The Secrets of the Pied Piper 1

by Matthew Cody

  “What’s it like up here on the gate wall?” asked Max. “On a true night?”

  Lukas sighed. “It’s scary. You see things out there in the dark. Sometimes it’s the rats, sometimes it’s other things—things I don’t even have names for. They just appear out of nowhere, I can’t really explain it. If you’re lucky, they will go away after a while, they’ll retreat into the blackness.”

  “And if you’re unlucky?”

  “If you’re unlucky, they try to climb the wall.”

  Max hugged herself to keep from shivering. “The world back home’s not the same place you left, Lukas. Not even close. It’s been, like, hundreds of years.”

  Lukas chewed on his lip for a moment as he absorbed this. Max had expected the news to be a shock, but the boy just shook his head. “Some of us suspected as much, but time doesn’t pass the same here. The years are hazy, and they go by in a fog. The prophecy says your brother will lead us home, Max, but I’m not even sure what that word means anymore. Maybe we can go back to where and when we came from. Or maybe not. Maybe everything we know is truly dead and gone. But if we stay here, at best we’ll forget who we are. At worst…”

  Lukas didn’t finish what he was about to say, but he didn’t need to. Max sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her arm. She left a streak of snot from her elbow to her wrist. “Wow, that’s gross,” she said.

  “Yes, it is,” Lukas agreed, with a slight grin.

  “What did the prophecy say again? What did it say exactly?”

  “Only when the last son of Hamelin appears and the Black Tower found will the Piper’s prison open and the children return safe and sound. If there was more than that, the Peddler never told it to me.”

  “One sentence,” said Max. “You’re asking us to risk a lot for one sentence. You’re asking us to risk everything.”

  Lukas nodded. “I know. But the Black Tower has appeared, I know it, and we have the map of where to find it. I don’t see any better ideas.”

  “Swear to me you won’t let Carter get hurt. Swear it, Lukas.”

  Lukas’s face turned suddenly grim. “I swear it, Max. I’ll die first.”

  “You’re really dramatic, you know that?” Max sighed. “You really think this prophecy is for real? You think this tower of yours can help us find the way home?”

  “I do. And I think your brother is up to the task. More so than you know.”

  Max took a deep breath. Her throat was sore from crying. “Okay. We’ll go with you, but you’d better be right.”

  “I am. And thank you.”

  “One other thing.”

  “Yes?” he said.

  Max looked back out over the dark, alien landscape. The evening had grown quiet again. Whatever thing had howled moments ago was probably busy with its fresh meal, but what else was out there? In a magical land where anything could happen, everything could be dangerous.

  Max looked Lukas in the eye. “I want a spear.”

  If Lukas had hoped their small party would be able to sneak away without attracting attention, he should have thought about that before inviting Paul along. The plan had been to leave at dawn, but there was a crowd of onlookers assembled at the front gate before Lukas had even arrived. Paul must’ve spent the entire evening bragging about their upcoming adventure. The gate was now crowded with middles, elders, a few of the youngest ones holding the hands of the older girls, and all were watching him with looks of expectation. And fear. No one wanted to be without their captain.

  He wondered what stories Paul’s rumor mongering had given birth to. There hadn’t been time to tell Paul the whole truth behind their expedition, and Lukas knew that any holes in Paul’s version would be filled in with wild speculations, but it couldn’t be helped. The fewer who knew about the prophecy the better. Lukas didn’t want to break their hearts if he failed.

  Paul himself was uncharacteristically on time, flanked by Finn and another scout. Paul carried his pack on one shoulder and a quiver of arrows slung over the other. The boy leaned on his unstrung bow and yawned. “Must all adventures start at dawn?” he complained. “Has anyone ever tried setting out at noon?”

  Finn let out an exasperated sigh. The scout leader had taken it upon himself to get Paul here promptly, and Finn’s wake-up calls were anything but gentle.

  “I want to cover as much ground as possible before evening,” said Lukas. “And, by the way,” he added in a whisper, “what are all these people doing here at the start of our secret mission?”

