The Beasts of Barakhai Read online

  Collins glanced down. The ground lay barely five feet beneath him. “But Falima won’t be able to find—”

  Zylas’ cloth-covered sandal tapped Collins’ cheek in warning. “Hush. Better hiding. Thick and smell.”

  Collins reached for a higher branch and hauled himself deeper into a suffocating wall of leaves and petals. Zylas’ reasoning made sense. The dogs would have a more difficult time catching their scent amid flowers that also concealed them from sight. Yet, he could not help worrying about their other companion. It seemed unlikely Falima could find them either. He tried to think of something he might not have considered; but, even focused on the differences between Barakhai and home, he found nothing. He did not believe horses had an unusually well-developed sense of smell, certainly not keener than hounds.

  The barking grew louder, closer, then more insistent. At Zylas’ steadying touch, Collins realized he was fidgeting. Adrenaline was driving him to run or pace, foolish urges in their current situation. He looked up. Zylas had climbed even higher. He had had to stretch his toes as far as possible to reach Collins at all. Cautiously, Collins raised a hand to grab an overhead branch. Rapid rustling through the brush stopped him in mid-movement. Below, Falima pressed through a clump of reedy stalks. Something louder slammed the weeds behind her, snuffling.

  Falima! Though driven to shout, Collins held his tongue. He swung to a lower branch, then caught the woman’s shoulder as she passed.

  Falima hissed and spun. Her fist slammed Collins’ ear. Fire slashed through his head, and he lost his grip, plummeting to the ground. Pain jarred through his left elbow and hip.

  “Oh, sorry,” Falima whispered, finally recognizing Collins. She grasped a lower branch and swung herself into the tree.

  A hound burst through the foliage.

  Collins froze.

  The dog skidded to a stop. Young and gangly, it sported long legs, floppy ears, and a tail too long for its body. Patches of brown and white were interspersed randomly over its face and body. Head raised, it opened its mouth.

  “No.” Collins sprang for the dog, snapping its muzzle closed with one hand and scooping it up under its legs with the other. He could hear its companions baying in the distance, but no others followed it through the brush. Yet.

  Clutching the half-grown dog, Collins ran for the tree. It struggled in his grip, making climbing all but impossible. He braced its weight against the lowest branch. Still holding its mouth, he managed to gain a toehold and drag self and dog amid the flowers.

  “What are you doing?” Falima asked incredulously.

  “Keeping it quiet.” Collins loosed the dog’s snout. Immediately, it howled. Collins swore and clamped his hand back over its muzzle, stifling the noise. It struggled wildly, clawing at him and trying to duck its head through his grip. Collins clung tighter to the dog, his balance on the tree branch swaying dangerously.

  Falima steadied Collins. “You’ve got to get up higher.”

  Though true, it seemed impossible. “Here.” He thrust the dog’s backside at Falima. “Help me.”

  Muttering something uninterpretable, Falima placed the bulk of the dog’s weight on a higher limb. Collins kept one hand wrapped solidly around its muzzle and attempted to climb with the other. Bark scraped a line of skin from his forearm, and the movement unleashed a storm of leaves and petals.

  “Easy,” Zylas cautioned.

  Collins managed to work his way to a reasonably hidden branch. With Falima’s help, he steadied the dog in his lap, fingers stiffening on its muzzle. It managed an occasional whine, but he stifled the barks and bays that might bring the hunters. If they find us, we’re dead. Nevertheless, it never occurred to him to harm the pup.

  The barking grew louder, then fainter, occasionally mingled with human voices. Collins’ breathing turned erratic as he fought not to contemplate the situation. If he did, he might panic, just as he had at the gallows. That image quickened his breathing to pants, and he shoved it aside. He thought instead of grade school autumns, playing tag with friends among the maples and dogwoods.

  Over time, the surrounding odor of flowers became more stench than fragrance. The dog’s weight seemed to treble; Collins’ legs fell asleep beneath it. He passed the hours until full nightfall mentally singing every song he could remember, mostly childhood nursery rhymes, lullabies, and those from his high school musical, Anything Goes.

