Beyond the Valley of Thorns

by Patrick Carman

  “Take out your weapons and prepare for the worst,” he whispered, unsheathing his own massive sword as quietly as he could. Then he eyed Odessa closely, the two of them staring at one another in the stillness.

  “You might be of some use to us here,” said Armon. “It is possible they might see you as one of their own and let us pass through. But there will be no avoiding them. They know we are here.”

  We moved down what remained of the path before us, Odessa and Armon striding confidently beside each other at the front. As we came around the one remaining wooded corner the stench almost knocked me off my feet, a gentle breeze carrying with it an omen of what lay ahead.

  It was a good deal as I’d expected it would be, a vast expanse of broken-down houses and mountains of flowing debris. Trails shot off in various directions, the hard earth grooved deeply with wheel marks pooling from the rains. Piles of garbage steamed with the morning sun, and the breeze sent a continual flow of pungent new odors over us.

  We walked on, following Armon’s lead, careful to listen for humans or ogres who might be roaming about. It wasn’t long before we were deep in the City of Dogs, and howls could be heard from both near and far. Odessa began to growl as she moved forward with increasing hesitation, her ears pointed and alert for the dogs that might jump out and attack us.

  “Where are they, Odessa?” asked Yipes, an arrow pulled and ready to shoot from his small bow.

  “They keep moving,” she replied, and I translated to the others. “And there is more than one pack, at least two. Both are tracking us and watching one another.” Then she stopped entirely and looked back at us. “These are both large packs, fifty or more to be sure.”

  All at once the sound of growling and barking was all around us, and a moment later we were trapped, one pack of dogs emerging around two garbage heaps to the left of the path, and another pack moving in from the right. They encircled us, row upon row of dogs. They were dripping saliva, some with open wounds and sores around their mouths and noses. Others limped weakly in the row farthest from us.

  The group of us came together as the wild dogs inched closer. Running would be futile; it would be what they’d hope we would do, so they could separate us and single us out, take us down at the legs, and rip us to shreds one by one.

  “Can’t you talk to them, Odessa?” I pleaded. The barking and growling was fierce and I was frightened and shaking. The first row of dogs was just a few feet away. Where the two packs touched, dogs growled and fought one another violently, and I felt it was only a matter of time before we were caught in a storm of teeth and claws as the two packs fought over who would have us as their prize.

  A very large and surprisingly healthy-looking black dog with a huge head and a crumpled mane pulled closer to us still, and I took him to be the leader of one of the two packs. Odessa darted between him and me, growling ferociously. The two of them squared off, not attacking but apparently thinking of little else. From the other pack came a similar situation — the largest of the dogs, a brown mixed breed with bushy hair and glaring white teeth, moving out in front to square off with Armon. These were scary creatures, ill with diseases that a single bite could inflict on any one of us.

  “You have a choice to make.” It was John, his calming voice sending a wave of sniffs and swaying heads across the sea of wild dogs. “We can go to war here in the mire. You will surely overcome us in the end, but not before we slay a good many, if not most, of you. Armon’s sword alone will cut a large swath of you to the grave. And who knows, we might even kill each and every one of you before we’re through. After all, we have blades and arrows and a giant.” John paused and looked around him. “Against a hundred dogs it may not be enough, but it will surely be close.”

  The black lead dog paced back and forth in confusion, uncertain what to make of this man before him.

  “How is it that you speak and we understand?” growled the dog. “Do you hear what I’m saying to you?”

  John repeated what was said by the dog word for word, and this further confounded both lead dogs. Confused beyond measure and unsure what to do, the rest of the two packs backed up and waited to see what their respective leaders would do.

  “If the two of you will listen to me, I will offer you an alternative that I think you’ll agree is to your advantage,” said John. He bent down on one knee between the two of them and began to explain who we were and why we had come. He left out many details that were of little consequence. He told them we were here to overthrow Grindall, to free the people from the ogres, and to save a prisoner enslaved in the castle.

  “If the two of you can control your packs and use them to help us defeat Grindall and his army of beasts, then I give you my word I will do everything in my power to help you,” John concluded.

  The mangy brown dog licked at his nose and seemed to contemplate the offer.

  “Piggott?” he said, looking at the other leader and questioning his intent. “We have long since chosen our territories and formed our armies. But food runs scarcer by the year and our fighting brings less and less benefit. Soon we’ll have to move into the wharf to find food, and this will bring the hammer down on us for good. The giants will come and clear us out one by one until none remain.”

  The black dog eyed us carefully, standing tall and proud, and I noticed for the first time that his ribs were protruding beneath his gangly hair. How long had he gone without food? I wanted to reach out and pet him, but I feared he might snap at me and dig his teeth into my hand.

  “Scroggs,” he addressed the brown dog, “could it be that this is the giant who took the last of the stones?” Armon remained quiet, watching in wonder as we communicated with the dogs. To him, Piggott and Scroggs only growled and barked and rolled their heads this way and that. It was a language he could not hope to understand.

  I took my Jocasta from its pouch and presented it, glowing even in the full light of day. Piggott and Scroggs backed up a step each, and the rest of the dogs retreated even farther back, some out of sight but for their faces, the rest of their bodies hidden behind broken walls and mounds of rubbish.