  Paul shrugged, and glanced at the crowd, unconcerned. “I don’t know. Admiring the dawn?”

  Lukas scowled as he hefted up his own heavy pack and did a quick inventory of their gear. He’d wanted to travel light, but he’d had to pack for Max and her brother as well. They wouldn’t have known what to bring out into the wild.

  “I’ve sent Tomas to fetch the newcomers,” said Finn. “And to deliver the…items you requested.” The scout’s mouth turned at the word. Lukas knew what Finn must think of giving weapons away, especially to a girl, but a deal was a deal.

  “Thank you,” said Lukas. “And, since you will be Eldest Boy in my absence, I want you to have this.”

  He unbuckled the sword from around his waist, but Finn reached out his hand to stop him. “That belongs to you,” said Finn.

  “It’s the Sword of the Eldest Boy,” said Lukas. “While I’m gone, that’s you.”

  “You’re traveling the Peddler’s Road, not storming the rat king’s tunnels, for goodness’ sake!” said Finn.

  But Lukas and Finn both knew that traveling the Peddler’s Road was no simple journey. The only creature on the Summer Isle entirely safe on the road was the Peddler himself. No one knew what dangers might be encountered along the way, though Lukas didn’t think it wise to say that out loud. Not with so many ears listening.

  “This isn’t a request,” said Lukas. “It’s an order. My last one until I get back.”

  Reluctantly, Finn took the sword. He made a sour face as he tested the weight. Lukas knew the feeling. “I’m even worse with a sword than you are, you know,” said Finn. “Just as likely cut my own head off as any rat’s.”

  “Then you’d better practice,” said Lukas. One of the other boys of the Watch handed Lukas a long-handled hatchet with an iron-banded blade. A hatchet was better for a long journey, anyhow. Hopefully, he’d only need it to cut firewood.

  He’d just finished sliding the hatchet into his belt when Paul gave a quick warning cough. All eyes had turned to watch a small group making its way through the crowd. Max and Carter were walking side by side, the boy’s face looking bright and cheerful, in contrast to his sister’s, which was as sunny as a rain cloud. People were whispering because of the armored vest of thick leather Max wore and the spear balanced against her shoulder. The armor and the weapon were marks of the Watch; they belonged to the Watch, and no girl in the history of New Hamelin had ever been allowed to carry them before. But again, a deal was a deal.

  Carter had been given a hooded traveling cloak treated with oil to keep the rain off and his own small backpack. He carried a stout walking stick to lean on and wore a little knife tucked into his belt. The boy had wanted a spear as well, but both Lukas and Max had refused to let him have one. The whole point was to keep Carter away from any fighting, and not just because of Lukas’s promise—Carter was the last son of New Hamelin, and if the prophecy was to be believed, then the future of the whole village might hinge on his safety.

  But it wasn’t the appearance of Max and Carter that alarmed Lukas. It was Emilie, standing behind them and dressed in her own traveling cloak and pack. Where did she think she was going?

  Lukas strode up to them, Paul frowning at his heels. “I see you two are ready for the road,” he said, with a forced smile. “And, Emilie, are you planning to walk with us a ways to see us off?”

  Emilie adjusted her pack, awkwardly, and planted her own walking stick firmly into the ground. “I’m coming with—”
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  “Don’t say it.”

  She arched an eyebrow at him before completing her sentence, slowly and deliberately. Emilie did not like to be interrupted. “I’m coming with you.”

  “Emilie, this is not the time for stubborn-headed nonsense,” whispered Lukas, and Paul let out an impressed whistle. Lukas had just called the Eldest Girl of the village stubborn-headed, but he didn’t care. She was not going on this journey.

  Emilie seemed to take the insult in stride and simply smoothed her cloak around her shoulders. “Since when did the Eldest Boy get to tell the Eldest Girl what to do?” she asked innocently.

  “I’m in charge of the defense of this village,” said Lukas.