  A whistle cut through the night sounds that had risen so gradually, Collins had not realized he was straining his hearing over them. The dog resumed its struggle with a vengeance, pained whines escaping Collins’ hold. An explosion of petals and leaves cascaded to the ground. The branch shook violently. Collins fought for his hold, Falima assisting. Finally, the dog ceased its kicking and lay, hopelessly snared, in the tree.

  Apparently, the whistle called the dogs home, because the sounds of movement, the barking, and the voices disappeared. For a long time, the three humans and the dog remained silently in the tree. Then, finally, Zylas spoke. “Let’s go.”

  Painstakingly, Collins eased the dog from his lap. It dropped to the ground and immediately loosed a fusillade of barks.

  Collins leaped from the branch, jarring a wave of buzzing pain up his legs. The dog whirled, teeth bared, and growled a warning that Collins dared not heed. He dove for it, bearing it to the ground, then grabbed its mouth again. His cramped fingers responded sluggishly, and the dog managed to slash his left hand before he subdued it.

  A pair of legs eased into Collins’ view. He looked up at a fine-boned stranger dressed in brown and green. He could barely judge height from this angle, but the other seemed small, almost frail. Short, brown hair hung in shaggy disarray, and dark eyes studied Collins with a heated glare.

  Collins froze, arms winched around the dog. Caught. There was no way he could overpower a dog and a man simultaneously, no matter how slight they were. He cringed, turning the newcomer a pleading look, hoping for some miracle to keep the other from shouting. He found no mercy in the keen brown eyes and lowered his head. “It’s over,” he whispered. And I’m going to die.

  Chapter 5

  Hurl the dog at the man and run! Any action hero would pull it off, but the more rational portion of Collins’ mind dismissed the idea immediately. Jackie Chan could outmaneuver a dog; Benton Collins would be lucky to manage two running steps before the animal’s teeth sank into his buttocks and the man’s shouts brought armed companions to finish what the dog started.

  Time seemed to move in slow motion. The stalemate dragged into that strange eternity mortal danger sometimes creates. The aroma of the tree flowers condensed into a cloying cloud, like the worst humidity Collins had ever encountered. His lungs felt thick with pollen.

  Displaying none of Collins’ caution, Falima and Zylas swung down beside him. A chaos of petals and sticks wound through the woman’s thick, black hair. She addressed the newcomer in their musical tongue, and he responded in turn. Zylas placed a hand on the dog, and it resumed its struggles.

  Clutching the dog’s muzzle tightly, Collins braced himself against its sharp-nailed paws. Attention fully on the animal, he addressed his companions. “What did he say?”

  Zylas helped support the dog’s floundering weight. His first word eluded Collins, but the rest came through clearly, “. . . still angry you hit.” He paused. “Falima not helping.” He glared at her.

  As the dog again sank into quiet despair, Collins glanced at the rat/man and tried to fathom his initial utterance. “Yah-linn?” It sounded Chinese to him.

  Zylas enunciated, “Ialin. Ee-AH-lin. Other . . . friend.”

  Falima and the newcomer continued to converse.

  “Friend?” Relief flooded Collins, followed by understanding. “He must be . . . the hummingbird?”

  Zylas considered, then smiled and nodded. “Ialin. Hummingbird. Yes.”

  Only then did Collins finally put everything together. He had assumed “Ialin” the Barakhain word for “friend,” but it was, apparently,
the hummingbird’s name. “Ialin,” he repeated, then slurred it as Zylas had the first time so it sounded more like, “Yahlin.” Collins glanced at Falima, only to find Ialin’s gaze pinned on him. Duh, Ben. You said his name. Twice. Cheeks heating, he addressed the other man. “Hello and welcome.”

  Ialin’s scowl remained, unchanged.

  Falima said something in their tongue, Ialin replied in a sulky growl, then Zylas spoke in turn. The conversation proceeded, growing more heated. At length, even Zylas punctuated his statements with choppy hand gestures and rising volume.

  Collins sat, drawing the dog securely into his lap. This time, it barely fought, settling itself in the hollow between his legs. Helplessly studying his companions’ exchange, watching it ignite into clear argument, he found himself fondling one of the dog’s silky ears. In careful increments, he eased his grip on its muzzle until he no longer pinned it closed. The dog loosed a ferocious howl so suddenly it seemed as if the sound had remained clamped inside, just waiting for him to release it. Collins wrapped his fingers around the slender snout again, choking off another whirlwind round of barking.

