North! Or Be Eaten

by Andrew Peterson

  Somewhere nearby, if Nurgabog was right, Tink sat in a cage. Somewhere to the north, the Black Carriage came nearer and nearer, and cruel crows whirled above it. Janner imagined it as a deeper darkness creeping south along the edge of the forest.

  He had to get Tink free before the Carriage arrived. By the time he reached the fringes of the settlement, the night would be complete. In the cover of darkness he would once again be glad to be small and alone.

  It was time to go.

  Janner crawled so quietly, with such careful placement of each hand and each knee on stone and grass, with such slow and deliberate breathing, that when he came face to face with the rabbit in the brush, it didn’t flee. It considered him for a moment, whiskers twitching, then loped away as if the boy were one of its litter.

  A stone’s throw to his right blazed the fire where the Stranders gathered. They laughed and spat and bickered over slabs of toothy cow meat pulled sizzling from the spit. Janner’s empty belly clamored for attention, but he ignored it, focusing instead on the cages that held Tink.

  The ramshackle buildings and piles of firewood provided good cover from the light of the fire. Once he had descended the hill and sneaked through clusters of brush and thorn, he caught sight of the campfire’s glow and heard the noisy brutes around it. He dropped the backpacks and pushed them deep into the weeds. He’d be quieter without them, and he and Tink could pick them up on the way back out.

  He had inched his way into the shadows behind a shack, which was when he saw the cages. They sat on a platform beyond a stand of tall grass cut through with footpaths. It wasn’t much cover, but it was enough for someone small and alone.

  That was where Janner encountered the rabbit.

  He paused and listened for any sign of a clan member not at the fire for some reason. But Janner was alone—other than Tink and whatever other children Claxton had in the cages. Janner slipped across a footpath and froze in the grass, then crossed another footpath and froze again. The cages—four of them—were only a few steps away.

  Janner crawled to the foot of the platform. He felt in the dark along the leg of the platform and found the release lever, just where Nurgabog said it would be. He eased the lever downward until he heard a click. Janner held his breath, praying to the Maker the Stranders didn’t hear it.

  Finally, Janner stood and peered inside, already pressing a finger to his lips to silence whomever he might see.

  The first cage was empty. Doubt flashed in Janner’s mind. Nurgabog had sent him on this fool’s rescue mission so he would be caught like a thwap in a snare. Janner looked in the next cage and found it empty as well. Cheeks burning with embarrassment and anger, he looked in the third cage and saw two eyes staring back at him.

  “Tink!” he whispered, louder than he intended.

  The figure in the shadows leaned closer.

  “Tink?” Janner repeated softly.

  “I ain’t Tink,” said a girl’s voice. “I’m Maraly. Don’t know no Tink.”

  “Kalmar, I mean,” Janner said. “Is he here?”

  “Kalmar Wingfeather? Ah, I remember you. You’re his brother, ain’t ye?”

  Janner nodded. “Where is he? Where is Kalmar? I have to get him out before the Black Carriage comes.”

  Maraly shook her head and settled back in the rear of the cage. “He ain’t here.”

  “What? Where is he?” Janner said, pressing his face against the bars.

  “You’re too late. The Black Carriage came early this time. Showed up last night a few hours before dawn. Whole bunch of Fangs come with it, lookin’ for a boy on the run from Dugtown. I figure that would be you, eh?”

  Janner felt the blood drain from his face.

  “Claxton gave ‘em Kalmar and the other kids he’d collected. The Fangs threw ‘em in the Carriage and carried ‘em away screaming, just like always.”

  “But—but—what about you? Why didn’t you get carried off too?”

  Maraly snorted. “I ain’t in here for the Carriage. Even Claxton ain’t so wicked he’d send off his own daughter. I’m in here for punishment.”

  Janner was too stunned to speak.

  “Punishment,” said Maraly, “for trying to help Kalmar get away. Didn’t do much good, I’m afraid. Sorry. He’s on his way to Dang by now.”

  Tink was gone.

