The Monster in the Hollows

by Andrew Peterson

“Don’t look so happy.” Janner smacked Kalmar’s hand away. “Those kids are bigger than you, and they’d love to punch a Grey Fang in the face.”

  “Ah. They’re too slow.”

  “We’ll see,” Janner said. He dreaded the class, but he was glad Kalmar seemed like his usual scrappy self. Janner hoped he would stay that way. He couldn’t read Kal’s face anymore, so it troubled him when his brother was quiet. Deep down he feared that one day Kalmar would look at him with eyes that were no longer blue, but yellow and wild. If a punching class kept the quiet Kalmar away, then fine. Janner was willing to take a punch in the face.

  Somewhere a horn blew. The runners and racers and blockers and wrestlers on the field cheered and ran toward a long, low building.

  “That’s the horn for lunch,” said the guildmadam. “The tour’s over. Where would you boys like to begin? In the morning you’ll have two hours in Lectures and Learning, followed by two hours on the field. After lunch you’ll spend the rest of the afternoon in your chosen guild.”

  “Bookbindery,” said Janner. His first choice would have been the sailery, but he was happy to wait till he was older if it meant he could spend his afternoons with books.

  Kalmar hesitated.

  “Son?” Nia said.

  “Me too.” He smiled at Janner. “Bookbindery. I want to go where Janner goes. If that’s all right.”

  “No, it isn’t.” Nia assumed her motherly, no-nonsense tone. “I think we both know you don’t care a squawk about bookbinding. You’re going to have to choose something you’re truly interested in or the guildmaster will make you miserable. They can tell when you’re wasting their time. What do youwant to do?”

  “Well,” he said, casting a glance at the field, “can I do that stuff? The racing and the—the punching?”

  “There’s plenty of time for that during field training,” said Nia. “Two hours before lunch every day. You need to choose a guild, something that will put your skills to good use.”

  “But I don’t have any skills. Not like Janner. Is there a drawing guild?”

  “No, but your T.H.A.G.S. training will be to your advantage in any number of guilds—like the woodwrightery.”

  Kalmar didn’t look excited about wood.

  “What are your skills, boy?” Olumphia said, growing impatient. “You must be good at something.”

  “I’m fast. I can shoot a bow.”

  Kalmarwas fast. And he could out-shoot Janner and Podo both at archery. Janner had a hard time imagining his little brother sitting still long enough to enjoy binding a book or building a wagon.

  “Thereis another option,” Olumphia said thoughtfully, appraising Kalmar from head to foot in a new light.

  “No,” Nia said. “He’s too young.”

  “I’m the Head Guildmadam, remember? I can make arrangements. They’ll allow it if I approve.”

  “That’s not what I mean, Olumphia. He’s going to have a hard enough time with students his own age. They’ll all be older.” Nia took Olumphia’s elbow and gave her a firm look. “And meaner.”

  Guildmadam Groundwich ignored her and bent low to look Kalmar in the eye. “Lad, there’s a guild like the one you’re asking about. But it’s usually reserved for older students. How old are you?”

  “Eleven.”

  “You’ll be in a class with thirteen-year-olds. Boys and girls two feet taller than you. Are you sure?”

  Kalmar didn’t look sure, but he said, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Kalmar, you’ll be hurt,” Nia said.

  “If what Grandpa says is true, I’m going to get hurt anyway, right?”

  Nia had no answer, so Olumphia spoke.

  “Oy. You’re going to get hurt. But at least this way you’ll know how to defend yourself. You’ll learn to sneak too. The Durgan Guild is for spies and fighters. If your mother will allow it, I’ll allow it.”

  Kalmar implored Nia with his eyes.

  Finally, Nia sighed and said, “Fine.”

  Kalmar let out a yip of excitement.

  Janner thought he was out of his mind. Hollish children were tall and strong and used to fighting. Two hours on the field every day was going to be scary enough.

  Bookbinding, on the other hand, sounded wonderful. Besides, the children who chose bookbinding as a guild would probably be readers and book lovers too, which meant that for the first time Janner would have someone to talk to about books (someone other than Oskar N. Reteep, anyway). The thought came to Janner for the first time since they had arrived in the Green Hollows that he might make friends—real friends, not like the Blaggus boys in Glipwood, who were only good for a laugh and a game of zibzy. Friends he could read with, and write with, and talk with, friends he would still know when he was a grownup, like Nia and Olumphia, or Podo and Buzzard Willie. Janner couldn’t wait for bookbinding.