  All sound disappeared in that moment. Then, leaves rustled in the breeze, and petals floated in a gentle wash. Collins realized what was missing. In addition to birdsong and the dog’s cry, his companions’ discussion had abruptly ended. He glanced over to find three pairs of eyes directly and unwaveringly upon him.

  Collins’ face flared red, and he forced a sheepish grin. “Sorry about that.” Aware that treating a human the way he had the dog practically defined assault and kidnapping, Collins attempted to mitigate his crimes, at least to his companions. “I’d let it go, but . . .”

  Zylas nodded, expression serious. “Cannot.” He stroked his chin, clearly pondering. Then, shaking his head, dislodging a storm of petals from the wide brim of his hat, he unraveled a ropy, green vine from a nearby trunk. Carrying it to where Collins sat, he expertly bound the dog’s mouth shut. Zylas turned his gaze to Falima. “Know this dog?”

  Collins eased away his hand.

  The hound’s nose crinkled menacingly and it jerked its head, but the vine held.

  Falima responded in their language, and Zylas raised a warning hand. “You have stone. Not waste.”

  Falima glowered.

  Zylas’ look turned pleading, weary.

  “I’d rather Ialin understood than . . . him.”

  Collins ignored the loathing in Falima’s voice and supplied, “Ben.”

  Falima grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like a snarly teen’s “whatever.” She switched to English, “We had best move on.”

  Zylas studied the skeletal shapes of trees against the growing darkness, the crescent moon overhead. “Quickly. I have to sleep soon.”

  Falima pushed through the trees, Ialin following. The hummingbird/man moved with a flitty grace, individual movements quick and jerky, yet the whole merging into a smooth and agile pattern. Only Zylas remained, frowning at the problem that remained in Collins’ lap. Collins elucidated, “He can’t bark if we let him go, but he also can’t eat or drink if he doesn’t find his way home quickly.”

  “Still think like your world.” Zylas grinned. “When he switch . . .”

  Collins imagined trying to tie a man’s mouth closed and shared Zylas’ amusement. “. . . the vine will fall off.”

  “Right.”

  Collins rose, dumping the dog from his lap. “Shoo. Go home.” Other thoughts dispelled his smile. “But won’t he go back and tell everyone who we are and where?”

  Zylas’ smile also wilted. “Falima say he . . . he . . .” he fumbled for the right word, then supplied one questioningly, “little?”

  “Young?” Collins tried, remembering how he, too, had assessed it as a partially grown pup.

  Zylas nodded. “Like . . . teenager.”

  The dog watched them, tail waving uncertainly.

  “Probable very dog. Very very dog. Not . . . not retain . . . ?” He looked to Collins to confirm the appropriateness of his word choice.

  Collins made an encouraging gesture.

  “ . . . what see in switch-form, not same.”

  Collins nodded to indicate he understood despite the poorly phrased explanation. Zylas seemed to be struggling more than usual, a sure sign of stress. “Is it possible he might . . . retain . . . some of what happened here after he resumes human form?”

  “Not impossible,” Zylas admitted.

  Collins trusted the decision to his companion, glad the dog made it easier by remaining with them unfettered. Its soft brown gaze rolled from one man to the other, and its tail beat a careful rhythm.

  Zylas sighed, air hissing through his lips. His face lapsed into creases that seemed to age him ten years. Beneath the shadow of his hat, his pale eyes radiated troubles, and the white-blond hair hung in limp, tangled strings. “Too tired to make wise choice.” He ripped another stout vine from the tree and looped it around the dog’s neck. “Keep with us now. Talk. Think.” He headed in the direction their companions had taken. The dog balked.

  Collins went, too, encouraging the animal by tapping his leg and calling, “Come on, boy. Come on,” in a happy tone.

  Tail whipping vigorously, the dog followed.

  Camp consisted of downing the last of their cold rations, tossing their bodies on layers of moldering leaves, and drifting into sleep. Zylas dropped off almost at once. Falima and Ialin chattered in their incomprehensible language, occasionally glancing furtively in his direction. Though exhausted, Collins found sleep more elusive. He knelt by the tethered dog who no longer required the muzzle tie and had eaten his share of the remaining foodstuffs.

