The Beasts of Barakhai Read online

  Falima said something simultaneous with Collins’, “Like . . . bare. Nude. Naked.”

  Zylas stuffed clothing back into the pack. “Have to be, you think?”

  Collins nodded, swallowing hard. It only made sense. He dared a peek at Falima, who returned a hard glare. She spoke to Zylas again, and he made a throwaway gesture as well as answering with words. Falima stomped a foot, horselike.

  “What’s wrong?” Collins asked.

  Zylas looked at Falima first, urging her to answer. When she did not, Zylas tried. “She have thing . . . mine. Not—”

  Apparently even more frustrated with Zylas’ broken rendition of English than Collins, Falima interrupted. “The reason I cannot give you your translation stone back is because some moron . . .” She glanced pointedly at Collins, then back to Zylas. “. . . kicked me and made me swallow it.”

  Collins’ face reddened again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “It all right,” Zylas soothed. “Now both can talk and understand Ben.”

  Falima tossed her head, ruffling her hair so that it fell over her shoulders in inky stripes. “You, barely. Me, I have no interest in speaking to him at all.” She turned her back.

  Not wishing to engage in another war, Collins ignored the woman for his more cooperative companion. “This stone?”

  “Magic,” Zylas explained with a word. “Let know all tongue.”

  Collins accepted the revelation without further questioning. It seemed no more outlandish than humans turning into animals and back, which he had already witnessed. “Remember when I asked about a friend rhino?”

  “Rhinosaurus,” Zylas corrected.

  “You don’t have any in . . . this place? Whatever it’s called.”

  “Barakhai.” Zylas sat on the deadfall, examining the hole where he had found the beetle. “Mean ‘whole world’ our tongue.”

  “Barra-KIGH.” Collins tried to pronounce it correctly, uncertain of the spelling and doubting his companions could illuminate it. It was a lot easier to learn to speak a language than to read it, especially in rat form and on the sly.

  “Durithrin Forest be exact.”

  Durithrin. Collins recognized the word from their previous conversation, applied to a squirrel.

  Still ignoring them, Falima pulled food from the pack and stuffed cheese curds in her mouth. Collins glanced at her.

  “Very hungry,” Zylas apologized for Falima’s manners. “Ride most of day. Not time graze.”

  Falima made a wordless noise around her food.

  Collins put aside the issue of how someone who spent half her life as an herbivore and half as an omnivore managed to digest anything but grass. Barakhai clearly followed different natural laws and logic than his biology, chemistry, and physics textbooks. Returning to his original point, Collins cautiously sat beside the albino, this time ignoring his aching muscles. “What about lions? Eagles? Bulls?” He added one he had already seen here. “Big dogs?”

  “Know dog,” Zylas admitted. “Bull?” His eyes crinkled. “That mean . . . lie?”

  Only the shit. Collins dodged the slang to explain as simply as possible, “Man cows. They have horns, and they’re big.”

  “Pepsa,” Falima said around another mouthful.

  Zylas bobbed his head. “Pepsa. Bull. Yes. Why?” Collins waved away another large, flying insect. The answer seemed so obvious, he could scarcely believe the question. “Don’t you people fight?”

  “Fight?” Zylas repeated, looking at Falima.

  “Augin telishornil bahk.” Falima drank from the waterskin. It seemed like a lot of sounds to explain a one-syllable word.

  “Fight.” Zylas cocked his head to the heavens. “No.”

  “No?” The answer was nonsensical, especially after the barrage of arrows that had nearly killed them. “They were fighting.” He jabbed a hand in the general direction of the crumbling fort.

  Zylas followed the gesture with his gaze, eyes shadowed by his hat.

  “Different. They solen ak opernes.”

  This time, Falima translated without entreaty. “Royal guards.”

  Collins considered the foreign phrase. “Solen ak opernes. ” He remembered now that Zylas had used opernes before to refer to royalty. “Solen ak opernes.” He quit practicing the foreign phrase. He had no reason to learn their language; he would have to escape as soon as possible . . . and never return. “No one else fights?” he asked dubiously. It seemed beyond possibility. “Ever?”