  “You may join the Durgan Guild,” Nia said, holding up a finger. “But on one condition.” She looked at Janner.

  Janner looked back for a moment, uncomprehending. Then his eyes widened and an angry heat rose in his chest. He took a step back. “You can’t be serious.”

  Nia didn’t look surprised at his outburst.

  Janner wheeled on Kalmar. “Why couldn’t you just pick a normal guild? What’s so wrong with the juicery? Or the cookery! You could eat all day and never get punchedonce!”

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  “You never mean to.” Janner folded his arms and turned away.

  “Janner, listen,” Nia said gently, “the more I think about it the more I think Olumphia’s right. It would be good for your brother to be in the Durgan guild. If he’s going to earn the respect and trust of the Hollish people, this might be the best way to do it.”

  “But why does it always feel like the world spins aroundhim?” Janner was dimly aware that he was throwing a fit and making a fool of himself, but he didn’t care. “Why can’t he go off and get beaten up without me?”

  “Because he’s going to need you. If he were in the cookery he’d be fine. But the Durgan Guild is another matter.”

  “What aboutme?” Janner jabbed his own chest and glared at his mother.

  “You’re the Throne Warden,” she said.

  Janner rolled his eyes. He didn’t want to be the Throne Warden right now. He wanted to be a kid with a book under a tree, or on a boat in the harbor. He wanted to stomp down the stairs and run till he couldn’t run any more. And hedidn’t want to learn to fight, especially if it meant being thrown into a class of cruel thirteen-year-olds. He had had enough of fighting in the Fork Factory.

  “But I don’t want to be the Throne Warden,” Janner said with all the bitterness he could muster.

  “I understand,” Nia said. Janner had planned to send her over the edge with that comment, but she didn’t seem surprised. “Sometimes I don’t want to be the queen. But what I want doesn’t change what I am. You’re the Throne Warden. I’m your mother. Kalmar is your brother. All your anger can’t change those facts.”

  “Janner, I don’t mind the bookbindery,” Kalmar said. “Or the cookery. I’d love to learn to cook. Let’s just forget the whole Durgan Guild thing.”

  Janner stared into the distance and clenched his jaw.

  He tried not to, but he couldn’t help picturing Uncle Artham looking down at him with disappointment. Janner hated to admit it, but he knew the right thing was to protect his brother—not just from the students at the Guildling Hall but from Fangs and bomnubbles and even Gnag the Nameless—and learning to be a warrior spy was sure to be a bigger help than learning to cook or bind books.

  Janner’s heart was still hard and hot, but he sighed and said, “Fine.”

  Olumphia cleared her throat. “Oy! I’m glad that’s all worked out. Let’s eat.”

  20

  The Durgan Guild

  The Jewels of Anniera sat at a table with their mother and Guildmadam Groundwich and ate a lunch of smoked henmeat on brownbread. The hall was long with a low ceiling and many wi
ndows. A table at the front bore several platters of henmeat along with totatoes and apples, and beside the platters were piles of crispy loaves of bread.

  The line of guildlings had dwindled to just a few by the time the Wingfeathers arrived, which meant that everyone in the room watched them enter, get their food, and follow Guildmadam Groundwich to an empty table. Thorn O’Sally had already brought Leeli from the houndry and even got her a plate of food before swaggering off to eat with his friends.

  Janner was so irritated he hardly noticed the students watching his brother’s every move. Nia and Olumphia chattered about old times while the children ate in silence. Leeli could tell Janner was upset, so she restrained her glee about the houndry.

  When the plates were clean and a horn blew, the students filed out of the dining hall and went to their guilds. Nia hugged each of the children, told them she’d pick them up in a few hours, and left. Head Guildmadam Groundwich turned to them and smiled. Janner tried to convince himself that nothing bad was going to happen.

  “Well, my new guildlings,” Olumphia said, wiping the crumbs from the whiskers around her mouth, “the time has come.”

  She led them back toward the houndry in silence.