  Collins ran a hand along the animal’s spine. It quivered at his touch, then lowered its head with a contented sigh. Collins continued to stroke the fur, stopping now and then for a pat or a scratch. The dog sprawled on its side, moaning with contentment. Its tail thudded against the ground, and it wriggled as if to keep every part in contact with Collins’ hand. He could scarcely believe it the same beast that had inflicted the gash across his hand.

  Thinking of it brought back the pain that desperation and need had made him disregard. Collins examined the wound. Clotted blood filled the creases, making it appear to encompass the entire back of his hand. He spit on a finger, rubbing and scraping until he revealed a superficial, two-inch laceration. He had gotten lucky. He doubted a doctor back home would even bother to stitch it.

  The dog whined, sniffing at Collins’ hand. It licked the wound.

  “Yuck.” Collins jerked his hand away, only then thinking of infection. It seemed unlikely this world had a sophisticated medical system, such as antibiotics. Probably at the level of leeches and bloodletting. The image sent a shiver through him. He had heard that dog saliva contained natural anti-infection agents, the reason why they licked their own injuries and suffered fewer infections. He wondered whether the benefits of those agents outweighed the germs inherent in any drool of a species that drank from mosquito-infested puddles, groomed itself in unsanitary places, and lapped up horse excrement like candy. Better, he decided, to clean this wound myself.

  Collins glanced at Zylas. The albino slumbered comfortably, the stress lines smoothed from his brow. Collins’ watch now read nearly 11:00 p.m. Assuming this place had days the same length as his own, Collins realized Zylas would become a rat again in about an hour. A flash of heat passed through him, followed by a hysterical shiver. Without Zylas’ calm reason, he doubted the group would stay together. Apparently, Falima and Ialin hated him, perhaps enough to turn him in to the guards. They’ll hang me. He wondered if he had now compounded the crime enough for a worse fate, though what fate could be worse than death he didn’t even want to imagine. He slumped to the ground, abruptly incapable of anything. Hopelessness overpowered him, a dense blanket that forced his thoughts to a tedious slog. Escape lay only a day’s travel away, yet it was beyond his ability to navigate. He still did not know the way. Once there, he would have
to battle his way through armed warriors, with only a rat for assistance. A rat. A wave of despair buffeted the last of his reason. Twelve hours utterly alone. Twelve hours dodging a hunt he scarcely understood in an unfathomable world. Twelve hours without a friend.

  Tears stung Collins’ eyes, then rolled down cheeks still flushed with distress. He had so many questions, and he needed those answers to survive Zylas’ rat-time. It seemed safest to lay low, to mark time until he had a trustworthy companion to plan with again. He wondered how the people of Barakhai stood the change, interrupting half their lives daily, putting relationships and experiences on hold just as they started to build. Romance seemed impossible without careful coordination of the switching times—if such could even be arranged. He shook his head, the tears flowing faster. He knew so little to be suddenly thrown, friendless, back into an inexplicable world beneath a sentence of death. He had never felt so completely, so desperately, alone.

  Leaves rustled. Something warm brushed Collins’ cheek. He looked up into the dog’s fuzzy face, and it licked tears from his face again. It whined, sharing his discomfort. Collins managed a smile. Even amid all of Barakhai’s strangeness, a dog was a dog after all. He placed an arm around the furry body, and it lay down against him with a contented sigh, sharing its warmth.

  Falima spoke from startlingly close. “Dogs are good judges of character.” She added snidely, “Usually.”

  Collins tried to surreptitiously wipe away the tears. He did not look at Falima, not wanting her to know about his lapse. “Maybe you’re the one who misjudged me.”

  A lengthy pause ensued. “Maybe,” she finally admitted, grudgingly.

  “About Joetha . . .” Though Collins hated to raise the subject, he knew he would have to resolve the issue before Falima could ever consent to like him. “I truly didn’t—”

  “I know,” Falima interrupted.

  “You do?” Collins could not keep surprise from his voice.

  “I . . . think I do. It is hard seeing things . . . that way.” Falima added insightfully, “Through the eyes of a foreigner.”