  Falima laid out apples, hard rolls, and cheese, then started peering under rocks and rolling logs.

  “Sometime,” Zylas admitted, loosening a strand of white hair sweat-plastered to his temple. “Not . . . as group. Not like . . . like . . . king cop.”

  “Solen ak opernes,” Collins supplied.

  Zylas smiled. “Language go wrong direction.” Collins laughed. He had once watched an exchange between a teacher and an English as a Second Language student via interpreter. At one point, the teacher had used a Spanish phrase that the translator dutifully recited for the Peruvian student—in English. Now, Collins broke bark from his seat with his heel.

  Falima rushed in to gather the revealed bugs, placing them in the crock.

  Collins wondered how hungry he would have to get to share that meal. “If we could marshal some strong animals, they wouldn’t necessarily have to have formal combat training—”

  Falima straightened suddenly. “You self-centered bastard!”

  The outburst, in perfect English, startled Collins; and he nearly fell off the log.

  “Falima,” Zylas warned.

  But nothing would silence Falima until she spoke her piece. “Is it not enough that we will probably die for saving a cold-blooded cannibal? Do you want more innocents to sacrifice their lives for you?”

  Collins found himself unable to reply, though regret filled his stomach like lead, and the bare thought of eating now made him ill.

  “Falima,” Zylas said again, a clear plea to quiet her. He added more in their own language.

  “I do not care,” Falima replied, still in clear English. “He is a fool and a clod. We should have let him hang.”

  Zylas said more, punctuated by broad hand gestures that displayed the anger his tone did not.

  Collins tried to defuse the situation. “I’m sorry. I really am. I am very grateful that you saved my life. I didn’t mean to suggest others should die to help me.” He tried to catch Falima’s eyes. “I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

  Falima dodged his gaze. “What sort of dimwit finds himself in a strange place and immediately kills and eats someone?”

  “I’m sorry,” Collins practically pleaded. He needed Falima and Zylas to help him negotiate Barakhai, but he also desperately wanted a friend. The idea of being alone in a foreign world with rules beyond his understanding overwhelmed him. Nevertheless, he chose to gently defend himself. “If you came to my world starving, wouldn’t you start eating every bug you saw?”

  Falima hesitated, clearly seeing the trap. “You were starving?”

  “Yes.” Collins refused to allow her to sidetrack him. Though no third world orphan, he had gone twenty-seven hours on nothing but water. “Would you eat the bugs?”

  “Maybe,” Falima said, then clenched her jaw. “Why? Is that murder where you come from?”

  The urge to reply affirmatively became a burning compulsion. It would make his point swiftly and efficiently, but Collins never lied well. “No. But it’s disgusting. You wouldn’t get hung—”

  “Hanged,” Falima corrected.

  Collins blinked, barely daring to believe a person who could only speak his language because of a magical device thought it possible, even necessary, to correct his grammar. “It’s hanged? Not hung? Really?”

  “Trust me.”

  Collins returned to his point. “You wouldn’t get hanged.” It still sounded wrong. “But you might get locked up.” He did not bother to differentiate between prison and a mental unit. It wo
uld only weaken his point, and at least he had not directly lied.

  Another large, flying thing zipped past Collins’ head. He smacked it out of the air. “No wonder you can eat the bugs here.” It flew in an awkward arc, then crashed into the dirt. “They’re as big as—”

  Falima’s sharp intake of breath cut off Collins’ words before he could make a fatal faux pas. Zylas scrambled to check on the fallen creature, Collins presumed to augment dinner.

  Zylas scooped it up but did not add it to the crock. Instead, he cradled it in his hand, massaging it with a gentle finger.

  Dread crept through Collins’ chest in icy prickles. What have I done this time? Leaping to his feet, he raced Falima to the thing in Zylas’ hands. A tiny hummingbird lay there, its colors vivid against the chalky whiteness of the rat/man’s palms. Its body was deep emerald, the wings a lacy lighter green. A patch of pink decorated its throat. The long, thin beak was black. “I’m sorry,” Collins gasped out, gagging. “I thought it was a horsefly. I swear I did. I-I . . . is it . . .” He shuddered at the idea.