  Janner couldn’t think. He stood at the cage staring at nothing, seeing in his mind’s eye the image of poor Tink sitting in the cage, but now it wasn’t a cage. He was in the dank belly of the Black Carriage, where death was a good dream.

  “What do I do?” Janner heard himself say aloud.

  “The first thing I’d do if I was you,” said Maraly with a chuckle, “is run. They’ve seen you.”

  Janner snapped out of his grief to see Claxton Weaver at the fire, staring directly at him, a dagger bright in his fist.

  “Come on!”

  Janner flung open the cage door and yanked Maraly out. Her eyes were wide and fierce, and Janner thought for a moment she was going to pounce on him. Instead, she looked at Claxton, then at Janner, then at Claxton again.

  “Maraly!” Claxton called with an edge of warning in his voice.

  Then she spat in his direction, shrugged, and said to Janner, “Follow me.”

  She disappeared so completely into the brush beyond the cages that Janner wasn’t sure at first which direction she had gone. Then he heard her voice not far away: “Hurry up!”

  Janner dashed into the darkness, trying to ignore the howls of rage in the Strander camp. The whole clan, with Claxton at the fore, poured after the two children like a swarm of wasps. Maraly ran north, cutting left and right around bushes and small trees without a single look behind her. Janner huffed and puffed after her, barely able to keep up.

  “Maraly, wait!” he gasped, “The packs! I have to get the packs!”

  She didn’t seem to hear him at first, but then she zipped away to the left and dove into a thorn bush. Janner clamped his eyes shut and followed, heedless of the sting where the briars cut his face and arms.

  “Be still,” she whispered, and Janner was still.

  Claxton roared past, cursing his daughter Maraly with words Janner had never heard even from Podo. The rest of the clan followed, a parade of daggers and mud and anger, blind to the two children bleeding in the dark.

  When the Stranders were gone, Maraly said, “So where are these packs, then?”

  They winced their way out of the thorn bush and hurried past the empty camp to the place where Janner had stashed the two packs. He gave her Tink’s, shouldered his own, and they were off.

  Maraly knew every nook and hollow in the East Bend, and more than once Janner wondered how he would’ve found his way without her. She led him clear of the many Stranders traipsing through the night, growling Maraly’s name and describing the terrible things they would do to her when she was caught. She showed no concern, however. She slipped from tree to tree without a word, checking now and then to be sure Janner was close behind.

  As the trees thickened, the sounds of the Stranders faded into the distance, and Janner began to worry more about the toothy cows they might encounter. But he reminded himself that Maraly had lived there for many years; if there were toothy cows, she would know.

  They traveled north for hours. Neither child spoke.

  At last, when the air changed at the first hint of dawn, Maraly stopped. She sprang into the branches of a glipwood tree and shimmied to its swaying heights. Janner craned his neck to see her silhouette against the silver stars. He wasn’t sure if he should follow, but she said, “Come on.” So he climbed.

  She settled into the crook of two limbs and closed her eyes.

  “Maraly?” he said.

  She didn’t answer.

  Janner made himself comfortable and lay back with his pack hugged to his chest. The sway of the tree brought to mind fine memories of Peet’s tree house, and he slept. His dreams were of his brother.

  In them, Tink was screami
ng.

  49

  The Fortress of the Phoobs

  Peet the Sock Man woke feeling sick.

  His arms were chained to his sides, as they had been since his capture after the rockroach gully. For days, his mind had turned from madness to grief, and finally to a grim understanding of exactly who and where he was. He was aware of a creaking, a salty smell, and the sound of weeping.

  He blinked and looked around. He sat in the dank hold of a ship, and filthy water sloshed about his feet. All around him were people in chains. They weren’t wrapped from head to foot like Peet, but their wrists and ankles were shackled to the walls of the hold. Most of the prisoners were children. Light slipped through the slats in the ceiling and fell on them like prison bars. Peet strained against his chains for the thousandth time, but the Fangs had done their work well. He couldn’t move an inch.

