Chapter 20 The Night The Forest Howled

Chapter 20 The Night The Forest Howled

Clink.

One of the spoons struck a ceramic bowl.

Paxton took his time, and chewed his food as though he were chewing something better than food. The food was more to my liking to-night, not because the cook had done anything different, but because Lucius- that orphan with his pretty countenance and his proud eyes-- no longer sat in the village hall where he had always sat as though he belonged there. He was gone. Kicked out. Dragged back to the dirt in which he was. That information was like wine to a cold night in the bosom of Paxton, and he indulged himself in every drop.

The chief of the village was eating silently across the table. His father. The fellow who operated this little part of the world with iron rules and big hands. But as he ate, those keen eyes continued to slide over towards Paxton, gauging him as they always did, which was a prelude to something.

At last the chief laid aside his chopsticks, and wiped his mouth.

"Paxton," he said. His voice was the sort of gravitas that was weighty. You are to leave the village.

The words were like a fist.

Paxton paused in mid-bite, his slackening of the jaw would have raised only his eyes a little. The room seemed smaller awhile. The atmosphere somewhat warmer. He gulp-swallowed, and laughed, but it was so thin that he wished it were not.

"Leave?" he said. Father, pray tell me, what you mean by that?

The chief bent over. The flames in his eyes made them appear to be in a low fire.

I meant it, said he. You will not remain here in this village, but will come to the city and I have arranged it. You will enter the academy there.

Paxton gazed at him.

An academy. A city academy. One fierce beat of his heart smote his ribs. And there the real nobles took their way. The real tamers. The men who had in their power beasts which could tear armies asunder. It was the place, where bloodlines were important, where rank did count, where a man like Paxton belonged. It had always been known to him. He had never been good enough to get.

He had to pretend that he did not mind. He took up his spoon again, but continued to eat, fingers around the handle being rather too tight.

I see, I see, I see, he said trying to sound bored. And when just will I go to this academy?

The chief parted his lips.

BANG.

The door banged open so violently, it screamed on the hinges. The chill of the air came in with the odor of dirt and sweat and pure panic. One of the figures stumbled through the door, and almost fell on the floor.

The village vice chief it was.

His face was now as old ashes. Both sides of his face were in the sweat. His breast was heaving, like a man who was running his life, and that could not be little to one of his age and position.

The village chief stiffened up. His hand jerked towards the weapon by his side, and an expression of annoyance came across his face. But the instant he really saw the vice chief--saw him as he was--the anger was killed. It was replaced with something colder.

Paxton sat up, without intending to, the insolence leaving his face.

The eyes of the vice chief were distended, and nearly glassy, as those of a man who had seen something in the dark, and had not yet come out of it.

The voice of the chief was low and slow.

Vice chief, said he. What sort of madness hast thou come smashing into my house, like a drunken animal?

The vice chief's throat moved. He swallowed hard. Then the words came bursting out of him like water through a cracked wall.

"It's a beast tide, chief!" he cried, his voice cracking halfway through. "A hundred beasts are bearing down on the village right now and they are rampaging, all of them, not hunting, just destroying everything in their path!"

The room went completely still.

Even the fire seemed to hold its breath.

Paxton's fingers clenched around his spoon so hard the metal bit into his palm.

A beast tide. A hundred of them. Rampaging. This was not a pack of wolves drifting too close that could be scattered with some effort and turned into extra meat and coin. This was something else entirely. This was a storm made of teeth and claws and muscle, and it was moving toward them right now.

The chief was on his feet before the words had fully landed. His chair scraped the floor with a sharp sound.

"How long?" he demanded. "How much time do we have before they reach us?"

The vice chief pressed a shaking hand against his forehead, wiping sweat.

"I estimate... an hour," he managed. "Maybe less."

The chief's jaw locked. His whole face became something hard and decisive, the father vanishing completely and the commander taking his place.

"Gather the women and children immediately," he ordered. "Start the evacuation now, not in ten minutes, now."

The vice chief nodded, almost frantically.

The chief continued, every word crisp and clear as a blade being drawn.

The men you gather with arms, whatever they can carry. Temporary soldiers. Pay them after this is over and they will fight.

The face of the vice chief was fearful, but duty forced through it.

Got it, chief! he shouted.

Then he turned and fled away.