  “But this isn’t a matter of defense,” countered Emilie. “If I wanted to patrol the gate or hold a spear,” she said, giving Max a sidelong glance, “you would be well within your right to forbid it. But this is an expedition outside the walls of our village, and there your authority ends. I’m going, too.”

  “And who will be Eldest Girl while you’re gone?”

  “Laura is the next oldest and is perfectly capable of handling things while I’m away, just as Finn will make a fine Eldest Boy in your absence.”

  “Look,” said Lukas. “You’ve made your point. I know how you feel about Max holding that spear but this—”

  “Do you really think me so petty?” said Emilie, and now her calm shell finally started to crack. “I am the Eldest Girl, and I have been since the first night, Lukas. The very first! I go where I please. Now lead on or stand aside. We’re getting a late enough start as it is.”

  Paul let out another low whistle.

  “And as for you, Paul,” she said wheeling on the smirking boy. “My authority as Eldest Girl still stands so long as we are inside this village, so wipe that idiot grin off your face right now or I will switch your bottom red, here in front of everyone.”

  For once Paul made the smart choice, and his smile vanished. “Right. Sorry,” he said, clearing his throat.

  Lukas looked to Finn for help, but there was none to be found. Finn, indeed all the boys of the Watch, were studiously avoiding his gaze. Some had developed the sudden need to inspect their weapons while others just stared blankly at the dirt. He knew that any one of them would take a rat’s dagger for their captain, but no one was willing to cross Emilie.

  Max and Carter said nothing, although Max was wearing a curious expression. Was that satisfaction? She couldn’t actually be pleased that Emilie wanted to go with them—the two girls had been at each other the wrong way since Max had arrived. But short of physically carrying Emilie back and locking her inside (which Lukas briefly considered), there was nothing he could do to prevent her from going with them. The best he could hope for was that she might come to her senses before they got too far for her to turn around.

  “Fine,” he said, turning his back to her. “I hope you packed your own food.”

  Lukas gave the signal, and the front gate groaned as it swung slowly open. Beyond, the Peddler’s Road looked innocent and inviting. Just an ordinary road under a light morning mist. A pair of crows alighted on the gate, cocking their heads at the adventuring party.

  “I wonder what they think about all this?” said Paul, glancing up at the black birds. “Probably going to have a good laugh at our expense.”

  “They’re waiting for us to join arms and sing ‘We’re Off to See the Wizard,’ ” answered Max, but Lukas didn’t have a chance to ask what she meant. Someone in the crowd was waving to him. A skinny plank of a boy was being helped along by two girls. But his cheeks were pink, and his eyes were clear, and the boy smiled at Lukas as he waved.

  “Pidge,” said Lukas. The boy was now up and about and recovering from his wounds. It was as good a sign as they were going to get.

  And with that, the morning’s gray thoughts, his doubts and his frustration with Emilie and his worries about what lay ahead, all vanished. The sun was up. Pidge was well again, and the journey before them felt a little less daunting than it had just a moment ago.

  The rat known as Wormling had one talent that had kept him alive all these years. He wasn’t large, nor was he fast or even particularly bright. But he’d reached an advanced age nearly unheard of among his kind because of a talent that had saved his tail time and again. It had gone so far as to make him valuable.

  He was a good listener.

  Not a listener in the sense that he was any kind of conversationalist; much the opposite. No one wanted to talk to Wormling for any length of time, not unless they wanted to hear about how many grubs he’d managed to squash with a stone that morning, or how many fleas he’d nibbled out of his fur the day before (old Wormling’s hobbies were few, and all of them terribly dull).

  No. No one wanted to talk to Wormling unless they needed information, unless he’d listened to something valuable being said. And this morning he’d definitely listened to something very valuable.

  The two burly biters guarding the entrance to the mountain tunnel hissed at him as he slinked toward them. These two rats went by the names Spitter and Whiptail. Both were unpredictable brutes and bullies, and if Wormling didn’t want his tail chewed off, he would need to be careful around them. So, as the old rat approached the tunnel to the main nest, he kept his ears flat against his head and his body low to the ground. Better to be submissive and let them know they were boss, at least for now, and keep his tail intact.

