’s throat with one vicious swipe. Surely, these two would find him fearsome and remain in place.

“Noavor’s response, messengers. That is why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“Y-y-yes, we are messengers,” said one.

“We bring a message,” added the other.

“From Bytneht Noavor.”

“It has to do with the supplies.”

“And with your offer.”

“Yes,” said Tresset, his voice becoming tight as his patience for the two cowards drew thin.

“He thanks you for the supplies,” said the first jackrabbit.

“But…he declines your offer of an alliance,” sputtered the second.

“He says… He says he has no desire to be directed by you.”

“But he means no disrespect.”

“No disrespect at all.”

Tresset nodded. “In that case, I have a reply for Noavor.”

“Yes?”

“Yes?”

The two nearly stumbled over each other’s word.

“Tell Noavor that I am disappointed that he continues in his small-minded ways. Tell him the only hope of reyaqc survival is to pursue legitimacy, to secure a territory, establish our own nation. And that legitimacy can only be achieved by banding together, by creating a sizable force. Tell him that perhaps soon, his pack will need to find a new leader because his days are few.” Tresset paused, smiled. “Did you get that?”

“Yes, yes,” nodded the molt on the right.

“I fear the message may not be well received,” added the one to the left.

“Of course it won’t be well received,” agreed Tresset. “But thank you for showing at least the small courage it took to stammer that flimsy protest.” Tresset returned his gaze to the other molt. “As for you, you are useless.”

Having the essence of the mountain lion, Tresset had retractable claws that emerged from just above his fingernails. As well, his teeth were long and sharp. His attack on the jackrabbit molt was swift, bloody, and immediately fatal. “Go,” he said to the remaining messenger as he dropped the dead molt to the blood-spattered floor. “Deliver my reply. Now!”

Ordool stepped away from the doorway, and the frightened molt nearly leaped through the opening and was gone before Tresset could breathe another breath. Spitting a piece of flesh from his mouth he said, “Bring me some antiseptic. And then clean up this mess.”