by Matthew Cody
The rats’ war chief and ruler, King Marrow, was seated on a tall-backed chair of elvish design. Wormling didn’t know how such a fine piece of furniture had found its way into Marrow’s nest, but it was said that the skull Marrow used as a footrest had belonged to the chair’s maker. Marrow was the largest rat Wormling had ever seen, maybe the largest these mountains had ever produced. He was a full head taller than the tallest New Hameliner, and he sat atop his chair like a human would, despite how uncomfortable or even painful it was for a rat to sit upright for so long. It was an unnatural posture for a rat, and yet Marrow almost always carried himself on two legs, as if he had something to prove to the New Hameliners in their village and the elves in their faraway forest: Rats could stand as tall as they, taller even. Marrow’s meanness was rivaled only by his pride, and that’s what made him such a strong leader. Many rats tried to emulate him; those two brutes Spitter and Whiptail had taken to walking upright. Not Wormling. It was safer to stay low to the ground.
But today their mighty leader looked miserable. The straw that padded the ground about him was filthy, and several does were tending to an angry red burn across Marrow’s snout. It extended up his face and over his left eye, which was swollen shut. One female tried licking the wound, but Marrow let out a yelp and snapped at her, sending her scrambling for safety behind a line of waiting human children. The children stood at attention, holding trays of food for the rat king, but they kept their eyes downcast. A slave was the one creature more wretched than Wormling, and for a slave to look a rat in the eye could earn him a whipping.
“I don’t need you worrying over me like some pink-skinned child,” Marrow growled at the does. “Fetch me cool water. Now!”
The does retreated in a hurry, not sparing Wormling so much as a glance as they fled.
“Eh?” said Marrow, sniffing the air. “Who’s that? Come closer, blast you.”
His snout pressed to the ground, Wormling crawled forward.
“Wormling,” said Marrow.
“Yes, my lord.”
“I hope you’ve brought me good news,” said Marrow. “I’m in a spiteful mood this morning.”
“I did, my lord,” said Wormling. His voice’s natural pitch was a whine that set other rats’ teeth on edge, he knew that. King Marrow flinched at it—yet another reason Wormling would have been killed long ago if not for his special talent for hearing things.
“And?”
“The crows are talking amongst themselves,” said Wormling. “They are spilling secrets.” With this, Wormling looked quizzically at the slaves. Marrow caught the old rat’s meaning.
“Slaves, leave us,” barked the rat king, and the children filed out of the king’s nest in an orderly line. If they were relieved to be away from Marrow, and Wormling was sure they were, they didn’t show it. They just walked quickly out, their heads hung low over the slave collars that they themselves had been made to forge. If Wormling had been a warmer creature, he might have pitied these captured children. It was said that Marrow sometimes took them aboveground on nights of the Winter’s Moon, just so they could see the distant lights of their home village far away. Just to remind them that they would never get closer than that, not ever again.
Marrow was cruel, even for a rat, but that’s why he was king.
After the last child had left, Marrow gestured to Wormling to come closer. “Now, tell me what you heard.”
Wormling bowed. “The crows are talking about the new children that have arrived in the village, a girl and a boy.”
“I know that!” snarled Marrow. “How do you think I got this?” he said, using a long claw to gesture to his ruined face. “Humans with their fires!”
“Of course, my lord,” said Wormling. “Forgive me, my lord. But the crows are also saying something else. They say the boy has left the village.”
Marrow’s one good eye narrowed, and he sat forward on his haunches. “They say that, do they?”
“Set out today from New Hamelin, south on the Peddler’s Road,” said Wormling. “Along with his sister and three others. Packed for a long journey, too.”
“Tell me,” said Marrow. “Did the crows see a map? Were the Hameliners following a map?”
“If so, they did not say, my lord.”
Wormling detected that an anxious note had crept into Marrow’s voice at his mention of this map. It was not something Wormling was used to hearing there, which meant it could prove to be useful in the future. Wormling was an old creature, and Marrow hadn’t been the first leader he’d served. Odds were he wouldn’t be the last, either.
