“Janner!” he called. “A stairway!”
Thank the Maker, Janner thought. We can get out of here. He crossed the room and looked, and his shoulders slumped.
Tink was grinning, pointing to a narrow passageway that led down into shadows.
“No, Tink,” Janner said.
“What do you mean?”
“What do you mean, ‘what do you mean’?”
“We’re so close, that’s what I mean. We can’t just go home!”
Janner was speechless. How can I be expected to watch over my brother when he has no appreciation of the danger we’re in? Only moments ago they’d been nearly eaten by a pack of horned hounds, and now Tink was more concerned about poking around in a cellar than his own life.
Tink took the first few steps down into the passage for a better look. “Aha!” he said, sounding a lot like his grandfather. He reemerged with an oil lantern and a box of matches covered with cobwebs. Blowing dust from the lantern, Tink lit it, and started down the stairway without another word.
Janner looked around the room again, wishing desperately for another doorway to appear, but there was none. He had no choice. With a sigh, he followed his little brother deeper into the bowels of Anklejelly Manor, trying not to think about the warning on the map: For in the catacombs below is hidden in the hollow, a way that leads to pain and woe, sadness, grief, and sorrow.
The deeper their descent, the more the air grew cool and heavy. Cobwebs dangled from the passageway’s low ceiling, and Janner’s ears were full of the sound of his own breathing and the echo of footsteps on stone.
After several cracked and broken steps down, Tink and Janner came to the bottom of the stairs. The passageway was more of a cave than a tunnel; the walls rough and moist. The floor was damp enough that neither Janner nor Tink wanted to crawl, but the ceiling was too low to allow them to walk without stooping.
They inched along in an uncomfortable hunch, Tink holding the lantern and peering ahead into the blackness beyond the lamplight; Janner could scarcely see anything but Tink’s rear end.
Neither of the boys had thought about the possibility of ghosts since their narrow escape from the flesh-and-blood horned hounds, and Janner was smiling in spite of himself. He couldn’t deny the thrill of creeping through a secret passageway in the cellar of an ancient house, and he knew that Tink was smiling too. Janner broke the silence with a whisper.
“How does it look up there?”
“Nothing to see yet—wait, the passage is turning a little…”
The passageway veered right and the ceiling rose enough that the boys could stand up straight. They groaned with relief and stretched their backs. Their tension, fear, and excitement bubbled to the surface as nervous laughter. They walked a few more feet, slowly, and the passageway widened enough that the two of them were able to walk side by side. Neither of them spoke as they inched their way deeper into the corridor.
At last they came to the end of the passage, where a rusty iron door barred their way. Its hinges were embedded in the tunnel rock, and it was set as square and solid as if it had always been there. Whoever had put the door there had meant to keep out intruders. In the center of the door was a metal plate with several neat rows of round metal buttons the size of knuckles. There was no keyhole.
Tink tried the handle and found it locked.
“Of course,” Janner said with disappointment.
A moment passed, both boys studying the door.
“Hang on,” Tink said. He pressed one of the rusty buttons. With a loud click, it sunk into the door. “Janner, look. I think this is a lock. We just have to figure out the right combination of buttons to push, and the door will open. See?” He pressed another button. “There are…ten rows of…eight buttons each. That’s only eighty buttons.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Janner shook his head. “We have no idea how many buttons need to be pressed, or in what order. We’d be here for the rest of our lives, which I don’t plan to spend here.” He paused. “Besides, it could be a trap.”
Tink took a deep breath and placed a hand on the handle.
Janner felt a moment of panic. “Don’t.”
Tink winked at Janner and tried the door handle again. The door didn’t budge, but the buttons Tink had pressed clicked back out, flush with the rest.
Janner braced himself for something awful. But nothing happened. He tried once more to convince Tink to give up, but his little brother continued to ignore him as Janner sank to the floor and waited. Surely Tink would grow bored soon and give up on his own.
But he didn’t.