  In these moments when his mind was clear, he knew who he was. He knew he was the Throne Warden of Anniera. He knew he had been separated from his charges, his nephews and niece, the hope of the Shining Isle. His mind thrummed with words and stories and thoughts he ached to chase to their end with a pen and parchment. It had been a long time since he had held a quill. The talons where his hands used to be were good for nothing but battle.

  He looked among the children for Janner, Tink, and Leeli and was relieved not to find them. But what he saw made him angry: so many children torn from their families, forced into the Black Carriage, then chained and thrown into the belly of a Fang ship.

  His heart sank. He knew this wasn’t even the worst of it. The ship would be rocked by storms in the weeks it took to cross the Dark Sea of Darkness. The children who survived the journey would be dragged out of the ship’s hold and into the harsh desert light of the Woes of Shreve. For days they would travel in the deadly heat of the Woes to the foot of the Killridge Mountains. And even that, Peet thought sadly, would not be the worst of it. The worst would come after they had been hauled to the icy steeps of Throg, Gnag’s fortress. There, Gnag the Nameless would send them deep into the dungeons where he would do his evil work on them.

  Peet’s mind grew cloudy, and that familiar madness slowed his thoughts. He knew the Deeps of Throg. He had been there and would not—could not—go back. It was too terrible a thought. But the ship was taking him there, and he could not stop it. The chains held fast, and the wind blew steady. There was nothing he could do.

  At that thought, Peet’s breath began to come in short gasps. He heard himself sob, and many of the children looked at him with big, empty eyes. The madness crept in further, and this time he knew it wouldn’t abate. He would lose himself, and a part of him was glad. He didn’t want to remember who he was. He didn’t want to remember that he had failed his family again or that he was bound for the blackest place in all the world for a second time.

  Then the bow of the ship thudded into something.

  He heard shouts from above, then many footsteps on deck. For a long time the prisoners stared at the ceiling. Peet knew they hadn’t arrived at Dang. They had left Fort Lamendron but a day ago, and he didn’t know why they would be stopping already, except perhaps to gather supplies. But wouldn’t they have done that in Lamendron?

  Then the door in the ceiling swung open, and a wolf leapt into the hold.

  Peet shrieked, not out of fear for himself but for the children in chains. He had encountered many wolves over the years and knew what they could do. His every instinct demanded he protect the children from this beast. He prepared himself for the screams, and screams he heard—but not screams of pain. Peet forced his eyes open and saw a terrible thing.

  The wolf stood on two legs.

  The wolf wore armor and held a ring of keys in one claw.

  The wolf stared at him with red, evil eyes and smiled a vicious smile.

  It waded through the water to Peet and put its snout in his face. It sniffed him, growled, and narrowed its eyes. Then it spoke.

  “You’re the one they’re all so afraid of, then.” Its voice was deep, its manner measured and calm—not like the Fangs, who crackled and cackled and carried on like unruly children. Peet looked into its eyes and saw something that worried him: intelligence. “You won’t be so fearsome after we’re finished with you, birdman. Welcome to the Phoob Islands.”

  The wolf turned away and set to work loosing the children and herding them up the ladder to the deck.

  The Phoob Islands? Peet thought. Then he remembered. “It’s the Phoob Islands for you,” Khrak had said in Fort Lamendron. The Phoobs were in the north, between Fin-gap Falls and the Ice Prairies, a scattering of small islands, some of which boasted port cities crawling with pirates and sailors and traders—or so he had heard. He had never been there, but he had seen the islands from the cliffs. They were brown stony bumps on the back of the sea, like a flock of giant turtles resting off the coast.

  Peet couldn’t understand why they were here and not on the way to Dang, but he understood all too well where the walking wolf had come from, and it filled him with dread.

  The wolf dragged Peet out of the hold and with one hand threw him overboard. He sank fast in the frigid water. He didn’t think they’d let him drown, but even so he was thrashing with panic when the wolf finally drew him out by the chain like a fisherman hauling in his catch. Peet lay shivering on a rock and stared at a cold blue sky. Above and to his left, sad-eyed children in shackles walked the gangplank from ship to pier under the watchful eye of the walking wolf.