  ” . . . dead?”

  “Just stunned.” Zylas held up his hand, and the bird’s wings became a blur. It zipped into the air and disappeared, to Collins’ relief.

  “He is a menace,” Falima grumbled under her breath.

  “Honest mistake,” Zylas replied.

  Collins suspected both of the English comments had been directed at him, though they addressed one another. To his surprise, he appreciated them talking around him rather than in their own language. At least, he felt included. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I’m really sorry.” He wondered if he had just destroyed their security or enhanced it. If he alone noticed the hummingbird, and it had been spying, then he might have averted capture. More likely, he had whacked some innocent bystander who would now find him less a curiosity and more a danger to discuss with guards and friends. Collins dropped to the ground and buried his face in his hands. The new lines of thought this bizarre world inspired left him with millions of possibilities and little direction. “Perhaps . . . perhaps, the guards at the ruins might get tired of waiting for me and give up?”

  Falima’s amused snort shattered that last hope. Even Zylas loosed a laugh. “Not likely. Even best time, guard . . . zealous.” The last word seemed a difficult one for a tyro to choose, and Collins suspected its similarity to the rat/man’s name made it easier for him to learn. “They know you comed from there. Want you.” He shrugged. “Not go till get you.”

  “They know?” Collins felt his features grow tightly knit. “How?” There seemed only one logical explanation. “Have others come from my world?”

  Zylas glanced at Falima, who shook her head with a grimace. They exchanged more dialogue than Collins thought necessary. Either they had or they had not. If space aliens had visited his town, he could not imagine anyone not knowing.

  Finally Zylas addressed Collins again. “No.”

  The answer seemed too simple for the time it had taken to gather it. “No?”

  “Not that either of us knows of,” Falima clarified. “The royals might have more information.”

  Collins doubted it. If others had come, it seemed likely the so-called royals would have kept him from entering Barakhai in the first place.

  Apparently thinking along the same lines, Zylas added. “If other come, royal not know from where till you.”

  Or else I would have found the ruins better guarded. Collins nodded to indicate he understood, then stumbled over an odd thought. “Do your people come to our world often?” He had studied some strange animals, like the platypus, that seemed otherworldly. Perhaps it explained the disappearance of the dinosaurs; somehow they all got zapped to another dimension.

  Falima continued gathering bugs. “Zylas is the only one I know of who has gone. And I only just found that out because of you.”

  Zylas looked at his sandals. “Know one other. Not think more.”

  “Let us eat.” Falima held out the crock, now half-full with crawling insects.

  Collins’ stomach lurched.

  Falima poured water into the crock, replaced the lid, and set it near the food. “Hurry up. Gather kindling.”

  Immediately, Collins obeyed, glad to find some small way to start repaying his rescuers. He brought back armfuls of dry twigs, choosing wider ones with each pass. The first gray stirrings of dusk settled over the forest, bringing a chilly breeze that stirred the leaves into rattling dances overhead. Oncoming darkness dimmed the trees to skeletal hulks swarmed with fluttering leaves like dark, limp hands. As Collins dropped his third load, he found his two companions squatting in front of a well-arranged tower of kindling with a pile of leaves beneath it. He hunkered down between them. “Be a lot easier if you’d brought my lighter.”

  “Not need.” Zylas reached into his tunic pocket.

  Before Collins could marvel over Zylas even knowing what he meant, the albino’s hand emerged wrapped around a translucent purple Zippo. Expertly, he flicked the wheel with a callused thumb. A tiny flame appeared, and he used it to ignite the leaves.

  Zylas sat back. “Brought own.”

  Collins dropped to his haunches. “You . . . you have lighters?” It seemed impossible. If Barakhai had that technology, he should see so much more; and it made no sense that they would have an otherworld brand name version even so. Then realization clicked. “You must have got it in my world.”

  Zylas watched the sprouting flames, brushing aside his cloak and replacing the lighter blindly. “Work hard drag back.”

