When the smell of oatmeal and diggle strips reached Tink’s nose, he dropped the tackleball without a word, plopped down at the fire, and smacked his lips.
“Boys, wash your hands,” Nia said, and she told them how to find the safe shoal.
The brothers squatted at the sandy shore and dipped their hands in the water. Before them the Mighty Blapp slipped past on its way to Fingap Falls; the opposite shore was lined with the trees of Glipwood Forest.
“I like Maraly a lot,” Tink said.
“She’s, uh, nice, I guess. A little rough, don’t you think?” Janner asked.
“Not that rough.”
They washed in silence for a moment.
“She told me I’d make a good Strander,” Tink said.
Janner laughed. “You’d make a terrible Strander. You’re too smart for them. Besides, you’re no thief. You’re no killer, either. You’re the High King of Anniera, remember?”
They walked back to the camp in silence.
26
Along the River Road
You need to leave,” Nurgabog said. “Things have changed.” She stood before Podo, her freckled hands folded over the handle of the cane. She pursed and unpursed her lips so that her whiskery chin bobbed up and down like a cork in the water.
“Is Claxton awake?” Podo asked, wiping a dollop of oatmeal from his lip.
“No, ye fool. Claxton’s curled up in his shack like a sick kitten. The Fangs are comin’.”
Podo dropped his bowl and leapt to his foot. “Where? When?”
“From the North Road. The Barrier’s not far from here, and one of our scouts said he seen a gang of ‘em comin’ this way. They weren’t due for several days yet, and now we’ve got to scramble to get ready for ‘em. You need to scat. Take the River Road. Ye’ll see Stranders aplenty but no Fangs. Things are gonna happen in the East Bend that neither you nor your family should see.” Nurgabog smiled a crooked smile. “That kiss last night was the closest me withered heart will find to goodness before I meet the Maker and all his wrath, I fear.”
With a tap of her cane, Nurgabog declared the conversation over and hobbled away. The Stranders were busy strapping on their sheaths and sharpening daggers. They cast nervous glances at a road that stretched north toward the wooded hills. The Strander children, including Maraly, were nowhere to be seen.
“Something bad is going to happen,” Leeli said.
Podo sensed it too and dumped the grease from the skillet and thrust it into his pack without wiping it down. “Janner, Tink, get ready. Hurry!”
Oskar passed the old book to Janner and gathered his ink bottle and parchment, careful not to smudge the fresh ink. Janner’s and Tink’s packs needed only to be strapped shut and swung over their shoulders. As soon as Nia finished gathering the bowls and cups from breakfast, Podo took a last look around the fire and nodded.
“Keep up, lads and lasses. You too, Oskar. We’re gonna be off at a trot for a while, and it won’t be fun.”
“Wait!” Tink said. “I need to say good-bye to Maraly.”
“No time for that, lad,” Podo said.
“But—”
“No time!”
Podo struck off in the direction of the river, and the others did their best to follow. “Maraly!” Tink cried over his shoulder. “Good-bye, Maraly!”
But neither Maraly nor any of the Strander children were anywhere to be seen—just filthy men and women who poured out of the camp with daggers drawn and nefarious smiles stretched across every face.
As they descended the slope to the river and the camp of the East Bend disappeared, Janner heard a final, chilling cry ring out from Nurgabog Weaver: “READY THE CAGES!”
Conversation was a waste of precious breath, so they moved in silence. If Leeli ever had reason to miss her dear Nugget, it was now. Podo moved at a merciless pace along the road that followed the river. He looked back occasionally to be sure the children were keeping up, but he never slowed. Leeli hopped along with her crutch faster than Janner had ever seen. Her wavy hair rocked back and forth with every lurching step, and she stumbled often, but she needed no encouragement to get away from the Strander camp as quickly as she could.
Oskar didn’t run, exactly. He shuffled along with his arms pumping and his belly bouncing, but his feet never quite left the ground. His flap of hair had given up altogether on covering his baldness and trailed behind like a sad wisp of smoke. Oskar hadn’t had this much exercise in years, but he was determined not to slow down the company. Wshhh-a-heeesh-a-wshhh-a-heeesh went his breathing, like the sound of someone sweeping a floor.
