The Ever Breath (19 page)

“Hurry up!” Coldwidder shouted. He was up front leading the way—already a hundred yards uphill—holding the lantern on the long pole to help light the path. Camille and Truman got in line behind the fire-breather, with Artwhip on her back, and Otwell and Binderbee.

Truman wasn’t sure what to think of the expedition. They were closer now. They had a destination. He was with Camille again. All of these things felt right, but he was full of dread. Plus, he was already freezing cold. It was dark outside now and the wind was whipping up. It had felt wonderful to exchange his leafy jacket for a knit one, along with mittens and hat and extra socks, but the mewlers were lousy
knitters and all of their stitches were wobbly, with gaps and holes and snags. The wind needled through.

He caught up to Camille and was about to ask her if she had any ideas, but she started talking before he had a chance.

“Remember when you were going through the passageway, there was the small room with the pedestal of the hand?” she asked.

“Yes,” Truman said.

“I found husks in there.”

“Husks?”

“Dried exoskeletons of locusts,” she said. “Now I wonder if locust fairies shed their exoskeletons like locusts do—when they’re ready to fly.”

Truman remembered stepping on something in that room, something with a strange fragile crunch. “Do you think they crawled in somehow and then, once they could fly—”

“They airlifted the Ever Breath out!”

Truman and Camille ran ahead up the path.

“Listen!” Truman shouted. “Camille’s figured something out!”

“What if the Ever Breath was airlifted out of the passageway by locust fairies—”

Binderbee hushed them. Everyone stopped and looked at him. “I forgot to mention that we might be tailed by someone from the Office of Official Affairs,” the mouse whispered.

“Perfect!” Coldwidder said.

“I hear those types stab first and ask questions later,” Otwell said.

“They’re not our only problem,” Coldwidder said. “We smell like a hops and chops house with all of Ickbee’s food on
us. We’re a walking feast. We’ll lure all kinds of beasts to us, smelling like this.”

“If locust fairies stole the E.B.,” Binderbee whispered, “who put them up to it? They couldn’t have been acting alone.” Sitting in Otwell’s pocket, he reminded Truman of a hood ornament on a very large car. “You know,” he added, “Dobbler has a hat—one that he’s very proud of—a fedora, actually, made of living locust fairies.”

“I once saw a robe of locust fairies,” Truman said. “Only the hem of it. I was hiding in a log. I never saw the person, though I do know that the person was very small and was wearing little boots.”

“I don’t care what my enemy’s fashion tastes are! I want to know who we’re about to face in the Dark Heart,” Coldwidder said, trying to keep his voice down.

“Me too,” Otwell whispered. “A band of warlocks? Wild fire-breathers?”

Chickie let out a plume of angry flame. Domesticated fire-breathers didn’t like wild fire-breathers.

“We’ve got to be prepared for all of them,” Coldwidder said, “at any time. Especially as they’ll smell us coming.”

“What can we do?” Truman said. “We need the food!”

“I refuse to part with food,” Artwhip said. “I have a rule against that.”

“Me too,” Otwell said in his low, sonorous voice.

“Personally, I’m not that hungry,” Camille said. “I ate bean loaf and it didn’t really agree with me.” She belched. “Excuse me.”

“And I have a rule against getting popped in someone’s mouth as a side dish!” Binderbee said.

“I’m pretty sure that the colder it gets, the more calories we burn just trying to keep warm, much less climbing up a mountain,” Camille said.

“Calories?” Coldwidder asked. “What are they?”

“Never heard of them,” Artwhip said.

“Do you think there’s a museum in the Dark Heart?” Truman said.

“Ha!” Coldwidder said. “No! Of course not!”

“How many times have you all been there?” Camille asked.

There was an uncomfortable silence.

“Well?” Truman prompted.

“Um, I’ve never been,” Coldwidder said

Camille turned to Otwell. “Maybe you’ve been there?”

He shook his head.

“Binderbee?” Truman said.

“No,” Binderbee replied.

Artwhip raised his hand. “Never.”

“You see,” Coldwidder said, “not many people have actually survived a journey into the Dark Heart.”

“Are you serious?” Truman asked.

“Look at it this way,” Binderbee said. “If we don’t go and try to help, we’ll all die anyway!”

“Oh, that makes me feel a lot better,” Camille said.

