Guardian: Poison

By the time the first storm passed through and the second loomed, as promised, on the horizon, I was ready to climb the walls.

I stood in the damp midday air, propped up on the railing, and sucked in what felt like my first full breath in days. Everyone seemed to agree — they'd wasted no time dispersing when the rain tapered off. The Post hadn't weathered the storm unscathed. From where I leaned, torn thatch and damaged railing indicated where we had work ahead of us.

'What are you talking about?' I glared at the gap in one aerial path where a fallen branch had taken out the entire connection. 'You're not staying here. You're going out to find the Out Poster.' I rolled my shoulder, testing its range of motion.

"What if I come back?" The question fell on no ears other than my own, and I didn't have the answers I needed. Large, busy Home Posts kept their Out Posts in service throughout the seasons. Smaller Posts, especially those in harsh climates, pulled their Flits back for the winter. 'And Ismene certainly doesn't have the message traffic to warrant year-round Out Posters. Their last message to anywhere was over a year ago? How do they manage? And more importantly, why did Sorcha decide to stay out?'

Her motives remained a mystery, despite the second- and third-hand accounts I'd hunted out. The only solution, it seemed, was to go to the source.

'But it's hard to plan if you're not sure what you'll find.' I fingered the crystal that held the old map. It wasn't current, and I'd taken notes — etched into the metaphysical margins of the record — of the changes the local Flits remembered. They weren't sure which Post — if any — Sorcha spent her time at.

I had my suspicions, but not ones I dared share with Heath and the others. The map highlighted the Out Posts; that's why it had been lent to me. It also showed rivers, forest edges, and other landmarks — we weren't expected to navigate blind, with just the crystal's pull. One landmark, represented by a glyph similar to the Out Posts, had been scratched out of the legend. When I'd asked, Heath hurried off to coordinate dinner, and Ricca gathered her yarn balls and took them — and herself — off to the loom.

'Whatever it is, that's the farthest symbol, and if Sorcha didn't want to be here, maybe she wanted to be as far away as possible.

'Which assumes a lot.

'Like that there aren't other, unmarked Posts.

'That she's staying at a Post.

'That she isn't—'

I stopped that thought with the same ruthlessness as I had every time my mind tried to articulate it. Thinking it made it real, and even if I hadn't met the girl, I couldn't stand the thought of her not being there.

'Doesn't matter that you can't rebuild a communication network with one Flit. Or two.' I rolled my eyes, disgusted by my conceit. 'Gotta start somewhere. And losing an Out Poster before you even get started? Yeah, that'll instill confidence.'

"Cairn!" Ricca hoisted a bucket and waved up at me from the ground. "Come help!"

Setting aside my ruminations, I shifted and flew to join her. 'After all, a half-day isn't long to prepare for a storm. And there'll be plenty of time to think after it hits.'

♫♪♫♪

Ricca demonstrated the lift system they used to get supplies from the ground to the Post. A series of ropes and pulleys loaded from below but operated from above; it seemed overly complicated and prone to breakdown.

'Though you could just be saying that because you had to fly down and un-jam the middle pulley three times.'

Still, it allowed us to get everything necessary to restock the commons up into the trees before the storm closed around us. By that point, I was exhausted, and, after scoffing a bowl of stew, I curled up in my bedroll, pulled the blanket over my head, and fell into a deep sleep.

♫♪♫♪

The bridge fell, taking the flames that consumed it down with it, and a rush of heat rose in its wake. The soldiers below fell back, their red coats blending with the fire-lit darkness. I panted, pressing my hand to the wound on my right arm. A line of fire to the north drew my attention like a lodestone. The trainees were beyond that line, out of these soldiers' reach, but far from safe.

A glance behind confirmed the Trade Route was sealed — there wasn't any point in me holding its footing longer.

With a gut-wrenching twist, I fell into my quartz, shifting despite my injuries and fatigue, and took flight. Violent updrafts off the flames lofted me high — too high — but that was my only saving grace in the next breath, when the wind shifted, sending me plummeting back down. My owl had no trouble with the night's darkness or the fire's bright glare, though the transition between left my vision dazzled. Every downward thrust of my wings sent a jagged, tearing sensation through my injured wing, so I used my eyes — the only advantage I had left — to seek out the trainees.