Janner was so unsettled by the Stranders at the camp, the strange disappearance of the children, and the coming of the Fangs that he was afraid to look back. The sea dragon’s warning came to his mind: he is near you. What if Podo was wrong and the dragon was telling the truth? Gnag the Nameless could be slithering into the East Bend even now. The hair on the back of his neck rose.
If Tink felt the same fear, Janner couldn’t see it. After his call to Maraly went unanswered, Tink’s face had darkened. He ran beside Janner without taking his eyes from the muddy road.
The rise and fall of the land gradually settled into a flat, grassy bottomland, a wild green in contrast to the muddy road and the gray-brown course of the river. After hours of running, helping Leeli to her feet, running again, slipping in the mud, and so on, Podo stopped so suddenly that Nia thudded into him.
“Down!” he hissed, motioning for them to duck. They were too tired to question it and plopped into the mud like a slop of wheezing hogpigs.
Podo didn’t appear winded in the least. “Stranders ahead,” he whispered, pointing at a stand of trees in the distance. “They’ve not seen us yet, but they’re bound to any minute. Nia, I hoped to put this off as long as possible, but it’s time to put on our disguises.”
“Disguises?” she repeated.
“Leeli, you too. It’s got to be done.”
Podo scooped up a handful of mud and smiled. Nia’s eyes shot from the mud to Podo’s face and back to the mud, and before she could stop him, he smashed it into her hair. She sputtered and struggled for words but none came. Podo, Oskar, and the children didn’t bother to hide their enjoyment as they covered her from head to toe with mud. Leeli came next. She clamped her eyes shut and grimaced while they smeared her with the muck, but in the end she was laughing. When Nia and Leeli looked as grimy as any Strander, Nia had her revenge on Podo, smiling savagely as she caked his face and hair.
When Podo was satisfied the company was sufficiently filthy, he nodded. “Now you lot just keep quiet. I know how to speak like one of ‘em, and besides, as ye saw yesterday, it’s usually the clan leader who does most of the talkin’. Just stay behind me and try to look mean.”
They had been running with little rest for half the day, and Janner was glad for Leeli’s sake that Podo led them at a walk. They veered off the road and crossed the green bottomland to the trees so there would be no question that they intended to enter the Strander camp. When Podo approached, three men rushed forward, hissing and swinging daggers. Podo stood his ground and held Claxton’s pendant in the air.
The Stranders stopped in their tracks a few steps away.
“That’s Claxton Weaver’s pone, but you ain’t Claxton Weaver,” one of them said suspiciously.
“No, I ain’t,” Podo said. “But I got his pone all the same, so if you’re wise, ye’ll let us tread on without trouble.”
The three men considered this in silence.
“Tell us how you swiped Claxton’s pone. If we believe ye, we’ll let you traipse the Middle Bend. Aye?”
Podo glanced at Tink. Janner wondered if the story that an eleven-year-old boy had not only thieved Claxton Weaver’s pone but had twice stolen his dagger and conked him unconscious with it would be more believable than something Podo might make up.
“Truth is,” Podo said, stepping aside and pointing at Tink, “this young feller swiped it. Pulled it clean
out of Claxton’s tunic just last night in the East Bend. Left Claxton so befuddled that he didn’t notice the boy swiped his dagger too.”
The Stranders raised their dirty eyebrows at Tink. “This boy swiped the pone?”
“Aye,” Podo said. “Ask him if ye like.”
One of the men narrowed his eyes and stepped forward. Tink stood still as a fence post.
“You expect us to believe that you’re the one that lifted the pone, boy?”
Tink gulped and nodded. Podo reached for his dagger.
The Strander grinned and slapped Tink on the back.
“Then I reckon you’re none other than Kalmar Wingfeather,” he said. “You can come near anytime, lad. Got word from one of the East Benders that Claxton Weaver was finally knocked from his heap. Well done, young feller. Claxton had it comin’ for a long time. Tread on, then.”
The Stranders slipped into the trees and were gone.
“Tink, you’re famous!” Janner said, and Tink smiled from ear to muddy ear.