  “What are you doing here?” snarled Spitter. “No mangy old flea sacks allowed near the females. Don’t want the does to have to smell your stink.”

  “I’m delivering news,” said Wormling. “Only news.”

  “Wait,” said Whiptail. “I know you. You’re that runt of a grub eater that sneaks around aboveground all day long. What is it they call you? Weirdling?”

  “W-Wormling. They call me Wormling.”

  The rat barked out a harsh laugh. “Even better.”

  His partner bent down low and took one of Wormling’s ears between his clawed fingers and gave it a harsh twist, causing the old rat to whimper. “What business do you have being aboveground all the time, anyway? You like being sunblind? You like smelling the flowers, is that it?”

  “King Marrow orders it,” said Wormling. At the mention of their leader’s name, there was a change in the rat guards’ breathing. It was subtle, but Wormling heard it. He’d been listening for it, and it sounded like fear.

  “Maybe you tell me what Marrow has you doing up there and I’ll let you keep this ear of yours, eh?” said Spitter, but then Whiptail rounded on him and slapped his companion across the snout with his tail. Fast as a whipcrack—Wormling could never have moved like that.

  “Blast it!” cried Spitter, rubbing his snout. “What’d you do that for?”

  “King Marrow’s business is his own,” snarled Whiptail. “You hear that, Wormling?” The big rat said Wormling’s name with outright disgust. “We are minding our own here. You tell Marrow that when you see him. Pair of loyal rats, we are.”

  Then Whiptail shoved Wormling through the entrance and into the rat king’s tunnel. Wormling stumbled and skinned himself against the rocky ground, but it was nice and dark down here and such a relief not to have to squint against the constant sunlight. The air was cool and moist, and the smell of rotting things made the rat hungry. Tunnel life seemed so luxurious to a poor creature like Wormling, who was used to very little.

  It wouldn’t do to linger here, though. Marrow would want Wormling’s news as soon as possible, and yet Wormling did not press on right away. He made sure he was out of sight of the two guards, then crouched low against the tunnel’s dirt wall and listened.

  After a few minutes he heard one of them speak. It was in a low whisper, but Wormling’s ears were very good.

  “What’d you do that for, anyway?” Spitter was saying. “I should’ve twisted your ear off for that slap.”

  “And you’re a flea-brained fool,” answered Whiptail. “That was Wormling, and wha
tever is said around Wormling always finds its way back to Marrow.”

  “What’d I say?”

  “You were asking Marrow’s business. The rat king keeps his business to himself, and those who go snooping find their tails chewed or worse.”

  “Bah,” said Spitter. “Did you get a good look at Marrow the other night? He came back from New Hamelin in bad shape. All burned up, he was. Blind in one eye, they say. Not going to be running this nest much longer, not with wounds like that.”

  “Maybe,” said Whiptail, sounding uncertain. That was foolish, thought Wormling. The rat would be better off defending their king. Much better off.

  “I’m telling you,” said Spitter. “Marrow will round a corner one of these days with that bad eye of his, and he won’t see what’s waiting there for him. Who is waiting there for him. There’ll be a new king then, and he who’s strong enough to take it can get all the food and all the does he wants.”

  “Well, I’m strong enough,” said Whiptail. “But I’m not stupid enough. Marrow’s a born killer, one eye or no. Still, I wouldn’t mind seeing someone else try him. Wouldn’t mind seeing that at all.”

  Wormling had listened to all that needed listening to. Slowly, quietly, he crept away. He’d heard that kind of talk many times before and usually paid it no mind. Rats said things when they were around other rats. Things they didn’t really mean. Boasting, bragging. Empty threats. It was harmless talk to pass the time, and Wormling understood that. Usually.

  Wormling knew he was getting close to the king’s nest because he could smell the does, and something new—the scent of cooked fur.