His footsteps thumped along the road and vanished in the din of the night.

The chief wheeled and returned to Paxton. It was not the face of his father that was looking at him now. It was a commander who was examining an asset and estimating the value of that asset during a crisis.

Paxton, he said sharply. "Listen carefully."

Paxton drew himself up.

The hand of his father fell on his shoulder. Hard, heavy, gripping.

Get into the evacuation caravan, the chief said. You go with the women and children.

Paxton opened his eyes. Pride flared in his heart like oil on a spark.

"What?" he snapped. Father, I have already wakened. I am not weak any more. I can fight with the rest of them.

Paxton caught a glimpse of something in the eyes of his father, just a moment. The old violence. The object behind the calm that seldom appeared but was always present.

No, the chief said. The term was uncompromising and absolute. "You cannot."

Paxton opened his mouth once more, but his father clamped his fingers into his shoulder like clamps.

You woke up days ago, the chief said, and he kept his voice low and under control. You have not yet bonded a single beast. You are not a fighter out there, against a hundred rampaging animals, you are dead weight, you will die screaming, and worse, you will drag other men down in your attempt to save yourself.

Paxton's throat tightened. His pride was receding against his fear, but his fear was talking louder, and both of them knew it.

The chief leaned forward, and lowered his voice to a final.

And, if this village falls to-night, I need you alive, said he, you go to the city. you live. you become strong enough to make what we lose here. That is your business to-night, not to die on the road because you wanted to look like a man.

His eyes looked at Paxton a long time, not questioning, not desiring, but merely stating the fact and waiting until Paxton should accept it.

Paxton swallowed. Something cold crept up his spine, to the back of his neck.

He nodded.

Yes, father, yes, father, he said, pushing the words out.

The chief set him free and walked off, already heading to the door.

Paxton paused a moment, and then, pushing his chair aside, walked out without further comment.

The village was unrecognizable outside. Individuals ran in all the streets. Torches were lit and going in all directions. Dogs yanked and yanked. Women called their children by name, and their voices were high and sharp. Men swore and took tools, weapons, farming implements, anything their hands touched. The air was different, too, electric and unnatural, as it is when a storm is near enough to be tasted.

Paxton strode briskly and held himself together, not letting himself run, not letting himself walk like a man who had seen this before and was merely handling it. His crew soon discovered him, and fell round him as they always did, whispering to each other.

The evacuation caravan was already forming at the side of the road. Wagons formed a sort of column, the horses stamping and tugging at their leads, ears flattened, already picking up whatever signal was being given by the dark forest.

Paxton got into one of the wagons. Women, teenagers, and newly awakened kids were sitting around him, and had no bonded beasts yet. Others had turned pale. Others were shaking with their hands in their laps. Others were struggling to appear tough, sitting erectly with their chins up, yet their eyes were darting all about, betraying them.

Paxton sat back and crossed his arms, trying to appear that this was another inconvenient night. Nothing was like beast tides. The howling in the distance, in the tree line, was mere background noise, which he had heard a hundred times.

But even he might have known that this was different. Heavier, somehow. The type of thing you experience in your chest before you realize it in your head.

The chief had taken his seat on the wooden wall out at the village gate. He stood there gazing out into the darkness beyond the torchlight, and whatever it was that he saw caused his face to tighten in a manner that indicated that he had anticipated something bad and had found something worse.

Shapes were moving in the trees in the distance. Not slowly. Not with the cautious, probing steps of beasts that were pursuing. They arrived like a flood, and there was no hesitation in them, and no uncertainty as to their destination. A hundred bodies pushing through the darkness, their eyes glimpsing the torchlight in the distance and reflecting it in dull, feverish glimpses. Their mouths were foaming. They were already running with their claws tearing up the earth.

The voice of the chief rolled out over the wall and into the village like a wave.

Hearken ye all! he shouted. It is a crisis, but we deal with it like we always do! Guard what is our own, and all the men here shall be rewarded when it is done!

The men shouted back, not because they were fearless, but because they were terrified and it was better to shout than to remain silent.

Summon your beasts! the chief said. Get out and kill those bastards before they get to the gate!

The air snapped with invoking light. Wolves appeared. Boars, hawks, armored lizards, all snapping and snarling, as their tamers drove them on, and shouted commands as they ran to the gate.