“Blast,” Podo said. “Now the whole Strand knows yer name.”
Tink’s smile faded. “I didn’t mean to give him my real—my really real name. I didn’t want to tell him my name was Tink, and Kalmar was all I could think of. Sorry.”
“It isn’t such a bad thing, my boy,” said Oskar. “The name Wingfeather may not be widely known in Skree, but there are those who know enough of Anniera to recognize it. Seems to me that if word spread the King of Anniera was alive and loose on the Strand, why, Skreeans will relish the news! And it’ll make the Fangs none too happy.”
“I reckon that’s true,” Podo said, and he winked at Tink. “Let the Fangs know High King Kalmar swiped the pone of Claxton Weaver. But if the word’s spreadin’ this fast, we’ve got to get movin’. We need to find the burrow by dark.”
27
A Bruise on the Back of the Land
Podo had to show Claxton’s pone to three more Strander clans that day, each less threatening than the one before. Only the first clan showed any sign of having heard the rumor of Kalmar Wingfeather’s quick hands, but Podo assured Tink the tale would ride the tongues of storytellers for a few years at least and the details would double and triple in size. Tink laughed, but Janner could tell something was on his mind.
The closer they drew to Dugtown, the worse the road got. Everywhere Janner looked he saw potholes and broken wagon wheels, abandoned shanties, stray dogs with missing legs or eyes or fur. Mud caked everything and sucked the color from the world. Mud splattered up from puddles in the road and dried on Janner’s arms and neck so that he felt like he was made of clay.
After they encountered the last group of Stranders, the Strand changed. What had been grassy bottomlands became worn-down farmsteads, sagging fences, and hogpigs snorting in muddy fields. Before, they traveled alone but for the occasional Stranders, but now scrawny chickens squawked across the road, and poor, sad-faced men and women stood in silence and watched the Igibys pass with dull interest. The Wester Strand, as Podo called it, was a listless place, a string of shacks as bent and bony as the people who dwelt there. The water crept downstream so flat and slow that it seemed less like a river than a long, narrow lake.
Podo nodded to himself and announced they were clear of the Stranders.
“Then this is Dugtown?” Leeli asked.
“No, lass. We’re close, though.” He lowered his voice. “These poor folk live along the Strand but aren’t so mean yet that they’re willing to make their beds with the clans farther east. They’re content to try to make their way by plantin’ seeds and raisin’ beasts. Too poor to live in Torrboro, too honest to scrape by in Dugtown, not yet vile enough to throw in with the Stranders. They live their lives with a mighty sorrow.”
As the company moved on, most of the mud farmers—as Podo called them, though not without pity—ignored them, but some stood up from the fields where they were unearthing stones in the way of the plow, or stopped hammering a rotten plank to a rotten structure with a rusty nail, or peered out their windows to watch the Igibys as they passed.
“Has it always been like this?” Leeli asked.
“No, lass, not always,” Podo said over his shoulder.
“But for far too long,” Oskar said, “that’s certain. For many years the Stranders have made trouble along the river. These poor, tired folk have suffered between the indifference of the elite in Torrboro and the hostility of the ruthless in Dugtown and the Strand.”1
“Someone should do something,” Leeli said quietly.
“What would they do?” Janner asked. “It seems like the whole world is as awful as it is here.”
“Things weren’t this bad in Glipwood,” Tink said.
“No, but it didn’t take much to tip the scales,” Janner said. “In just a few days, the town was deserted and the Fangs moved in. Everything in Skree is as bad as it is for these mud farmers. It’s just that here we can see it for what it is.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Janner saw a smile on his mother’s face. She and Podo’s eyes met, and he sensed he had done something that made her proud. He thought back to the way he felt in Glipwood on Dragon Day, when Oskar had first helped him see the sadness beneath the merriment. None of the visitors to Glipwood laughed from the belly; none of them smiled except in defiance of the way they really felt. Only Armulyn the Bard was able to muster any true feelings of joy, and Janner had noticed that for himself and for the people who listened to his songs with such desperate attention, the joyful feelings the songs brought to the surface always came with tears. Theirs was a burden too heavy to be lifted by songs alone, however fine the melody.
