Ширли Мерфи - Nightpool

While he crouched there with them, laughing with them for no reason and for every reason, for the sheer delight of their meeting, another fox appeared alone at the portal, a silhouette against the morning sky, a lone sentinel. She yapped once, then ran to them.

“The riders come along the ridge,” she panted. “They have jackals! Stinking jackals! ” She went directly to sit before the big dog fox. “The riders follow the boy, as you said they would, Pixen.”

Pixen reared and stood looking around him. “Quickly, into the tunnel of pillars, into the southern den.”

The foxes leaped and pushed at Teb. He ran with them, the light from his lantern swinging in arcs along the cave walls until Pixen barked, “Put the light out.” Teb stopped and blew out the candle. He could see nothing, and was propelled ahead, stumbling, by the foxes pressing and urging him on.

“Left!” Pixen cried. “Left, and duck. Crawl through, Tebriel, quickly. Squeeze through; it’s not far.”

He did as he was told, crouched, then found he must go on his belly. He pushed pack and lamp and waterskin in first, could feel the foxes behind him pressing him on. The stone scraped his back, and he thought he would be terrified again; then, as suddenly as it had started, the crawl was ended.

“Stand up, Tebriel. You can stand. But do not light the lamp. We will lead you.”

The foxes pressed against his legs and pushed him forward like a tide. Though Pixen said he could walk upright, he kept feeling above him for the cave’s roof, for the way was narrow and close, a long, twisting way before the cave began to grow lighter. Then they pushed through a small arch, with light ahead of them, and stood in the huge, light, echoing hall of pillars, though they had come by a different route from the one Teb knew. Pointed pillars of stone grew from the ceiling and from the floor, awash in light from the slitted windows along a high ledge.

“We are safe,” Pixen said. “They can’t get in—the larger entry is blocked with boulders, has been for nearly a year. Sivich will not find us here.”

“How did you know about Sivich? How did you know my name?”

“Everyone knows about Sivich, and about Quazelzeg and his plans for Tirror. And as for you, Tebriel, we knew you by your scent.

“You and the queen and king, and Camery, used to picnic in the caves. We watched you often from the shadows, and followed when you explored.

“Last night when your little band of six passed close to us in the dark, we knew your scent, and Pakkna’s scent, and we followed you.

“We heard Garit’s instructions. Both sets of them,” Pixen said, grinning.

“Why didn’t you speak to us, when we came on picnics?”

“We saw no need to. We thought it best to remain . . . shy.” Pixen turned from Teb and began to pace, his bushy tail flicking with heavy grace each time he turned. His shining coat was the color of wood ashes, very long and thick, with little silver guard hairs mixed in. His throat and chest were snowy white. The insides of his ears, when he stood against the light, shone pale pink. The only dark thing about him was his eyes—they were almost black and filled with a devilish, challenging, and complicated gleam.

“Even if we had not recognized your scent, Tebriel, there would still be the mark to tell us.”

“You have sharp eyes. And what . . . ?”

“We saw the mark last night,” Pixen interrupted. “While you slept.”

Teb stared.

Pixen was filled with laughter. “Were you cold last night, Tebriel? Did you sleep soundly?”

“I don’t think I was cold. No, I was so tired . . .” Teb paused. “No, not cold at all. Warm. I was . . .” Then he realized that it was their strong foxy scent that he had smelled in the cave when he woke. He stared at the foxes, for they were all laughing now. “It was you there! All of you—keeping me warm last night!” Now he could remember very well the feel of warm fur covering him, and he was laughing, too. “But why did you go away?” That only made them laugh harder, a soft, yapping laughter.

“Now,” said Pixen at last, “you must tell us the rest of the story. There is much we do not understand. If we are to help you, we must know what the trouble is about.”

“It—it started with the birthmark,” Teb said. “Well, with the dragon, really.”

“The dragon?” the foxes breathed, looking at him with wonder. “What kind of dragon?” said one. “Is there a dragon?” said another. The foxes gathered around him just as he and Camery used to settle to hear their mother tell a tale.

As he told them about the night in the hall when Sivich learned of the dragon, and how Sivich meant to snare it, their expressions grew serious, then angry, and Pixen said, “The dark raiders must be stopped. The dragon must not be harmed; no trap must touch the goddess, and there is little time.”

“The goddess?” Teb said.

“The dragon they saw is female,” Pixen said. “By her color, she is female. The male is dark. She is a goddess, Teb, to us all.”

“But goddesses aren’t . . . They’re just in stories. Folk don’t believe in—”

“We call her goddess,” Pixen said, “even though she is mortal. The dragons guarded the freedom of the old times, Tebriel. Through their songs, they helped folk relive the lives of their ancestors. When a dragon and bard came into a city, crowds would gather to hear them. Their songs made Time seem like a river, carrying scenes bright with the lives of those who had lived before. It was by dragon magic that one knew how wars had been fought, and men conquered and then freed. It was by dragonsong that folk were helped to understand the nature of evil, and so to understand goodness, too. But you . . .” The kit fox broke off, and studied Teb. “What is your age, Tebriel?”

“I am twelve.”

“And you have been alone for four years?”

“My mother has been dead for five years. My father the king for four. Sivich murdered him. Camery—Camery is captive, in the tower.”

“And you have lived as the slave of Sivich?”

Teb nodded.

“And your mother told you nothing of the dragons? Nor did your father?”

“I—my mother said they were filled with wonder and power. She thought there weren’t any singing dragons left on Tirror, and that made her angry and . . . I don’t know. Sad, I guess.”

“She told you nothing more?”

“No. She—”

But Pixen had turned away as a noise and stirring at the entrance distracted them all, and two foxes leaped in through the tunnel.

“They have come into Nison-Serth,” said the smaller, a young vixen. “The jackals are horrible. Nosing everywhere and snuffling, and flapping . . . disgusting.”

“I want four messengers,” Pixen said, “to go quickly down into Ratnisbon, to Ebis the Black, to carry a message for his ears alone. Mixet, Brux, Faxel. . . and yes, you may go, Luex. I would not send Faxel without you. Now come, let me give you the message.

“You are to tell Ebis the Black that Sivich builds a huge trap on the coast of Baylentha, to capture the singing dragon. You will tell him that Sivich means either to hold her captive or to kill her. Sivich must be stopped, and Ebis is the only one who can stop him. You will not say you have seen Tebriel or know where—” He stopped speaking and cocked his ears. They all could hear it. Hoofbeats above their heads, across stone, as searchers rode over the great stone spine of the mountain.

Chapter 6

Pixen finished his instructions, and the four foxes slipped away while the hoofbeats still pounded overhead across the mountain.

“Sivich’s riders,” Pixen said. “Heading for the west portal.”

Teb shivered. “They’ll come in there, too; they’ll be all over the caves.”