The Battle of the Werepenguins

by Allan Woodrow

  But Bolt couldn’t dwell on his relief. Grom coughed, and blood splattered onto Bolt’s shirt. “You know, I really don’t dislike you. I was just saying that,” said Grom, and then he collapsed into Bolt’s arms. He was still breathing and reopened his eyes. “Sorry. I feel so weak.”

  A short series of explosions rumbled the ground, and a few metal shards flew into the air and landed near them.

  “We best get out of here,” said Blackburn.

  Grom’s eyes barely fluttered open. He wrapped his arms around Blackburn’s and Bolt’s shoulders, and they weaved their way across the rubble. Bolt bit his lips with worry every time Grom moaned, which was pretty much continually.

  “Over there,” said Grom, motioning toward a boulder. When they approached it, Bolt saw a small hole peeking out from behind it. Annika slid the rock to its side, revealing a larger entrance and a tunnel heading down into the earth below.

  “What’s down there?” Annika asked.

  “Home,” Grom mumbled.

  28.

  Another Break in the Action

  The foghorn from the ship disturbed my already disturbed thoughts. The animals were being led to their temporary homes aboard the ship—the journey would take a week, but the monkeys had video games to keep themselves busy, the rabbits had Ping-Pong tables (everyone knows rabbits are the animal kingdom’s finest Ping-Pong players, just like hippos are quite skilled at macramé, although I had accidently left the macramé sets behind, so I worried the hippos might get bored), and other animals had equally well-prepared amusements.

  The sun was still high; nighttime was far away. My previous discussions with the penguin caretaker had been in the evening and had ended at midnight. Both times, at the stroke of twelve, the man had turned into a penguin, or so I believed. I had never fully witnessed a transformation, just hints of one.

  “Why did you stop talking?” I asked as the penguin caretaker paused in his narration. “Grom is gravely injured. Our heroes are far from finding the Stranger. I am at the edge of my seat!”

  I had pulled up a chair, but the boat slightly rocked and I fell off the seat, landing on my rear on the ship’s deck. “Well, I had been on the edge of my seat.”

  “Next time, you should sit in the middle of the chair,” said the caretaker. “But why did I stop my story? I thought this would be a good time to leave our heroes and check in on the Stranger. See what he’s up to.”

  I stared at the man, my lips sputtering. It took me a second to still their sputter. “The Stranger? Who cares about him? I want to know about Bolt. Grom. The others. Are they safe? I agreed to take your penguins and all the animals to my zoo,” I reminded him, “but only if you told me the whole of your story, not a story left with mole holes.”

  “We will return to our heroes shortly, my friend. But the story is about the Stranger as well, and we have spent so little time with him. Of course, the less time spent in the company of such an evil being, the better.”

  “Just keep the next chapter brief then,” I said.

  “I’ll do my best.”

  29.

  The Stranger, Part 1

  “The Stranger sat on an ice throne in an ice cave in his home in the icy South Pole. Meanwhile, back in Pingvingrad . . .”

  “Wait,” I said, interrupting the penguin caretaker. “That’s it? That’s the entire detour to visit the Stranger?” The man nodded. “The chapter doesn’t have to be quite that short. If we’re going to stop in and see the Stranger, we might as well linger a little longer.”

  “Good,” said the man. “I hate to skip interesting backstory. We shall continue with the Stranger in Chapter Thirty.”

  30.

  The Stranger, Part 2

  The Stranger sat on an ice throne in an ice cave in his home in the icy South Pole. It had all been built by penguins and carved from glaciers. An ice throne wasn’t very comfortable; the Stranger would have liked a seat cushion, but the penguins’ attempts at carving a seat cushion had been unsuccessful. When the Stranger ruled the world, he would get a seat cushion. It was near the top of his to-do list, right after putting all humans in dungeons, and making lots of fish sticks.

  The Stranger hadn’t always been called the Stranger, but he couldn’t recall his real name. He was pretty sure it had rhymed with Tim. Or maybe Dave. Or Doug. He hadn’t used a proper name for a long time.