“Someone should do something,” Leeli said again, this time in a feisty tone. Everyone knew better than to challenge her. She was right.
Podo stopped at the top of a gradual incline. To the right stood another cluster of tired buildings. Chickens chattered and pecked at the dirt, and a fat rooster perched on the roof of one building. An old man snored on the porch, a wad of rags his pillow. Behind the house stretched a fallow field bordered at the rear by a stand of scrub trees. To the left and down the slope coursed the Mighty Blapp, which was now anything but mighty.
Then Janner saw why Podo had stopped.
“What is it?” Tink asked as he approached. “Oh.”
“Aye, that’s Dugtown,” Podo said. “I’ve not seen it for a great many years.”
The city lay in the distance like a bruise on the green land. The shacks on either side of the River Road grew in number and were absorbed into the sprawl of Dugtown. Janner knew Dugtown was big, but his imagination hadn’t prepared him for this. His stomach crawled at the sight of so many streets and angles in such disarray. Buildings stood three and four stories tall, constructed at odd angles, as if each level were an afterthought.
At some unknown signal, a ringing of bells erupted from the city—first one, then a few more, then what seemed to be thousands of bells clanged like a swarm of invisible, metallic bats rushing into the night. Above the buildings, Janner saw hundreds of wooden towers, rickety and thin, scattered across the city like ugly weeds sprouted from ugly grass. At the sound of the bells, a fire was lit on the platform at the top of each tower. The flames rose as high as a man, and on each of the towers nearest them, Janner spied a figure standing watch. A city lit by a hundred giant torches should have been beautiful, but it looked to Janner more like something from a scarytale.
“Is that Torrboro?” Leeli asked, pointing at the other side of the river. Janner pulled his eyes from the terrible sight of the nearer city and was relieved to see the fine, soaring walls of Torrboro in the distance. The Palace Torr crouched near the river like a giant animal. The tallest tower was the tail, and the palace walls bulged and curved to give the impression of the animal’s legs and bulk—
“A cat?” Janner asked.
Oskar chuckled. “A kitten, to be precise. You’ll see the same theme repeated often in Torrboro’s architecture. A most unfortunate obses
sion of the Torr Dynasty, I’m afraid. In the words of Verbichude Yay, the famed art critic, ‘Ugh. Might they have thought of something else?’”
Torrboro shone in happy contrast to Dugtown. Its wide, paved streets wound in graceful curves, and the majority of its buildings were of pale, creamy stone.2 At the river front were many boats moored to docks, and Janner detected the movement of what must have been thousands of people bustling to and fro. The mass of people and activity thrilled Janner. He didn’t get the same claustrophobic, sinking feeling from Torrboro as he did from Dugtown.
“Why can’t we go to Torrboro instead?” Janner asked.
“Because the Fangs are thicker there,” Podo said. “See that palace? That’s where General Khrak resides. The meanest Fang of them all.”
“He commanded the invading armies,” Oskar said. “He’s shrewd—not your ordinary brute Fang. He’s probably sitting in the palace right now, trying to figure out how to get his claws on the lot of us.”
“Aye, which is why we’re not headed that way,” Podo said. “It’s easy to get lost in Dugtown, and that means it’s easy to hide. The Fangs are in Dugtown plenty, but they’re not there so much to patrol as to carouse. They like the taverns and the filth and the shadows. They’re there for fun, and so they’re not as like to interfere with a traveler on the street unless they have to.”
Janner saw movement on the road ahead. “Grandpa, look.”
“Eh?”
Janner pointed.
Podo sucked in a breath. “Fangs!” he said. “Follow me!”
He bolted into the house where the old man slept on the porch. Chickens scattered. Oskar, Nia, and the children hurried after Podo into the shadowy old building. The old man stirred and muttered a few garbled words but kept sleeping.
Once inside, Janner could see nothing. He could hear Podo’s familiar tap-clunk and his raspy gripe: “Been so long I can scarce remember how to find the…”
Janner heard the rattle and clomp outside of armored Fangs on the march. It didn’t sound like a large unit, but it was enough to make him tremble.
North! Or Be Eaten Page 15