  “I’ll bet.” Collins pictured a rat scooting the Zippo across a dark, dirty floor for hours. He bit back a smile. Zylas probably would not appreciate the humor, and he doubted Falima would either. Reminded of his own devices, Collins expressed gratitude that had gone too long unspoken. He now understood that Zylas must have packed the saddlebags. “By the way, thanks for getting my watch back.” He held up his wrist. “And the phone, too.” He patted the Motorola StarTAC clipped to his waistband.

  “You welcome.” Zylas fanned the growing flames with his hat as they danced onto the wood. “Not able get all. Pick good?”

  Collins measured his response. No matter how misguided, good deeds deserved praise, not condemnation. “Fine.”

  Apparently reading the hesitation, Zylas looked up, snowy hair plastered to his head in the shape of his missing hat. “Truth, please.”

  “Honestly,” Collins returned carefully. “I do appreciate your help.”

  “But . . .” Zylas added, replacing his headgear.

  “But,” Collins continued dutifully. “Time doesn’t make a whole lot of difference.” He gestured at his watch, then pulled the cellular phone from its holster. He pressed the button and got no response. “Without a charger, it’s not much use.” He chuckled. “Even if it worked, who could I call?”

  Zylas grinned crookedly. “Do better next time.”

  “Next time. Right.” Collins studied the creases at the corners of Zylas’ mouth and realized his companion was kidding. He laughed. “Next time.”

  Even Falima managed a smile, though she turned away as if afraid the men might see it. “Why do we not start eating? The main course will come soon enough.”

  Hungry, Collins nodded. He had eaten only cheese curds since daybreak and not nearly enough of those. They sat and ate most of the apples, hard rolls, and cheese curds in their possession while the bugs bubbled merrily over the coals. They shared the water in the canteens. It tasted dusty and stale, but it slaked Collins’ thirst. By the time Falima pulled the hot crockery from the fire, he felt satisfied, not the least bit interested in the boiled mass of recently crawling pests.

  Suddenly, Falima stiffened, a handful of dead bugs halfway to her mouth.

  “What?” Zylas said.

  Falima tipped her head. “Listen.”

  Collins strained his own hearing. Wind rattled through the leaves, and branches swished softly. Crickets screeched and hummed in a rising and falling chor
us. Farther away, a hound bayed.

  “Dogs!” Zylas sprang to his feet, kicking dirt over the fire.

  Falima stuffed the insects in her mouth, then started shoving loose possessions, willy-nilly, into the pack.

  Caught up in his companions’ urgency, Collins looked about for stray objects, finding only the lead rope/halter he had used to guide Falima. Snatching it up, he set to using a branch to erase all signs of the camp. “I presume dogs mean—”

  “Pursuit,” Falima interrupted.

  Zylas qualified as he scattered the partially burned kindling. “All horse and all dog is guard.”

  Falima draped the saddlebags over Collins’ shoulders and seized the halter from his hand. “Go! Go! Due north. I will find you. Hide in the . . . the sixth oak.”

  “But—” Collins started.

  “Come.” Zylas grabbed his arm and ran. Dragged two steps, Collins stumbled, caught his balance, then charged after the albino.

  “What about Falima?”

  “She make smell-trail. Catch up.” Zylas’ pull became insistent. “Come.”

  Scarcely daring to believe Falima would risk her life for his, nor that Zylas would allow it, Collins did as Zylas bade. “Why the sixth oak?”

  “Random,” Zylas replied, still running. “Far enough for safe. She find us.”

  Collins looked back. Falima dragged the crude rope halter through the dirt, then disappeared among the trees in the opposite direction.

  “Up! Up!” Zylas shoved Collins into a fat trunk. He crashed against it hard enough to drive the breath from his lungs. White petals showered down over him, silky on his skin, filling hair, mouth, eyes. Amid gasping in air thickened by the cloying perfume of flowers, spitting out petals, and regaining his vision, he managed to seize a low limb. Zylas scrambled over him, quick and agile as a monkey. The albino clambered higher, dislodging more flowers in a gentle rain over Collins, who hauled himself into the sheltering branches. The tree reminded him of a densely blooming tulip poplar or catalpa, but more thickly flowered with fatter, longer petals and indigo centers.

  Realization came with shocking abruptness. “This isn’t an oak.”

  Zylas silenced Collins with a hiss.