  “Leeli, Guildmaster O’Sally is expecting you for your first afternoon in the Houndry Guild,” Olumphia said as they approached the door. “You’ll be here for the rest of the day with a class full of guildlings. I’ve asked O’Sally to keep watch over you, especially in the beginning. I think you’ll like him. Biggin and his boys are strange, but they know dogs better than anyone in the city. Do as he says. Call him ‘Guildmaster O’Sally’ until he tells you otherwise. Questions?”

  Leeli shook her head and took a deep breath. She smiled at Janner and Kalmar, but Janner could tell she was nervous. He wanted to tell her to cheer up—at leastshe wasn’t about to get a pounding—but he changed his mind.

  “You’ll be fine,” Janner told her, and he gave her a quick hug. “We’ll see you in a little while.”

  Kalmar squeezed her arm and smiled, and then Leeli stepped into the houndry. She was greeted by so many dogs that she nearly fell over. The door closed on the sound of her laughter.

  The guildmadam was already striding away, and the boys ran to catch up. They followed a walkway to the edge of a flagstone courtyard, where she stopped and held out a hand for silence. Janner counted fourteen students sitting in a circle in the center of the yard, watching two other students as they tumbled about on the ground in vicious combat. A man sat among the students in the circle, pointing at the wrestlers and speaking from time to time.

  “This,” Olumphia said in a voice just above a whisper, “is the Durgan Guild. It’s the oldest of the Hollish guilds, named after Connolin Durga. Oy!” She gave the boys a meaningful look as if they should know who Connolin Durga was, but all she got were blank stares. “Pah. You mean to tell me your mother didn’t teach you any Hollish history? Well. You saw the statue in the courtyard, didn’t you? The man on the horse was Connolin Durga, one of the great warriors of our land. He drove out the ridgerunners in the Second Epoch when they invaded and set fire to the Outer Vales. They infested the Hollows like groaches, creeping into homes and barns at night to burn them and scare us away. The house fires lit the trees, and a hundred miles of orchards were consumed. Whole acres of fruit, gone! Fruit!” She looked at the boys again to be sure they appreciated the gravity of the loss. They pretended to be shocked, and she continued: “Connolin Durga was the only chief cunning enough to muster us in the chaos to defeat the ridgerunners and their allies. The Bannick Durga is named after him, as is the Finnick Durga. The Durgan Guild is a fellowship of warriors and spies.”

  “Spies?” Kalmar whispered.

  “Oy. For as long as we can remember, the ridgerunners have crept into our borders to steal fruit and animals and tools—but mainly fruit, the little swipers. They love it, and who can blame them? We actually do a bit of trading with them, under the strictest protocols, of course, and only at the border. But it seems there’s no end to their appetite for sneakery. Our Durgans counter their efforts. Now, of course, it’s more than ridgerunners we fight. It’s Fangs and the cloven too.”

  As annoyed as Janner had been, he was warming to the idea of creeping through the forests with a company of fellow watchmen, sending signals by the light of the moon and chasing ridgerunners over hill and vale.

  “That’s Guildmaster Clout.” Olumphia sniffed. “He’s a despicable man. Arrogant, short-tempered, and rude.” She glared at him for a moment and muttered, “I’d marry the old rotbag faster than I could pluck a whisker. But he acts like I don’t exist. Despicable man.”

  The guildmadam scratched at her bony jaw with one hand and twirled a lock of hair in the other. Janner imagined her as a young girl, lanky and outcast, spying on her more popular classmates from behind a hedgerow.

  “Despicable or not, he’s the finest guildmaster of Durgan technique I’ve ever seen. He’ll evaluate you for two months, and if you can pass muster, you’re in. You boys clear on that? Good.”

  Olumphia straightened and tugged at her sleeves as if to conceal her knobby wrists. She held her breath, plucked another whisker, flicked it into the bushes, and loped into the courtyard just as one of the two students in the ring got socked in the face by the other. The girl who got hit spun around once and crumpled to the ground. Olumphia crossed the courtyard with her hand extended, stepping over the groaning student without a glance.

  When Janner and Kalmar approached the circle, the guildlings backed away and flanked the guildmaster, none of them bothering to conceal the look of disgust on their faces. They scowled at Kalmar and looked ready to pounce on him.