A quiet intensity settled over them. It was dark now. They kept hiking in the moonlight through the snow-blanketed fields, with the wide-open, starry, wind-whipped sky overhead. Truman saw a herd of golden-horned rhinoceroses nestled around a protective outcropping of rock.

“Winged night-serpents,” Artwhip said, pointing up. A flock of strange long birds glided by.

“Do you feel like you’re being watched?” Truman asked Camille.

“Stab first, ask questions later,” she answered under her breath.

Slowly but surely, the snow was getting deeper and the paths steeper as they headed up the mountain.

“I once read about surviving in the Alps in winter,” Camille said. “I think we’re supposed to take long strides, heels first. It’s the best way to cover ground quickly in the snow.”

They all tried it, but still it was hard work, especially for Coldwidder and the kids, who had such short legs. Truman was the smallest kid in his class, after all. And how much strength did he have left? His legs were sore, and the shoes Praddle had made for him, now stuffed with wool socks, were raising blisters on his heels. Plus, it was bitter cold.

“Wait,” Artwhip said. “Are you sure this is the right way?”

“Are you questioning my ability to set a course?” Coldwidder barked.

“Are we lost or aren’t we?” Binderbee said.

Camille leaned over to inspect one of the ogre’s footprints. “This snow doesn’t look good,” she said.

“Snow is snow!” Coldwidder said.

“It’s layered,” she said. “Packed snow is a good sign. Layered snow is a bad sign.”

“A bad sign for what?” Truman asked.

“Avalanches, actually,” Camille said. She had taken Truman’s glasses off and was wiping them on her sleeve. “Do you have those here?”

“Avalanches!” Coldwidder gave a snort. “This isn’t
avalanche country. We only have avalanches out near where the snow-rooting fire-breathers live, out in banshee territory.”

“Does anyone else see that?” Artwhip asked, pointing across the snow.

“See what?” Otwell said.

“The smoke,” Artwhip whispered.

Truman looked out across the snowy field, lit up by the fat, bright moon, and saw tendrils of smoke spiraling up from the snow—ten or fifteen spirals. “Where’s the smoke coming from?”

“Snow-rooting fire-breathers,” Artwhip replied.

“That’s impossible!” Coldwidder said. “We’re clearly far from banshee territory and so there can’t be any snow-rooting fire-breathers, as they have been semidomesticated by banshees.”

“Except that there
are
snow-rooting fire-breathers!” Binderbee shouted. “Let’s get out of here, Otwell!”

The ogre took one thunderous leap, and there was a cracking sound, a rumble.

“Don’t run! You’ll only shake things up!” Camille shouted.

Everyone stopped and stood still except Coldwidder. He was looking up at the sky. “Isn’t that the North Star?” he asked.

“What do fire-breathers do?” Truman whispered.

“They tend to attack and then
roast
people,” Artwhip whispered back.

“Now, now, let’s not be so dramatic about it,” Coldwidder chided. “Sometimes they only singe you.”

“If I get singed because you got us lost—” Binderbee began.

“The banshees can call fire-breathers off,” Otwell said. “I’m married to a banshee. I’m actually almost fluent in Banshee—from listening to my mother-in-law bad-mouth me for years.”

“Listen,” Camille said. “Just in case there is an avalanche, you should try to get to the edges of it, where the snow is finer. And swim. I’ve read about it in books.”

“Swim? In snow?” Coldwidder said. “That’s idiot-speak right there!”

“I’m serious,” Camille said. “All of the books tell you to make these swimming motions, very quickly, while the snow is still light and on the move. If it hardens, which happens fast, you’ll get stuck and you can suffocate and die. And if you get stuck, try to punch your hand or kick your leg out above the surface so that someone can dig you out.”

“The fire-breathers dig tunnels, which makes avalanches more likely,” Artwhip said.

“Did you learn that at your precious Academy?” Coldwidder scoffed.

“I did,” Artwhip said. “And I learned that once they smell food, snow-rooting fire-breathers send grunting calls through the tunnels and start to swarm.”

“Does this look like snow-rooting fire-breathers to you now, Coldwidder?” Binderbee said. “Hmm?”

The others looked around and saw that they were standing in the middle of a loose ring of smoke plumes.

Coldwidder was flustered. He started stammering, “W-w-w-we’ve got to …”

“Keep calm,” Artwhip said. “Maybe they only want our food.”