I found them in the middle of a stream and far too close to the burning Post. One Guardian tried to lead them down the creek's ravine on a path that would put them, eventually, back at the Post but bypass the fire line. Two more fought to hold the narrow cleft that led into the creek. Rocky terrain kept the soldiers confined — for now — but if they found the western path, they'd be able to circle past the Guardians. And the trainees, still clad in their nightclothes, huddled together at the bank, edging along and trying to stay on dry land. Their tear-streaked faces caught the firelight as I passed the fighting to crash to my all-too-human knees in the streambed.

"What are you doing here? You're supposed to hold the Trade Route!" Worry and fear warred for supremacy on the Guardian's delicate features; worry won as I hacked out a smoke-strained response.

"Route's closed." A coughing fit cut me off. "Gotta get the trainees clear."

"I'm trying! How're we supposed to get clear if the Route's closed?" Despair laced the Guardian's voice, and she fell to her knees, putting our heads at the same level.

Habit sent my right arm to dig under my shirt, but ripping pain forced me to fumble with my left. I drew out two tangled laces, revealing my smokey quartz and a black disk which caught and reflected the fire from its glossy surface.

"You can't have that! It's not—"

"Take it!" I ordered, thrusting the stone into her hands. "With this arm, I can't… But you can!"

She pulled away, leaving the disk behind, still tangled around my neck, and shook her head. She opened her mouth, then her gaze jerked up, focusing behind me for a heartbeat.

"Look out!" She threw herself at me, bending my knees awkwardly as I fell to my back. I writhed, trying to relieve the strain despite her weight on me, but shrieks from the trainees and an odd gurgle drew my attention. A drip of warm rain fell on my face as I looked up to the war-tipped arrow caught in the Guardian's trachea and a feather's breadth from my nose. A spark in her eyes — reflected flames or something else — died as I wrestled myself up and pulled her into my arms.

"She's gone." The words seared my throat. "It's all gone." A quick look behind showed the other Guardians losing ground and the soldiers pressing their advantage. I growled and ripped the dead Guardian's crystal from her neck, using the arrowhead's edge to slice the lace.

The trainees milled in panic, unsure where to turn.

Incomprehensible words that resonated through the night fell from my lips as I chanted, clasping all three stones in my bloodied hands. Focusing outward on the trainees and inward on myself, I twisted through my crystal into the black disk. The energy required poured from me into the rocks; it felt like it was being dragged from my bones. I locked my teeth against the scream, which stopped the chant, but I knew it was just an aide — the shift would continue without it.

And shift we did; each trainee bent and warped, falling toward the black disk. As their misshapen flesh touched the stone, a crisp glyph appeared as if freshly carved on the once-smooth surface. I felt my fingers melting and shot a last glance at the Guardians. One at least had seen what I was doing — he tugged the other free, falling back faster than the soldiers. Desperately, I sent the last dregs of energy toward them. It touched them — I know it did — but the stone sealed me before I knew if they'd made it, too.

♫♪♫♪

The strange pre-dawn lassitude kept dragging me under, and the edges of my dreams blurred with waking. I pried my eyes open, pulled the blankets off my head, and shivered in the chill. Sleepily, I searched for the fire — though not extinguished, it was banked and in no danger of burning down the Post. The red embers jostled a bit of the dream into present recollection, though.

"Fire," I breathed, sitting up. My heart raced, and I scrambled from my nest, threw the door's bar from its brackets, and thrust the door open. The wooden bar crashed onto the floor, and a wave of damp cold swept in.

Sleepy murmurs protested the noise and influx of chilled air, but I sighed in relief at the damp, foggy forest, tinted with the first rays winding through the bare branches. I rubbed my forehead and something hard smacked my skull.

"Ow." I pulled my hand back, releasing my clenched fingers, and found a battered, cracked quartz. "My story crystal?" I frowned; I didn't remember pulling it out before I went to bed.

"Storm's passed, young Guardian." Ricca's voice directly behind me made me jump. "But you can't leave without breakfast. Come and stir up the fire, since we're up."

"Yeah." I frowned at the crystal again and tucked it in a pocket. "Let me grab the firewood."

"Shut the door first!" A deep, raspy voice ordered from the blanket-bundles.

"Oops! Sorry!" I sealed the door, leaving the bar on the floor. Ricca was already poking at the cookfire when I reached the kitchen area.

A ratcheting noise echoed against the commons and escalated to a siren's wail. The adult Flits threw back their blankets, scrambling for shirts and boots. One child screamed, and was quickly hushed, though I could see tear tracks on her face in the barely live fire. My skin crawled at the echo of my dream, but I followed Ricca to the door.