Instead, Tink unrolled the map and examined it by the lantern light. “There must be something here…”
“Tink.” Janner sighed, exasperated. “If there’s a lock on the door, maybe it should stay locked.”
Tink ignored his brother, intent on the map. He mumbled, “Some kind of a code…” He held out the map with one hand and raised the lamp with the other, casting the map’s shadow on the tunnel wall.
Just before Tink gave up and began to roll up the parchment, Janner saw it—points of light in an uneven pattern cast by the tiny holes in the map. Janner’s frustration vanished. “Tink, unroll the map.”
Tink stared in confusion as Janner shone the lamp on the map and carefully guided Tink’s hands to position the map in front of the buttons on the door. The points of light were too closely clustered at first, so Janner took a few steps back. Then Tink saw it too, plain as daylight: four of the points of light lined up with the four corners of the button rows, and the rest lit up seven more, roughly in the shape of the letter W.
Janner held the map and lamp steady while Tink pressed each of the corresponding buttons. Tink reached for the handle again.
“Wait—” Janner said, putting a hand on Tink’s forearm.
Tink looked at Janner like he was out of his mind.
“Are you sure about this?” Janner asked.
Tink rolled his eyes.
“Well at least open the door slowly,” Janner said.
With a deep breath, Tink turned the handle and with a click, it unlocked. Then he pulled open the door with a loud creak.
23
The Groaning Ghost of Brimney Stupe
Janner and Tink found themselves in a large room about the size of their whole cottage. All around were piles of odd-shaped objects covered in a thick layer of dust. At first, neither of them could tell what the piles consisted of, so Janner walked to the nearest one, a few feet to the right of the doorway, to get a better look. He leaned close to one of the dusty shapes and without warning, sneezed violently.
The eruption scattered the dust in a cloud, and the lamplight was reflected back by a flat piece of polished metal.
Janner had never seen a battle axe. Podo had often returned from town with a borrowed woodcutting axe, but this was nothing like it. The weapon was double edged, and the two blades combined were as wide as Janner’s chest.
Tink stood beside him with his mouth hanging open. “What is it?” Tink asked in a quiet voice.
Janner didn’t answer but ran his finger along the shining edge of the blade.
Tink blew the dust from another shape beside it, revealing a sword. Rubies and gems glimmered in the hilt, and an inscription in a language neither of them recognized ran the length of the blade.
Janner found another sword, stouter and less ornate, but polished and fine. Slowly they turned, their eyes wide with wonder. All around them were piles upon piles of swords, axes, shields, and daggers. Suits of armor stood like sentries along the wall. There were enough weapons for a small army, hidden in the cellar of Anklejelly Manor for who knew how many years.
After the initial shock, they hurried about the room, blowing and brushing dust from the weapons. Tink found a short sword and donned a small wooden shield. Janner tried to pull the axe from the pile but it was so heavy that as soon as the head was free it clanged to the floor. He wondered that any man could pick it up, let alone
swing it in a fight. He found a dagger that suited him. He tied the scabbard to his belt and snatched the blade out several times, stabbing at the air. Tink put on a spiked helmet that was far too big for his head, and when Janner saw him he roared with laughter.
“Look at this!” Tink called, tossing the helmet aside. He had found hundreds of steel-tipped arrows, and beside them a pile of unstrung bows leaning in the corner.
Janner uncovered a coil of rope, which reminded him that they were trapped. They had been so enthralled by the weapons that he had forgotten the horned hounds and the unreachable cellar door. Janner took a good look around him at the trove of weapons. Are these the Jewels of Anniera? he wondered. What did dear old Oskar N. Reteep have to do with these weapons, anyway? He shuddered to think what the Fangs would do to them if they ever discovered this secret. Oskar had traveled all over Skree collecting books and curiosities. He must have gotten the weapons at the same time and hid them here. But why? Janner’s mind whirled with all the answerless questions that had recently found a home there. But he would have time to think about all this later—right now he knew that he and Tink had to get home safely.