The battle started.

And the caravan began to move.

😈Wheels were turning on the dirt road. Horses bent into their harnesses and tugged. The village faded behind them, and the wagons increased in speed, and the shouts of the battle--roaring, crashing, the high-pitched shriek of animals and men--started to mix into one distant sound.

Paxton sat, with his arms crossed, and watched the torch glow flicker far behind them. The younger passengers whispered around him. Others prayed in their hearts. Others wept silently with their heads averted. Others gazed out in front of nothing.

An old man leaped into the wagon beside him.

Jarek. The son of the vice chief. He was taller than most, and his eyes were always a little too sharp, and his grin always seemed to be most in evidence when someone was in pain.

He bent over Paxton and spoke in a low voice.

What do you suppose happens after this? Jarek inquired, looking about at the people in the wagon. Since we are being transported out in this way.

Paxton smiled slowly. He threw his shoulders back and spoke with the easy confidence of one who had made up his mind not to worry.

Same thing that always happens, Paxton said. We go away, the men fight, our fathers take care of the beasts, and then we go back to a village with meat and money. He maintained his voice level and definite, as though he were telling a dumb person something that was obvious. Every year a beast tide comes. There is nothing different about to-night.

Jarek nodded and laughed.

Paxton lost his thoughts a little, and then something came to him--something that had been in the back of his head since dinner, and was waiting to be taken in a proper way.

His smile changed.

Well, there is one thing different about to-night, said Paxton, his voice falling down to something lower and more calculated, the way it did when he was enjoying something.

Jarek lifted an eyebrow.

That boy, said Paxton. He spoke slowly, trying the words. Lucius. He has gone. kicked out. And, should he be in that forest now... He left the sentence suspended, and smiled.

Jarek laughed, and his shoulders shook.

Then he is dead already, Jarek grinned. Before sunrise those beasts will find him.

Paxton laughed as well, and it was good, as though he had been holding it in a long time. Lucius had always been a problem. Strutting about as though he was somebody, glaring at people with those arrogant eyes, pretending to be a pretty face, was just as good as being strong.

Naturally he is dead, said Paxton, leaning forward, his voice rising with pleasure. He is an orphan, he has no talent, no beast, no one who will come to his rescue, out there in the dark, that pretty face of his will not do him a bit of good.

Jarek smacked his knee and continued laughing, and Paxton followed suit, letting the noise fill the air between them and mask the roaring in the distance.

But the wagon jerked.

SCREECH!

The horses shrieked. The entire caravan was thrown to a violent halt. Paxton was hurled aside, his elbow striking the side of the wagon made of wood.

What the--! somebody shouted.

Individuals fell over one another. A woman screamed. Jarek banged his head on the bench and cursed. The laugh was killed in a moment and panic came to take its place.

Paxton was up before the wagon had quite ceased to rock, his elbow aching, his temper already smouldering.

What the hell is going on up there? he shouted toward the front. Why did you stop so?

The driver turned around on his seat. His face was pale and his eyes were doing something that Paxton had seldom seen in a man--they were really scared.

The driver, who was called Young Master Paxton, said, with caution, there is a person in the road.

Paxton stood motionless a full second.

Then he leaped out of the wagon, with a thud of his boots on the ground, and pushed his way through the press of frightened people, shoulders slicing through the huddle, till he was at the head of the caravan.

And there, in the midst of the road in the thin moonlight, was one figure.

Slim. Upright. Completely still.

Paxton knew the form of him before he could see the face.

His lips slowly curved up.

Well, said Paxton, loud enough to be heard by the entire caravan. "Well, well, well." He came forward, dripping with contempt. Unless it is our dear friend. Alex. He smiled wide. What are you doing here, orphan?

Alex said nothing.

He simply stared at Paxton.

Then gradually a smirk came to his face.

And Paxton sensed that there was a change in the air between them--a change he could not at once identify. That smirk was not the one he had seen before. It was not the silent, restrained look of a person who was attempting to maintain his or her pride in the presence of people who were superior to him or her. This was different. This was colder. Sharper. The words of a person who had already entered hell, glanced around, and returned with something in his hands.

Now, before Paxton, Alex, after all that had changed, only smirked--because he was not the same Alex as he had been.