  The creature stood with one foot propped on a crate and stared at Peet as he waved the children on. When the last child crossed over, the wolf lifted Peet to the pier and stood him where he could look out at the Dark Sea.

  “Gnag no longer needs to send them to Dang, you see. He has moved his operation here and has made many…improvements.” The wolf took a deep breath and smiled. “Ah, the cold air. Do you feel it? It’s good for a Grey Fang.”

  The wolf spun Peet around. High above towered the cliffs at the edge of Skree. At the verge of the cliffs, he saw instead of trees the shine of snow and ice. At the foot of the cliffs a narrow road led to a ferry crossing. The ferry itself was moving across the channel to the island. Peet couldn’t make out what was on the ferry, but he saw movement and perhaps a few horses. At the end of the pier where he stood began a path that led to a fortress carved into the brown stone of the island. The walls were thick and covered with lichen, worn from a thousand years of weather and battle. Along the top of every wall, on every turret and along every road were more of the walking wolves—Grey Fangs.

  Thousands of them.

  “In fact,” said the Grey Fang, “we love the cold air so much that we’re planning a visit to the Ice Prairies. Perhaps you’ve been there? They say it’s beautiful and that many Skreeans over the years have made the journey. Don’t you have some family in the Ice Prairies, Wingfeather? We’ll be sure to greet them for you when we arrive.”

  Peet could scarcely believe it, but it sounded like Podo had led the children and Nia to the Ice Prairies. They’d survived.

  But they weren’t safe. They had no idea the Grey Fangs existed. Peet struggled and tried to speak through the chain stretched across his mouth.

  The Grey Fang didn’t laugh or taunt the Sock Man. It just watched him with those intelligent, evil eyes and smiled.

  50

  The Witch’s Nose

  When Janner woke the next morning, the first thing he saw was a fazzle dove. It perched on a branch just beyond his feet, eying him with great irritation. Maraly was nowhere to be seen, but Janner wasn’t surprised. She was a Strander, which meant she couldn’t be trusted or relied upon. As he had drifted off the night before, he decided that if he was alone when he woke up, he would push on to the Barrier and not give her a second thought. He had survived the Fork Factory, Miller’s Bridge, and countless Fangs. He knew the journey to the Ice Prairies would be difficult, but he believed he was capable of making it alone.

  The fazzle dove hoodle-oodle-oo
dled and flapped away. Janner stretched and sat up. The air was chilly enough that he could see his breath lifting through the yellow leaves of the glipwood tree. Then a fine smell drifted into his nose. He looked down through the branches and saw Maraly poking at a small fire near the trunk of the tree.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey,” she answered.

  He climbed down. She sat on her haunches, picking her teeth with a small bone. All around the fire lay gray and white fazzle dove feathers. Maraly pointed at a flat stone beside the fire where the remainder of the bird lay.

  “Thanks,” Janner said, and he meant it. The meat was hot and juicy, but there was too little of it. “Is there any more?” he asked when he had picked the little bones clean.

  “You can catch one of your own if ye like. Might take ye awhile, though.”

  “Oh.” He hadn’t eaten that well in days, and it only made him hungrier. “Is there any water?”

  Maraly stood and wiped her greasy fingers on the front of her shirt. “Aye. There’s a creek about an hour north. Up near the Barrier. I see that’s where you’re headed,” she added when Janner’s face lit up.

  “Yeah. Do you know a way through?”

  Maraly snorted. “Gettin’ through’s easy enough. Especially now that the Fangs are scarce. It’s after the Barrier that’s the hard part. Where do ye aim to go, anyway?”

  Janner hesitated. He wasn’t sure he wanted to tell the daughter of Claxton Weaver about his plans, even if she had tried to save Tink. But what difference would it make? He didn’t think she would be going back to her Strander camp anytime soon, not after the way Claxton growled and cursed at her during the pursuit.

  “I can’t say,” he told her.

  She raised an eyebrow. “Ye can’t say.”

  “Well—I don’t know if I can trust you.”

  She snorted again. “Don’t tell me, then. I reckon this is where we part ways.” She kicked dirt over the fire and strode into the woods before Janner had time to stop her.