“Tink, we have to go.”
Tink looked up from the oversized breastplate he was trying to buckle, and after a moment’s thought, nodded. Even Tink realized they couldn’t stay in the chamber forever.
Janner held up the rope. “Maybe this will help.”
“Good. I’m starving. Maybe Grandpa will make some more of that cheesy chowder.”
Janner was relieved that for once, Tink didn’t argue. “Leave everything here. The last thing we need is to be caught by a Fang—”
“Or Ma,” Tink said. “—with a weapon.”
They laughed together, took one last look at the shimmering room, and shut the door with a clank. The depressed buttons all clicked back out again, sealing the chamber from anyone without the map. They hustled back through the low tunnel, Janner with the rope slung over his shoulder, wondering how he would use it to escape.
Suddenly from the darkness behind them came a sound that turned their blood cold.
Drifting up from the weapons chamber was a wordless, menacing groan.
They had awakened the ghost of Brimney Stupe.
24
The Road Home
Janner and Tink stopped in their tracks and looked behind them, but beyond the lamplight—nothing. The moan floated to them again, and Tink’s hands shook so violently that he dropped the lamp to the damp floor, where it snuffed out.
That was all Tink could take. Squealing like a meep, he scrambled through the tunnel.
Janner hurried after him, cold fear shivering through his veins. He imagined a thousand bony fingers clawing at his back and flew up the stairs in two bounds.
Tink was already at the top, wielding one of the old boards dangerously.
Janner wondered what Tink thought he would do with the plank, if the ghost of Brimney Stupe actually did come whooshing at him, but he admired his brother’s intentions—and snatched his own short, sturdy-looking plank from the woodpile.
The long moan rose up out of the mouth of the passageway again as Janner frantically tied the rope to the center of the board. Please, please work, he thought. He took aim and hurled the board through the doorway, noticing dimly that the horned hound was no longer there. He tugged on the rope, but the board clattered back to the floor. On the second try, Janner jerked the rope so that the board was pulled flat against the door frame. Praying that the beasts were long gone and that the plank would hold, he clambered up the wall and through the door.
Janner reached down from the opening. “Tink, come on!” he cried over the moaning that echoed in the black room.
Tink tore his eyes from the tunnel opening to see that he was alone in the cellar. “Awk!” he cried as he tossed his board aside and scurried up the rope like a mad squirrel. He bypassed Janner’s hand and zipped up and through the door where they both collapsed onto the floor, panting.
Janner kicked the plank and rope back into the cellar, thinking that it would be best to remove as many traces of their presence as they could. Just being out of the dark cellar made Brimney Stupe seem less frightening, but now they had to contend with the horned hounds.
The brothers crept back through the house and peeked out the front door, squinting in the brightness. The late afternoon sun was as warm and welcome as life itself.
Janner scanned the edge of the forest for any sign of movement. “I don’t see them,” he whispered.
Tink’s face was pale.
Another chilling moan drifted up to them from the bowels of Ankle-jelly Manor.
“You ready?”
“I’ve never been so ready,” Tink breathed.
“Run!”
The Igiby brothers ran past the stone bench, through the iron gate, down the long lane that sloped away from Anklejelly Manor and the border of the forest, and they didn’t stop until they reached the field just behind the Blaggus Estate.
Unable to move another step, they lay sweating in the tall grass until they could breathe again. Then they rose to walk home, unable to believe that they were still alive and making solemn oaths to never again set foot in that horrid, wondrous place.
Janner and Tink approached the cottage in the late afternoon just as Podo was walking down the lane with a wriggling sack over his shoulder.
“Lads! It looks like the ol’ Blaggus boys beat ye pretty smart again, did they?” Podo eyed their filthy, sweaty clothes.
Janner and Tink each forced a laugh.
“Where are you off to?” Janner asked, changing the subject.
Podo bent closer and put a hand to the side of his mouth.