She flung it wide, and the wail redoubled. We charged into the morning, but other than the noise, it didn't seem to have changed.

"What is it?" I dashed the hair off my forehead as if it would help me see. "What's happening?"

"It's the rabbit alert." Ricca pointed at a centrally placed platform, where a grizzled and wet Flit cranked the handle of a mechanism that apparently generated the alarm.

"Rabbits?" 'Why would they be an issue, especially up here?'

Heath shoved past, running to the Flit; the pathway bounced on its ropes from the force. The other Flits weren't slower, but they dispersed to the edges of the Post. Hair prickled on the back of my neck as I realized they each carried a bow and arrows.

Ricca searched the ground, then poked her head back into the commons, giving whispered instructions to whoever was left behind to shut and bar the door. Then she hurried after Heath. Confused and alarmed, I followed. The Flit eased off the crank as we approached and the siren's wail died into the ratcheting clanks, then stopped altogether.

"North post," the Flit explained breathlessly. "150 wingspans out when I spotted them, but closing fast."

"What I wouldn't give to be able to post double sentries." Heath scowled to the north.

"You're going to have to," Ricca said. "There's no choice."

"I can't—"

"Can't leave this to chance any longer!" The Flit stepped toward Heath, infringing on his space. "They could have turned since I spotted them — if everyone except the sentries wasn't already here, they'd be in danger right now!"

"That's why we have the alarm." Heath crossed his arms. "You hear the alarm, you get into the air and stay there until you're home safe."

"And if someone can't? If they can't fly?" Ricca placed a hand on Heath's bicep and lowered her voice. "We're not faulting you or the steps you've taken. We're saying we can't keep taking risks."

Heath let his arms fall to his sides and shook his head. Shouts drew our attention before he could speak, and we ran across the pathways to their source.

Three Flits, arrows knocked, stared into the pre-dawn air. I leaned close, tracing their focus to a dark lump identifiable because it was darker than the night. Then it moved, hopping sporadically, before darting forward in a flash to hide in a bush.

"Is it fleeing a predator?" I searched the air, but saw no owls.

Something squealed under the plant cover.

"No."

I couldn't identify the low voice, but didn't try too hard as the rabbit emerged from the bush. Its mouth was stained darker with something that glistened in the first rays of light and dripped to stain the fallen leaves. My gorge rose, and I fought to swallow it down.

'Blood. It's bleeding. Or…' I shivered, suddenly chilled to the bone.

"Did it get hurt? Do you have snares set below?"

Incredulous stares met my questions, but not for long, as the Flits turned their attention back to the rabbit and the stillness beyond.

'Not stillness.' My eyes picked out small points of moving darkness.

"It killed something," Ricca whispered. "Possibly a mouse — they're close, trying to find a way into our storerooms before winter."

"Why would a rabbit kill a mouse?" My brain grappled with the idea, searching for leverage, and came up empty as the concept slipped away clean.

"There's no why, young Guardian. They do this — sweep through and kill anything in their path." She nudged Heath. "Gotta show him. Can't send him out into the forest blind."

Heath scowled at her, but nodded and nudged one of the armed Flits. She drew back the arrow, sighted down the shaft, and released. The arrow vanished in the dark until it struck with a meaty thwock and the rabbit fell, writhing, on its side. The other blobs — rabbits who'd been dawdling, apparently — leapt forward and fell on their injured cohort, shredding it in the space of three rapid heartbeats. Then they left the bloody bits and continued hopping across the forest floor, not in a rush, but with purpose.

'But why?' I leaned over, propping my hands on my knees, and fought down my stomach again.

"Why?" I gasped as more and more rabbits passed beneath the Post.

"Why, what?" Heath's face was cut in severe lines and he looked a decade older than when I'd met him.

"Why… why did they do that? Why are they traveling?" I raised my head to stare at the archers. "Why aren't you stopping them?"

"We don't know," Ricca passed me a waterskin she retrieved from the scout. "They appear more often after storms. They're going wherever suits them."

"So why not stop them?" A quick glance assured me that the shot rabbit was, beyond question, dead. 'Bits of meat and fur aren't alive.' I shivered.

"They're poison." Heath spat, the globule lost as it fell to the ground far below. "We'll have to burn that once the swarm's gone."