  Janner felt his arms and shoulders tingle at the clear sense of danger. The last time he had felt his skin prickle like that was when the snickbuzzards swooped down at him and Maraly on the snowy peak of the Witch’s Nose. It took effort to stand his ground and not grab Kalmar and run.

  “Guildmadam Groundwich,” said the man in a menacing voice. “It doesn’t do to interrupt the Durgan Guild. We’ve spoken about this before. I require privacy and focus.”

  “Guildmaster Clout.” Olumphia’s dark tone equaled Clout’s, but she seemed even more threatening because she stood at least a hand taller. And she had eight whiskers. “As Head Guildmadam of this institution I reserve the right to interrupt you as often as I please. If you’d like to have a tackle and smash to sort it out, I’m ready.” She pushed up the sleeves of her dress, revealing her knobby elbows, and balled her hands into fists. When the muscles in her forearms flexed she looked like a furless bomnubble.

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Clout with a glance at his students. Janner suspected he didn’t want to lose a fight in front of his guildlings. “What can I do for you, Head Guildmadam Groundwich? I hope you haven’t come to enroll this scrawny lad and his pet.”

  The guildlings snickered. Clout hushed them with a wave of his hand.

  “I’ve come to enroll Janner and Kalmar Wingfeather in the Durgan Guild. Janner is the Throne Warden of Anniera, and Kalmar the High King. Oy, you heard me right.”

  “But they’re not old enough. If they’re thirteen years old, I’m a basket of swipple berries. I won’t allow it.”

  “They’re eleven and twelve years old, and our long alliance with the Shining Isle demands that we be willing to make an exception.”

  “They’ll be smashed up by the end of every day, Guildmadam. I don’t wish to incur the wrath of their mother.”

  “Nor their grandfather again, I’d wager,” said Olumphia with a sneer.

  “It wasn’t a fair fight,” snapped the guildmaster. “His pegleg might as well be a weapon.”

  “I only ask that you evaluate them for two months as you would any other guildling. Oy! I can tell from the older one’s scars that he’s seen more action than every one of these students. Janner, how many Fangs have you fought?”

  “Ma’am? Uh, I don’t know.” Janner was star
tled to be introduced into the conversation. “One with a sword, several with arrows. Ten, maybe?”

  Olumphia folded her arms and looked pleased at the surprise on the students’ faces. “How many Fangs have your guildlings fought?” she asked Clout.

  “You know the answer to that, Guildmadam.”

  “How many?”

  “None,” Guildmaster Clout said through his teeth. “Fine. I’ll allow the older one. But not the Fang.”

  Olumphia took a step nearer to Clout. “I forbid you to call the boy a Fang. I’ll admit, he looks it. But his eyes tell the rest of the tale. That’s no Fang. It’s the High King, and he deserves your respect. Kalmar,” she said, still holding Clout’s gaze. “How many Fangs have you killed?”

  “Twenty seven,” said Kalmar without hesitation. Janner looked at him with surprise. He knew Kalmar had shot a lot of Fangs at Miller’s Bridge, but he didn’t know he had kept count. Now the guildlings whispered among themselves. Their surprise turned to quiet excitement.

  Guildmaster Clout sighed. “I’ll evaluate them for two months. But if they’re not ready by then, that’s the end of it. I won’t coddle them just because they’re royalty. And you can’t meddle. Is that understood?”

  “Understood,” said Olumphia.

  “I wasn’t askingyou,” said Clout. He stepped away from Olumphia and towered over the Wingfeather boys. “Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” the brothers said.

  “Then it’s settled,” Olumphia said. “Janner, Kalmar, I’ll send your mother to pick you up this afternoon. Guildmaster Clout, they’re all yours.” She nodded at Clout and loped away.

  As soon as she was around the corner of the building and out of sight, Clout said, “Circle up!”

  Janner and Kalmar followed as the guildlings created a ring and sat, awaiting further instruction.

  “Brosa. Larnik,” Clout said. The two biggest boys stood. “Janner and Kalmar, isn’t it?”

  They nodded and gulped in unison.

  “Commence.” Guildmaster Clout stepped outside the circle as Brosa and Larnik, with bone-chilling growls, leapt on the Wingfeather boys and let their fists fly.