  Tim, or Dave, or Doug, or whatever his name was stood up from his throne, ice crystals stuck to his rear, although he barely noticed them, and walked out a back exit. He had built the exit in case of a fire, but really, how likely was a fire in an ice cave? It led to a ridge overlooking a chasm, where thousands of penguins had gathered, waiting for him.

  He looked down at them. His children. His family. Oh, how he hated them all! They looked up, ready to obey, eager to please him. They would do anything: sing, dance, juggle. Often, he just made them poke other penguins in the eye. Today he wanted them to tickle one another.

  He didn’t need to say anything. Instead, he merely thought the word: Tickle!

  And they did. Penguins rubbed their wings under wing pits, pecked the bottoms of webbed feet, and softly caressed under beaks.

  The Stranger clapped. He should probably train them to fight instead, but tickling was far more entertaining. Who needed video games, or a television, or a computer when you could order an army of penguins to tickle one another for no reason?

  But the war would start soon, and that would be just as fun. Yes, very soon.

  Or would it?

  He had felt a disturbance in Pingvingrad but had not been able to reach Dr. Walzanarz. Ashes and dust sometimes hurt his reception, but so did rain. And, of course, silver.

  And what of Bolt? Alive? Dead? He couldn’t reach the boy, either. Bolt had been getting better at keeping the Stranger out of his head, but this was different. Something had happened.

  The Stranger assumed the boy was alive and that he would eventually find his way to the South Pole. Sure, the Stranger had ordered Dr. Walzanarz to convince Bolt to join the penguin army, and if not, she was instructed to kill him, but the Stranger had never given the dentist much of a chance of succeeding at either task. It was more of a test than anything—if Bolt survived, he was the chosen one. If not, then the Stranger had been wrong.

  The Stranger thought back to when he had first learned of the chosen one. Back then, the Stranger was just your run-of-the-mill werepenguin. He had been content feeding with penguins at night and doing the occasional card tricks for them. Since he could read their minds, he could always guess what card they were holding; oh, how he amazed them! But he was also immortal, and after guessing penguin cards correctly about ten thousand times, it grew tiresome. Surely he was meant to do more than this! He had heard rumors of a fortune teller, a woman who knew all. Maybe she could give him a hint about what he was meant to be.

  He traveled a long way to see her, but see her he did.

  “Come in,” the Fortune Teller said as he peeked into her tent within her nomad caravan. She curled a finger, beckoning him to enter. “You want to know your purpose in this world, yes? Sit. And see.”

  He sat, and she laid out her tarot cards on a small table covered with a red lacy tablecloth. She flipped the first card over to reveal a picture of the moon. The card read: Night.

  She flipped a second card. It had a picture of a tornado. Power.

  She flipped a third card. The card was blood-red. The caption on the card read: You are a werepenguin and will take over the world.

  “Wow, that card is eerily specific,” said the Stranger.

  The Fortune Teller flipped over three more cards—one had a picture of a yardstick. Ruler. One showed a boy with a penguin sitting on his head. It read: Boy with a penguin on his head. The last card showed a seesaw and said, appropriately: Seesaw.

  “What do they mean?” the Stranger asked.


  “They can mean many things. One, that you enjoy measuring things, walking around with a penguin on your head, and seesaws.” The Stranger nodded. He did enjoy all those things. “Or, they could mean you are meant to rule penguins—you will wear a crown as their king—except . . .” She squinted. “No. Accept.”

  “Except or accept?” asked the Stranger. “Those are quite different words, although they sound alike.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of what a homophone is,” she said. “When placed next to the ruler and the boy-with-a-penguin card, the seesaw card means your future is unbalanced. You will rule forever! Except! Or accept.”

  “Except or accept what?” the Stranger asked, confused.

