Endling: The Last: Part One

endling
noun ~ end*ling ~ \'en(d)-ling\
1. the last living individual in a species, or, occasionally, a subspecies.
2. the official public ceremony at which a species is declared extinct; a eumony.
3. (informal) someone undertaking a doomed or quixotic quest.
—Imperial Lexica Officio of Nedarra, 3rd edition

As the lowest-ranking member of our dwindling pack, I accepted my place without resentment—much resentment, anyway.

We feared the giant cats called felivets, who hunted at night. But we feared poachers and the soldiers of the Murdano, Nedarra’s ruler, even more.

Tree nests were too easy to spot, too vulnerable to arrows. Instead we moved from place to place, sheltering in caves or deep gullies, or within bramble patches in the heart of the forest.

That was the closest I had ever come to humans, one of the six great governing species. Those six—humans, dairnes, felivets, natites, terramants, and raptidons—had once been considered the most powerful in our land. But now all of them—even the humans—were controlled by the despotic Murdano.

The voice was soft, part concern, part scold. I turned to see that my mother had joined me. She looked weary, her dark gold fur mussed, her tail listless.

“The big ones call me runt. And whelp,” I moaned.

Sing, poet, of the Ancients who dared forth—
Brave dairnes, o’er mountains treacherous and cruel,
Who crossed the frigid waters of the north
To Dairneholme, living isle and floating jewel.

No other species has this ability. Dalyntor often called it “our burdensome gift,” although I didn’t understand what he meant by that.

I clambered over great, rough-hewn stones that formed a crude stairway.

I clambered over great, rough-hewn stones that formed a crude stairway.

This was not a placid, rippling lake. Not a busy, musical stream.

To my right a cliff curved in a great arc, nothing but jagged stone besieged by relentless waves.

At the very edge of that sloping peninsula stood a gnarled, leafless tree.

To my shock, the same sea that had propelled the boat forward showed temporary mercy, drawing the rowboat back and away.
But it wasn’t far enough. The respite would be brief.

Once, when I was very young, my mother made us a dinner of wobbyk. We’d been living on grass and grubs for far too long, and it was the first meat we’d had in ages.

The men were imposing, their limbs thicker than I’d expected, their shouts more terrifying. Could they be the Murdano’s soldiers?

The clothing these humans wore was motley, a mix of dun and gray.

The knife-sharp tip of a Shark’s Tooth grazed my tail, just as the blustery wind filled and lifted me.

An arrow shot past, faster than a diving raptidon. It flew so near that I could see the color of the feathers, the design painted on the shaft, the trident head. And the thin filament that would allow me to be hauled back.

Black rock lay before us, rock that in a second would be underwater, but we were all frantic claws, scrabbling, fighting for every handhold, slipping, banging elbows and knees.

He was small, perhaps a third of my size, and comical looking, especially in his waterlogged state. His silver-blue fur was bedraggled, as were his three tails.

The lower half of his face reminded me of a fox, with its black nose, long whiskers, and upturned mouth that looked perpetually amused.

With a sigh, I forced my body, leaden with the dulling effects of fear, upright.

Tobble warbled a high-pitched laugh. Even wobbyk laughs are comical.

“There’s almost a human-ish quality to your demeanor.”

One was short and heavyset. The other, tall and gaunt, I recognized as the leader of the poachers.

“They say dairne fur’s the softest and warmest in the world. One pelt’d feed us all for a year, and then some,” said the short man.

“My grandfather saw two back when he was a boy. Claimed their noses were bewitched. They can smell a fart a hundred furlongs off.”

“What I lack in stature I make up for in spirit.”

“But I can fend for myself.”

I half hoped he had some unrevealed power.
“With my derring-do,” Tobble said confidently. “Let me just say this: You do not want to see me mad. I am a terrible sight to behold.”

I tried to pin down a fleeting scent.

The wind didn’t serve me well, but from the dark recesses of my mind, an ancient emotion grew.

I sat on my haunches and Tobble slid off.

The world was silent, except for Tobble, far behind but gamely trying to catch up.

I panted and gasped, climbing up and up, and there at the summit where the mass of earth no longer stifled sound, the silence was gone.

Careening through the trees, I saw the humans in silver and red with their arrows and their broadswords, their drooling dogs and panting horses.

They didn’t wear motley clothing, they didn’t wield mismatched weapons. They wore identical red-and-silver tunics, revealing arms covered in chain mail.

Fires raged inside. Black smoke billowed from every opening.