Marrow was looking directly at Wormling, but he wasn’t really seeing him. The big rat’s thoughts were elsewhere. “If they follow the road, they could run into the Peddler—that old magician is always walking it—he dare not leave. We’ll need to find them first,” he was saying, mostly to himself. “We can stop them at the troll bridge.”
“Beyond the bridge, the Peddler’s Road has grown treacherous, my lord,” said Wormling. “I hear the Bonewood creeps closer every day, and the witch of that wood is always hungry.”
Marrow grunted. “If she finds the children, there won’t be anything left to deliver. We need to hurry.”
Wormling thought that last bit was interesting. Just who were they to deliver the children to? he wondered. Another thing to tuck away inside his brain for later.
“I’ll assemble a hunting party myself,” said Marrow. “And I want you to come, too, Wormling. I’ll want your ears.”
Wormling nodded. The old rat hated journeys, and this smelled like a journey. But no one dared say no to King Marrow.
“And we’ll need a few tough biters,” said Marrow, thinking out loud again. “I can pull Spitter and Whiptail off guard duty.”
“Ah, my lord?”
“You still here, Wormling?” asked Marrow. “What is it?”
“I beg your pardon,” said Wormling, and he put on his most apologetic whine, his most obsequious posture. He touched his sore ear and winced. Spitter had very nearly twisted it off. All rats talked, but they needed to be careful about what they said. And they needed to be more careful which rats they decided to bully.
“It’s about Spitter and Whiptail, my lord,” said Wormling. “I’m afraid I overheard them saying some rather unsavory things about Your Highness. Overheard by accident, of course….”
As he told his story, Wormling wondered silently to himself whether Marrow would chew off only one of Spitter’s ears or both.
It had been Tussleroot the First’s own idea to cut across the Bonewood, though he regretted such foolishness now. Thus far, the Bonewood’s fearsome appearance had matched its reputation, but Tussleroot’s lone companion, Bandybulb, was turning out to be uncommonly brave for a fellow kobold. And being a king in exile, it wouldn’t do for Tussleroot to look cowardly in front of his, as of yet, only subject.
Their intention had been to follow the Peddler’s Road until they’d crossed the Western Fork. The lands between the river and the Deep Forest had grown too wild and too dangerous for kobolds, but the Peddler’s Road would afford the two of them some protection on the journey. Wicked creatures did not like to stay on that road for long, lest they encounter the Peddler himself. The old magician wouldn’t abide rats and ogres and witches using his road, but he was always a friend to kobolds and allowed them to come and go as they pleased, with his blessing and protection.
Tussleroot should’ve stayed on the road, but the shortcut had seemed like a tantalizingly quick and easy path to their destination. The sooner the kobolds reached the Shimmering Forest, the sooner Tussleroot could establish his new kingdom. Surely, once the other kobolds of that western forest saw him, they would flock to his banner. It would make no matter that they’d never heard of Tussleroot, and so what if there had never been a single king in all of kobold history? Loyal Bandybulb would sing such praises of Tussleroot the First that all would be convinced to give him a nice castle and a crown to replace his threadba
re old hat. He might get to design his own flag.
Regardless, their old home in the midlands had grown too dangerous for a couple of fair-natured kobolds. The Princess now stayed locked in her castle, and the elves of the Deep Forest had burned all their bridges and closed their borders. Not even kobolds were welcome there anymore. It was a mean, spiteful thing for them to do, but when elves gave over to spite, they could be as fearsome as any ogres. Left unchecked by the elves, the Bonewood spread. The witch, it was said, now hunted here in the open. The rats dared to venture farther than ever, raiding and pillaging, and they grew bold enough to roam about in the daylight.
Best to pack up the kingdom (the contents of which fit snugly in a pole sack over Bandybulb’s shoulder), say goodbye to their little copse of fir trees and make for fairer lands. No corner of the Summer Isle was completely untouched by the growing wickedness, and there were certainly rat problems out west, but the Shimmering Forest was as safe a place as any.