  “The boy-with-the-penguin-on-his-head card is the key. You will rule the world except there is a werepenguin boy who will defeat you. Or the boy will accept his place by your side and help you rule the world. These tarot cards are disappointingly vague and also filled with mistakes, so it’s hard to say.” She showed him a card with a disgruntled penguin on it. “See? Read this card! It is supposed to say: Beware the penguins, but instead it says: Behind the pengoes. What does that even mean?”

  When the Stranger had left the tent, he was excited but also bewildered. He would rule! He would have an ally who would accept the Stranger, or maybe except? Eventually, he settled on accept as the far more likely prediction. After all, who could ever defeat the Stranger? He was way too powerful. And when the boy joined him, the world would be theirs.

  The Stranger spent many years searching for the boy, looking for anyone born with a penguin birthmark. He had also spent that time turning others into werepenguins, like the Baron, the Earl, and Dr. Walzanarz. Any good army needed lieutenants, after all. None would be generals, however. No, that rank was the Stranger’s rank. And reserved for the boy.

  Despite traveling the world twice over, the Stranger never found the one he was searching for. But the Baron did. The Baron had always been the most powerful of the Stranger’s spawn.

  The Stranger looked down at the penguins now, tickling one another, and thought, The Stranger says stop. All the penguins stopped what they were doing. The Stranger says tickle. They tickled again. The Stranger says stop . . . The Stranger says tickle . . . Stop. Ha, ha, I didn’t say, The Stranger says.

  Such playing around had amused him once, but now it bored him. Eat dinner, he thought, and they all ran off to find fish.

  He closed his eyes and felt the penguin-verse. It had taken a long time, but he had managed to implant a nugget of hate into every penguin in the world. Most weren’t even aware of it. All he needed to do was awaken that hate nugget and they would revolt. They would take over zoos and water parks. They would invade fishing villages. They would conquer bowling alleys.

  As soon as the boy came, the war would start. The cards had foretold it.

  Or, rather, the war would start as soon as the boy came—and the other one. The three of them would rule. Two generals and one lieutenant.

  His eyes still closed, the Stranger gently reached out halfway across the world.

  Hello, Bolt.

  He waited for a response.

  Nothing.

  I said hello, Bolt.

  Again, nothing.

  Well, the boy would join the Stranger soon. And he would accept who he was, with no exceptions allowed.

  PART TWO

  The Tundra

  31.

  If You Can’t Beet ’Em . . .

  Annika sat, thinking. Bolt was a werepenguin, of course. But he was also becoming . . . something else. And that something else made her uneasy. He was prone to staring off into space, his eyes rolling into his head. It was disturbing. Bolt said he was trying to feel the penguin cosmos, whatever that was. He could sense penguins from miles away, but it was hard to do and required tremendous concentration. He admitted he still didn’t quite understand how it all worked.

  She suspected Bolt was more powerful than he realized. If he did discover all his powers, would he remain her friend or would he become just like the Stranger and want to rule them all?

  No. He was Bolt. He would always be Bolt. It was silly of her to think otherwise.

  It had been three days since they had first come to this underground burrow by wandering through its confusing tunnel system. Grom had been half-conscious, but just awake enough to direct them. Bandits created tunnels in Brugaria—tunnels were helpful for sneaking about and escaping from trouble—but these tunnels were far more intricate than any Annika had seen. When she got back home maybe she would improve the bandit tunnel system.

  If she got home.

  No, when she got home. I have to remain positive, Annika thought.

  But for now, she sat on a sofa in a surprisingly comfortable underground apartment. The apartment wasn’t all that different from a regular apartment, except for some distinctive differences. There were no windows. The lights were dim; moles don’t like bright lights. There was a large tree trunk in the middle of the apartment—“to sharpen our claws,” Zemya had explained. And the entire apartment smelled like nail polish—these mole creatures were serious about their nails. Oh, and there was hair everywhere, too. Moles shed a lot.

  But the people were odder than the room. They were friendly enough—well, all but the man Topo, who kept threatening everyone with a pair of floppy rubber scissors—but their large pink noses and constantly chattering buckteeth were hard to look past. They had offered Annika one of their black robes to wear, but she preferred to keep her regular bandit clothes on, even if they smelled like fish and needed washing.