“Don’t tell yer ma—unless she asks, of course—but all these thwaps I’ve been snagging? See, I take ’em and I dump ’em into old Buzzard Willie’s yard across town. Tee hee!” Podo laughed, slapping his knee. “That rascal never gave me a moment’s peace when we were wee lads here in Glipwood, not to mention how he wooed sweet Merna Bidgeholler right out from under me nose. And besides,” Podo’s white eyebrows bunched together, “his totaters and sugarberries are always plumper than mine.” He scratched his wild head of hair and muttered, “I don’t know how he does it.” He held out the sack and whacked it happily, bringing forth a chorus of chatter from inside. “So I’ll see you lads a’ supper!”
Podo limped away toward Buzzard Willie’s, whistling and twirling the sack as he went.
Janner and Tink stood side by side a moment to watch Podo until he was out of sight. Then they made their own way back to the cottage, grateful to be home again.
But they were not the only ones watching. From behind a glipwood tree on the back lawn, Slarb the Fang squinted at Janner and Tink entering their cottage. Slarb had been slinking around the Igiby place all day, careful not to be seen. He had watched in agony, holding his hands to the sides of his head while Leeli practiced her whistleharp on the front porch. He had watched with loathing as Nia washed the clothes just outside the back door. And several times, when Leeli had played fetch with Nugget, it took all of Slarb’s willpower to keep from snatching up the dog for once and for good.
Even now, clacking his teeth in the shadow of a glipwood tree, he yearned to sink his teeth into anything Igiby unfortunate enough to come near.
25
In the Hall of General Khrak
Meanwhile, in the city of Torrboro, Commander Gnorm was just arriving at the Palace Torr after traveling through the night and most of the day. By the reckoning of the old maps, Torrboro was a two-day journey from Glipwood by the main road, but the Fangs stopped for neither rest nor food as they drove their horses mercilessly across the barren prairies to the city.
The city of Torrboro sprawled on the south bank of the River Blapp and bustled with activity. No one who lived there seemed to know where anyone else was going or why, and many had very little notion as to where they themselves were going at any given moment. People were walking, pushi
ng carts, driving carriages, leading sheep, carrying sacks of totatoes, loading wagons with fish; selling, buying, yelling, talking—all without smiling or thinking about much at all.
Lurking among the people were armored Fangs of varying sizes and shapes.
Lurking among the Fangs were trolls, and a single troll stunk worse than a hundred Fangs. If a troll brushed against some unfortunate passerby, the poor fellow would stink up his home for weeks; so wherever the trolls went, the people scattered like windblown leaves.
The citizens of Torrboro could scarcely remember the days before the war when Fangs and trolls were only rumors from across the Dark Sea of Darkness. Now the sight of monsters walking among them seemed as normal as the seagulls that swooped and chattered in the air above the city.
Commander Gnorm started to open the carriage door but stopped when he saw the jewels glittering on his fat arms and fingers. He hastily removed the bracelets and rings and placed them in his pouch, relieved that he had remembered to conceal them. He didn’t want any fights over his newly acquired shinies.
Gnorm squeezed himself out of the carriage with a long grunt and picked at the pieces of flabbit stuck between his teeth. He had been snacking on the drive. The exhausted horses wheezed and staggered while the plump commander climbed the long stairway to the mouthlike entrance of the Palace Torr.1 The once-beautiful castle stood tall and sharp against the gray sky, the windows of its spires black, its banners tattered and swaying limply in the thick air as if in mourning for their former glory. Two troll guards stood watch at the main door, looking down at Gnorm and the driver.
“What businesss have you wi’ the general,” one of them said in a booming voice that rattled Gnorm’s armor.
“The same business I had last time, and the time before that, and the time before that, horse maggot,” Gnorm scowled. The troll burped and moved aside, motioning for the other troll to open the great wooden door.
“Oafs,” Gnorm hissed as he passed over the threshold and into the palace.
On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness Page 11