Thanks to Tussleroot’s impatience, however, they had to make it through the Bonewood first. The forest, filled with ivory-hued trees as crooked as finger bones, had earned its name. High above, leaves the color of chalk choked out the sun, and down here, the forest floor was lightless and dreary as a grave. If Tussleroot hadn’t known better, he would have said that those trees were not wood at all, but genuine bone. But bones didn’t grow out of the earth, and bones didn’t sprout leaves. At least, they shouldn’t.
This forest was an unwholesome place that smelled of rotting vegetation and worse things. Tussleroot boasted to his good subject, Bandybulb, that he would’ve stayed and cleansed the place of evil if they hadn’t been in such a hurry. But kingly duties awaited him.
They stopped at midday for a quick rest and a meal of cold beans and hard bread. Neither wanted to linger long enough to conjure up a fire.
“My lord?” said Bandybulb. “Is this shortcut going to take much longer?”
“Not much longer,” answered Tussleroot, dubiously. “Just looking for a landmark.” The elder kobold squinted at the trees around them. “Or a road sign,” he added, under his breath.
Tussleroot chose not to acknowledge the obvious—that he’d gotten himself and his one and only subject lost. But it was the kobold’s kingly philosophy that the more one ignores a thing, the less likely it is to be true. So instead, he busied himself with picking the brambles out of his fur with a broken-toothed comb.
The dim-witted Bandybulb munched on another mouthful of beans, a thoughtful expression on his face. An expression, suspected Tussleroot, that could only be for show.
“Do you think the stories are true, sire?”
“Hmm?” said Tussleroot. “What stories, good Bandybulb?”
“The crow stories,” he said. “They say a boy and a girl have been found by the New Hameliners.”
“You believe everything the crows tell you?” asked Tussleroot.
“Well, no, sire.”
“And what do they say about Tussleroot the Magnificent, eh?” said Tussleroot. “You think Tussleroot cannot hear the crows’ laughter as he passes by? You think that he does not know what they call him?”
“A knobby little potato with a hat for a crown and a dolt for a subject?”
Tussleroot smiled and patted the little kobold’s cheek. “But a loyal dolt, Bandybulb. A loyal dolt.”
“Yes, sire,” said Bandybulb. “I know the crows are mostly full of stuff and nonsense….”
“Utter nonsense. Tussleroot is clearly radish-shaped! Not like a potato at all.”
“But they say a black tower has appeared in the north,” persisted Bandybulb. “And now there are the new children—maybe the last ones. And they talk of the Piper. Ominous events, sire, if they’re true.”
Tussleroot stopped trying to untangle his matted fur and looked squarely at his subject. “If the crows speak truth, they still talk of things that do not concern us kobolds. You’re too young to remember, but the Piper was locked away ages ago, and even before that, he took little interest in our kind. Were he free and up to mischief, then I reckon the Peddler and the Princess would deal with him, like they did the last time. Let the magicians sort it all out between themselves and let Tussleroot rule his people, er, person, in peace.”
Satisfied that he’d just given a very kingly speech indeed, Tussleroot ordered Bandybulb to pack up their things. The shadows were getting long, and they’d overstayed their welcome in the Bonewood as it was.
The two hadn’t marched much farther before they began to hear the sounds of distant crashes, like trees falling atop one another. Bandybulb scanned the trees with wide, frightened eyes. “Ogres?” he whispered.
“Most likely,” said Tussleroot. “They wrestle each other for sport. But we will be safe as long as we move quietly and stay close to the ground. Ogres have trouble seeing below their fat bellies.” Of course, an ogre could always step on you by accident, but Tussleroot saw no need to tell Bandybulb that.
They crept farther and farther through the forest. Tussleroot kept hoping that they would spot the Peddler’s Road through the branches, yet all they saw were more and more skeletal trees. All the while, the smashing grew louder and closer. It seemed to be following them. If it really was wrestling ogres, they wouldn’t follow a couple of little kobolds. They wouldn’t even know how.
At Tussleroot’s urging, they picked up their pace. No need to be quiet anymore, not with the racket of falling trees crashing around them. All there was left to do was to run.