  Because Annika and Blackburn had helped save Grom and destroy the fortress, they both were named honorary moles. Apparently, it was a big honor. Some of the perks, such as free earthworms, didn’t seem particularly helpful. But others, like “we won’t kill you,” were appreciated.

  Annika felt a small cut just over her lip. It would be gone in a few days, just like most of her remaining cuts and bruises, which had been carefully cared for and bandaged by Zemya. Blackburn’s wounds were healing as well. But Grom had been injured much worse.

  Annika didn’t know Grom at all, but he had saved Bolt’s life. He had probably saved all of their lives. She hoped he would survive; they said it was a miracle he was still alive.

  Blackburn emerged from the kitchen with Zemya. He had been spending nearly all his time with her, much of it in the kitchen. They made an odd couple—a pirate and a were-mole—but somehow it seemed to work.

  Blackburn approached Annika holding a bowl, a spoon, and a big smile. “Borscht?” he asked. “I brought ye breakfast, missy.”

  “Thanks,” said Annika. She was so hungry she didn’t even argue about Blackburn calling her missy. She slurped up some broth. “It’s delicious.”

  “Aye, Zemya is a marvelous chef, as long as you like beets. And worms. On the seven seas we ate plenty of grub, but we never actually ate grubs. Who knew they could be so tasty?” He flashed Zemya a thankful grin, and the woman blushed, her pink nose turning a deep maroon.

  Were they holding hands? Annika squirmed uncomfortably.

  “A pirate like me could spend the rest of his days eatin’ your borscht and worms,” Blackburn cooed to Zemya. Annika continued to squirm.

  “We have some leftover beets,” said Zemya, smiling shyly. “Would you care to help me make some roasted beet juice and snail tarts?”

  “Sounds delicious!” said Blackburn. “And I can show you how to make grog.” He held out his arm. Zemya hooked it with hers, and they strolled back to the kitchen. Annika, who couldn’t squirm any more than she was already, turned away so she wouldn’t have to watch them.

  At once, the front door to the apartment banged open and Bolt entered, panting. Annika popped open her eyes. He had been gone since the night before, feeding in the sea. He said that penguins weren’t meant to be underground. Then again, neither
were bandits.

  “How’s Grom?” Bolt asked.

  “Zemya says his fate is in the hands of the great moles in the sky,” said Annika. “I’m not really sure what that means, but it doesn’t sound good.”

  Bolt stayed by the door. He couldn’t stop bouncing his legs. He glanced behind him, as if he was expecting someone to enter the room. “We have the tooth,” he said, breathing hard. “We should leave and finish our quest. Find the Stranger.”

  “Maybe in a few more days?” Living in an underground mole hole wasn’t a great life, but at least they were safe from harm here. Most importantly, Bolt was safe. She cared more about his safety than her own—as the world’s greatest bandit she could take care of herself. But Bolt was, well, he was Bolt. Even with his growing penguin powers, she worried for him.

  Staying here in the hole, he would be fine. Just another week, she thought. Or two weeks. Two weeks where we don’t have to face any threats for a while.

  Annika had to admit that although she was daring and fearless, the Stranger scared her. Not that she would ever tell anyone that.

  “No. We should go,” said Bolt, glancing back at the door, legs bouncing more violently. “Now.”

  “What’s the rush?” You’re safe here. “And why is your leg bouncing so much?”

  Was that sweat dripping from his forehead? “Just anxious, maybe?” he said.

  “Do you even know where we’re supposed to go?” Annika asked. Laughter trickled out from the kitchen, and the pirate cried out “Borscht!” at least twice. “And I’m not sure if Blackburn will be so eager to leave.”

  “Look. We really need to go. Now or . . .”

  Bolt’s words were interrupted from shouts outside the room. Yells and commotion. The sound of glass breaking. Penguin barks. Bolt stared at the closed door. His legs quivered. “Too late,” he groaned.