  “It is indeed the giant Armon, the one they look for day and night,” said Scroggs, astonished and trembling. “The end must be nearer than I’d thought.”

  A great deal of discussion followed, with Piggott and Scroggs fighting over who would hold the highest rank and by what method the packs would merge or otherwise work together. They seemed fiercer than ever in their excitement to overthrow Grindall.

  It was decided that we must be hidden, and once again the place would be the clock tower on the far end of the dumping grounds. Scroggs and his pack would roam the north side of the City of Dogs, and Piggott and his brood would roam the south. When the time was right, we would call for them, and as one, the hundred dogs would besiege the castle in the dead of night.

  “We will require something in return for our help,” said Piggott, and all the dogs from both packs began to whine and bark. “There is a butcher on the wharf. Bring us a hundred slabs of fresh meat and we will fight to the death. These beasts deserve one good meal in their lives, and I aim to give it to them.”

  I looked out upon the two packs. With the ominous growling and barking at bay they were a sad lot indeed. Many of them were large but oddly frail and meek, and most were quite clearly ill. I felt sorry for them then, and though I wished I could save them all, I knew that victory against Grindall would mean little for these creatures. Their lives were marked for a death that would come sooner rather than later. Scroggs and Piggott knew this, and maybe that’s why they so willingly joined us in our quest. A heroic end by the knife was a better end than the one both packs faced. They hated Grindall and the ogres and their evil ways, and this was the chance to destroy them, to be of some great purpose at the very end.

  “John and I can do it,” I said. “We’ll get you your meal, more if we can hold it.”

  The packs stayed to their sides while Scroggs and Piggott led us deep
er still into the City of Dogs on our way to the clock tower. There was only one thing more that we lacked, something upon which our ability to succeed almost entirely depended. What we needed was Castalians, and we needed a great many of them.

  CHAPTER 17

  THE WHARF

  The clock tower was just as I’d imagined it when I’d heard the story. It looked mysterious sitting alone among weeds and debris, as though secret things had taken place there in the distant past. It was round and made of stone, lined with ivy, and looked very old. I immediately wanted to touch it and feel something of the place where Laura and Catherine had hidden.

  “It’s fantastic,” I said, looking up at John in the cooling night air. He only nodded, lost in his thoughts of this place in the same way I was.

  Both our faces were shrouded by hoods fashioned from blankets. It was common for Castalia’s peasants to wear a throw this way, and it helped to make us feel more as though we would not be noticed or picked out as outsiders if we encountered anyone. The rest of our attire was in keeping with that of a commoner; everything we wore was dirty and tattered from our journey, John with his shabby tunic, me with an earth-brown tunic frayed at the ankles and an old pair of weathered leather sandals.

  We had left everyone else behind in the clock tower to begin planning how we might rescue Catherine and rid Castalia of Grindall and the ogres. In the tower it was stuffy and hot, and I was glad to be free of it. Even still, the open air of the City of Dogs smelled as though it could be cut like a block of cheese. I longed to be near the lake where the air would smell fresh and clean.

  Armon had already thought a great deal about how best to go about our business with Grindall. He had explained in detail how we should approach the wharf without being seen and how to blend in should someone engage us. Both John and I carried our leather satchels on our backs. They were empty, but we hoped to return to the clock tower with as much meat as we could put in them.

  “The butcher, he usually takes in three or four pigs in the morning,” said Piggott, who was scouting just ahead of us, leading us quietly to the edge of the wharf where he would wait for our return. “In the back of the shop he cures the ham and boils the bones. It is there where you will find what we want. The hams will be heavy, but you can manage it. You can cut them up in the clock tower.”

  Piggott continued on, John and I following, until we reached the last of the broken-down buildings and piles of trash. Before us lay an open stretch of field. Beyond the field emerged the shimmering edge of the lake, its surface a liquid sea of black, marked by reflections grasped from the stars and the moon above.

  “If you cross the field here and stay along the lake, you will find the wharf,” said Piggott. He sat down and scratched vigorously against the side of his head. “This stretch is not patrolled by giants, only by humans. They will not be looking for intruders, since no one ever comes. They look only for those trying to escape. But even these are so few that the guards mostly sleep or gamble in the night. If you are careful you should have no trouble entering the wharf. Getting out could prove a bigger challenge, but if you’re watchful and quiet you will get past.”

  Before our departure, Armon was careful to explain that on the wharf, darkness meant few people would be out and about. We would see occasional guards and ogres, and we might see washmaids dumping dirty water or men hauling out debris, but the streets would be mostly barren until morning.

  John was first to venture out into the open of the field; I followed with some hesitation, wishing for once that I might stay in the squalid safety of the City of Dogs. It was not far to the edge of the lake, and as we approached, the air cooled and the night felt calm and peaceful. The sound of water lapping lazily on the rocks soothed my frazzled spirit, and for a moment I was taken back home behind my desk again, bored but happy and safe.