As the two kobolds broke through a patch of thornbushes, they saw it—the trees thinning up ahead and, beyond, a long stretch of open road. It was within sight—if only the two could make it there in time.
Then a shadow passed over their heads as something massive stepped over them. A giant foot, clawed and four-toed like a chicken’s, placed itself in their path. Another foot landed behind them, and atop those two enormous feet were legs as tall as trees. And atop them, there rested a dingy old hut. Skulls dangled from the hut’s roof like wind chimes, and a noxious green smoke poured forth from a squat chimney. Tussleroot threw himself to the ground and scrambled inside a hollow rotted log. If there was one thing kobolds were, they were good hiders.
“Bandybulb!” Tussleroot whispered, looking around for his companion. But then he heard the kobold shouting. Tussleroot poked his head out of the log and saw his subject, loyal, half-brained Bandybulb, brandishing a stick in both hands like a sword and charging at the giant clawed foot.
“I will defend you, sire!” the little kobold was shouting. “Long live the—”
The kobold’s words were lost as the second foot reached forward and plucked up Bandybulb between its toes. The foot lifted him high into the air, and in the storm of falling dirt and leaves, Tussleroot was forced to look away.
Then a high-pitched cackle, a laugh of obscene delight, rang forth from inside the hut, and the monstrous thing turned and stomped away, horrible chicken legs and all. It disappeared into the Bonewood.
Tussleroot cowered there in his hiding spot for what seemed like hours, looking for the courage to move again. Slowly he crawled along the forest floor until he was back on the road, back to safety. There was no sign of Bandybulb, and Tussleroot hadn’t bothered to search the broken trees for the poor kobold. He knew where Bandybulb had been taken, and he knew what sort of creature had taken him.
So Tussleroot the First, the king without a kingdom, fled the forest of witches and ogres and made for safer lands. Alone.
The morning’s journey started out well. Although the Peddler’s Road led through the Shimmering Forest, the path was wide, and mostly clear of overhanging branches. It was as if the trees of the forest were keeping a respectful distance from the magician’s road. From what Carter could see of the wood, it looked pleasant enough, though Paul assured him that there were dangers even in a relatively friendly forest such as this. The shimmering lights that gave the forest its name could lead unwary travelers astray, he cautioned, and
a person could get lost for days or longer. But here on the road, Carter and his friends were safe, and the sky above was a startling blue, and the bright sun banished the drifting fairy lights to seek the shade of deeper parts of the forest.
By midday, Carter’s stomach was rumbling like thunder and his leg ached terribly. Lukas had called for them to slow their pace several times, but Carter had always protested. He was as fit for this journey as any of them. He’d prove it.
Carter had never been what one might call an outdoor kid. It was easier in many ways to live in the pixilated world of computers and the magical forests of role-playing games than to endure the chiggers, hay fever and mosquito bites that came with real-world nature. That, and it was easier to go hiking when you didn’t need someone to hold your hand so you didn’t trip on the trail. No, Carter’s own forests were limited only by his own imagination, and in those fantasies he was as strong and as fast as anybody. Faster even. The trees could be bright purple and seventy feet tall, and Carter could be a level-eighteen paladin in full plate armor, wielding a +10 broadsword of fire, all the while sitting in his room with the thermostat set to a comfortable seventy-two degrees.
Here on the Summer Isle, things were different. Although he certainly wasn’t dressed in plate armor, wearing a cloak around his neck and a knife at his belt did make him feel like an adventurer. This wasn’t camp or some boring nature walk. Yes, he already had blisters, and he’d hiked half the day with a stitch in his side. And though there weren’t any mosquitoes that he could see, they were occasionally ambushed by these little green-winged moths that wanted nothing better than to fly up your nose.
Yet Carter couldn’t remember a time when he’d been happier. He was on a quest. An actual quest, with a brave band of heroes set out to save the kingdom. Or a group of kids set out to save the village, at least. It was still the stuff of daydreams, and he was glad that Max could be here to share in this one. If she’d only let herself enjoy it a little.