Just then, a fire-breather’s head popped up from the snow. Truman thought it looked like a terrier’s, at first, with shaggy fur and soft brown puppy eyes, but then he noticed the ridge of spikes that started at the back of its head. Chickie let out a whinnying snort of flame. This was one of her relations, but it was obvious she was afraid of it.

When the fire-breather turned its head, grunting out some kind of call to the other fire-breathers, Truman saw the boarlike tusks. And then other heads popped up, one after the other. The fire-breathers bared their teeth, and with each grunty breath, smoke spun up into the air. They heaved themselves to the surface and, pawing the snow with their long, thick claws, they tightened the circle. Truman stared into the face of the nearest beast. He saw a small blue flame flashing behind its teeth.

Otwell put his hand on the hilt of his sword, but as soon as he did, the fire-breathers started growling in fiery gusts. He let go of the weapon and raised both hands in the air. “Peace!” he said. “We’re here in peace!”

“I’m going to open a rucksack and feed them,” Artwhip said.

“You’re crazy,” Coldwidder said. “That will only put them into a frenzy. We’ve got to run for it.”

“No,” Camille said, “we can’t.”

“If we all run on the count of three—” Coldwidder said.

“No,” Camille said, “all of our footsteps will start an avalanche.”

“Banshees!” Otwell said. “Hear them in the distance?”

Truman heard a high, warbling, grief-stricken call.

“They’re signaling our deaths!” Binderbee said. “I’m with Coldwidder.”

“One,” Coldwidder said.

“No,” Camille said.

“Two,” Coldwidder said.

“Let’s just try feeding them,” Artwhip pleaded.

“Three!” Coldwidder said, and with that he sprang forward and leapt over the nearest fire-breather.

Truman and the others ran too. Bolting in different directions, they confused the fire-breathers, who ran after them, shocking bursts of flame shooting from between their blackened teeth. The banshees’ cries sounded louder, closer, but they were soon drowned out by the rumbling that started up again in full force. The sound rose until it was deafening. Snow was charging down the mountain toward them.

Truman shouted for Camille, but she couldn’t hear him. She was soon swallowed by whiteness. Truman was too, but he remembered what Camille had told him and he started to swim. He kicked his feet and swung his arms over his head. He swam as hard as he could, trying to keep his head high. He felt battered and overwhelmed, but still he kept swimming.

And once the rumbling ended and the snow stopped falling, he began to dig upward. He dug until he saw light and finally he was breathing the cold, windy air.

There was Camille up ahead of him, Truman’s glasses sitting on her face cockeyed, and Artwhip was there too, next to Chickie, who was shaking snow from her scales. They were both panting.

Truman wiped the wet snow from his face and looked downhill across the snowy field—nothing but white stretching down and down.

“Where’s Coldwidder?” Artwhip asked.

“And Otwell and Binderbee?” Camille added.

“How could we lose an entire ogre?” Truman said.

Just then there was a distant trembling, and a massive boot kicked its way up through the snow.

“Otwell!” Artwhip exclaimed.

Artwhip, Camille, and Truman ran to him, their legs puncturing the deep snow. They dug as quickly as they could.

“I’ve got an arm!” Camille shouted.

“So his head might be over here,” Truman said, digging fiercely until his hand touched something rubbery—the ogre’s nose. Otwell’s face gasped to the surface of the snow. His beard was iced.

“Binderbee?” he said, muscling his way to a sitting position.

Binderbee, still holding on to his briefcase, crawled out from his pocket. “Present and accounted for!”

“But what about Coldwidder?” Artwhip said. “Coldwidder, where are you?”

“Hopefully he tried to punch his way out. That’ll give him a pocket of air,” Camille said. “But we don’t have much time.”

“We need help,” Otwell said. “We need to call in the banshees.”

“What can they do?” Binderbee asked.

“They can call the fire-breathers to order and the fire-breathers can sniff and dig him out,” Otwell said.

“And then turn him into a piece of toast?” Binderbee said.

“It’s our only chance,” Camille said.

The ogre whistled a tune that was sad and mournful. The banshees started keening in the distance.

“Let me do the talking,” he said, and he whistled again.

The banshees rushed in, ghostlike women with wild hair floating around their scowling faces. Their crying voices were high-pitched.

Truman clapped his hands over his ears.

“They sound like dolphins!” Camille said.

“Really depressed dolphins!” Truman added.

The banshees whirred around their heads.