  We walked quickly along the water, following it toward the dim lights not far in the distance. I heard voices carried over the lake, and began to wonder who we might encounter and what they might be doing. Two men, probably guards, walked along the lake as we did, making their way toward us, each with a torch in hand. John took my hand and we darted out into the field, then lay perfectly still on the ground in the brush and waited. The men came only a little farther, then turned back to the wharf without reaching us, talking peaceably as they went.

  We rose and followed well behind them until they disappeared around a corner and we stood at the edge of the wharf where houses began to appear. It was nearing eleven o’clock in the evening, and as Armon had suspected, the cobblestone streets were deserted.

  Even in the darkness it was clear that the wharf was a dirty place. The houses and the fronts of the small buildings were made of whitewashed stone and wood, but these were simple structures lacking any charm or character, and many were marked with broken facades and crumbling corners. The street was made of small cobblestones, much smaller than the ones at home, and the recent rain had left many of the stones covered with mud. A stone wall, three feet high, ran along the lake side of the wharf, and every twenty feet an opening appeared that led down to the water’s edge.

  “What shall we do?” I asked.

  John motioned me forward and we walked along the edge of the wall until we reached an opening. Then we crossed through the opening and crouched down behind the wall, moving quietly along the lake. Beneath our feet were clumps of brush, pebbles, and rocks, but we were hidden by the little wall along the lake. We passed a group of guards throwing dice and a man rolling a noisy cart down the cobbled street. Lamps lit the night along the street, but we were able to move ahead without notice in the relative darkness next to the lake.

  A while later we came upon a group of women standing next to the wall. They were washing clothes and talking quietly. One of them walked through the opening and poured dirty water into the lake, then took her wooden bucket and filled it once again. She wore a blue bonnet, as did the rest of them, and as she turned to go back to her work I saw that she had the same expression as the woman I’d seen passing through the City of Dogs earlier in the day. She was sad and tired, going through her motions as if she were only half-awake.

  She rejoined her companions, and the four of them worked and talked quietly. We would have to cross over into the street and pass them in the open to find the butcher’s shop. The two of us backtracked and emerged where the light was scarce. We covered our faces and looked down, then walked along the street toward the women in blue bonnets. I could hear another cart rolling down a side street and the guttural voice of an ogre somewhere behind us. The voice was far enough off that I couldn’t tell for sure where it had come from as the sound bounced off the lake. We quickened our pace and soon enough we were nearing the women, the sound of wet clothing slapping against soapy stones and the sharp, white smell of detergent hanging in the air.

  I kept on with John and listened as the women stopped their work and the street became quiet. Then we passed in front of them, my eyes downcast and watching as the small cobblestones rushed by beneath my feet.

  “You should not be about at this hour,” came a voice, quiet but firm. “Have you some work you are attending to?”

  When I glanced up I saw that it was the woman from the forest, the quiet one on the cart whose face I couldn’t forget. How could we meet twice by chance in such a small window of time? I wondered if Elyon was indeed pulling on strings from within the Tenth City, moving people around so they might encounter one another. I instinctively placed my hand over the leather pouch holding my Jocasta, then stopped on the street even as John tried to pull me forward.

  I had been surrounded by men my whole life, and the journey to Castalia, with the mostly silent exception of Odessa, had been no different. This was a reality that did not bother me in the least — I lived in what often felt like a man’s world, and I’d come to accept this fact and even enjoy my unique place in it. But there was something about this woman’s face and the way she’d spoken to us. I understood her in a
way John did not. I felt a hidden hope in her questioning — a hope that John and I might be something more than two peasants wandering in the night.

  “You work late tonight,” I said, still not turning to face her, but letting her know that I was a girl.

  “We are behind on the washing, and so we work,” answered the woman, the others whispering beside her. The woman’s tone remained quiet and measured, as if speaking was something she did only when necessary. “That is the way of things in Castalia. You know this.” She was probing me, looking for more.

  John pulled on my tunic once again, and this time I took his hand and gently pushed it away. Then I looked up, full into the faces of the four women, and pulled the covering off my head, letting it rest around my shoulders.

  “We are not from here,” I said, a cold wave of fright washing over me as the words tumbled out of my mouth. There was a moment of silence, and then I reached out my hand and softly touched the closest woman on the arm. “We have come to help you.”

  And there it was, out in the open. Everything we had risked and all that we hoped for hung in the wind. They could scream for help, and we would be captured and tortured in Grindall’s dungeon. All would be lost. Abaddon would gather the stones and Elyon would be overcome.

  The voice of the ogre was coming closer, moving in from a side street, wheezing and spitting, his huge feet clomping along the earth as he came.

  “The enemy is upon us. What do you say?” I asked. The woman looked at her companions and seemed to consider if any of them were about to give us away. John began tugging at me again, pulling me down the street against my will.

  “Pack up your things and get back to the house,” the woman said. The other three smiled broadly and started to move. The woman reached out her hand to me. I looked at John and he hesitated, then nodded his cautious approval. The moment I took her hand the three of us were racing across the street, and soon we had vanished in the maze of narrow streets, turning first this way and then that. She said nothing as we went. This was not the quiet woman I’d seen in the forest on the cart or at the wharf doing the washing. She was energized, alert, and purposeful.