The Warden and the Wolf King

by Andrew Peterson

  “Ask for Gravin McKeeth, Chief of Ban Soran.” Rudric put a hand on Kal’s shoulder. “They’re the best archers in the Hollows. He’ll know what to do. Ready?”

  Kal grinned, and for once he didn’t mind that his fangs were showing. At last, here was something he could do—something he wasmade to do. To sneak, to run, to carry a simple message. This was so much better than meetings and processions and tributes.

  “Let’s go, lad,” said Rudric as he ducked out of the cell. “Clout, give us a minute, then make some noise at the main door.”

  “I love you,” Nia said, grabbing Kalmar’s hand. “Please come back alive.”

  “I will,” he said, his smile fading. He had a strange feeling that he wouldn’t see her again for a long time. Nia slid to the floor and sat with her face in her hands, murmuring prayers. “Leeli, now might be a good time to play one of your songs,” Kalmar said. “Mama needs it.”

  Rudric grabbed a lantern and led Kalmar through the corridors, past Hollowsfolk who watched him with respectful silence, as if word of his mission had already spread. Rudric turned left, into a narrow passage that led to a stair. The Keeper of the Hollows held his lantern high so that Kalmar could see at the top of the stone steps a square trapdoor set at an angle and secured with a lock. Rudric removed an iron key from his belt.

  “Ready?” he said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  In a swift motion, Rudric turned the key and heaved open the door. Snow and light fell into the passageway.

  “Go, lad! Hurry!”

  Kalmar leapt into the light. His wolf ears heard the stirring sound of Leeli’s whistleharp dancing faintly out of the dungeon: a battle song, urging him onward to great deeds.

  11

  Smells and Sounds and Squealings

  Kalmar stood knee deep in a drift of snow, his back against the rugged stone of the Great Hall. In the summer the rear of the structure was a shady stand of fat redroot trees, which would have provided the perfect cover. But, now the only thing between Kalmar and the gray sky was a tangle of bare branches, and above those—a black, wheeling cloud of Bat Fangs. There were thousands. They screeched, they called to one another in shrieking voices, they waved swords, and they swooped earthward, out of sight below the trees and rooftops. Kalmar knew by the screaming that they were swooping at Hollowsfolk in the streets.

  He had to hurry. The sooner he mustered reinforcements the sooner they could start saving lives. It was as easy as that. But what had sounded so simple while hidden in the dungeon seemed impossible now that he was outside and in plain sight—or was he? Bats were more or less blind. Everyone knew that. Maybe Bat Fangs were too, and maybe getting away was more a matter of silence than of concealment.

  Rudric peeked out of the trap door. “Maker help you, lad.”

  Kalmar pointed at the sky. “He already has.” Among the hundreds of wings, he saw a few dangling legs. The Bat Fangs were carrying Grey Fangs and dropping them into the city. Ground troops. “Now I won’t be the only wolf.”

  “It’s a bad day in the Hollows when Grey Fangs dropping from the sky is a good thing,” Rudric said. “Now, go. Our people need you.”

  The door shut quietly and Kalmar heard the lock click into place. He scooped some snow onto the door to hide it, then crouched low and looked for the best route. There was a fence about an arrow shot away, beyond the grove. Past the fence and a short jog down the slope a small stone pump house stood like a sentry in the snow. He would make it that far and figure out what to do next. Janner would probably demand that he come up with a plan first, but planning had never been Kalmar’s strongest trait.

  “Who needs a plan?” he said under his breath. Then he bounded forward and ran with all his might. He hardly noticed that he was smiling with his tongue dangling out of the side of his mouth.

  Kalmar leapt the fence, raced to the pump house, and slid to a stop. He held still, all his senses tingling. Through the squealing of Bat Fangs he could hear the clash of swords from lower Ban Rona, a dog growling, a woman—probably a mother—calling for someone named Fisher, and, faintly, a baby’s cry. He heard more than that, and found that he could attend to the sounds one at a time as if he were looking at the details of a painting. He heard the bark of Grey Fangs shouting orders and laughing, and he could make out what the bats were saying high above him:

  “—we need to get into that dungeon—”

  “—there are archers in that house. Kill them—”

  “—are the Wingfeathers in the keep? Did you hear the third one?”

  So they suspected Janner wasn’t with them. But theydidn’t know Kal had slipped out of the Keep. His nose twitched with the onslaught of bitter, rotten smells. The Grey Fangs stank, but these Bat Fangs smelled worse somehow; they had a sharper odor that made his snout curl. After a few moments, he found that he could distinguish between the Bat Fangs, and the same was true of the wolves, as if each odor was shaded, like many hues of the same color. He could smell individual Hollowsfolk, too, some of whom he knew—and he could smell their fear.

  Kalmar edged his way around to the far side of the pump house. At the bottom of the hill a brushy creek bed offered some cover. He waited for a rise of volume in the noise of battle, hoping it would draw the Fangs’ attention, then he sped downhill. Near the bottom he slipped on an icy slab of stone and crashed into the brush, making more noise than he intended. He knew that the other Fangs could hear as well as he—the Bat Fangs even better, perhaps. So he lay in the brush as still as he could, listening, listening.

  “What was that?” he heard from high above.

  “Go,” said another voice.

  Kalmar peered up through the brush and saw one of the Bat Fangs break away and fly directly toward him. It would be upon him in moments, and even if it couldn’t see well it could certainly hear.

  Kalmar drew his sword and swaggered out of the brush, making his meanest, scowliest Grey Fang face. The bat landed a few feet away and folded its wings as it slunk toward him. The creature was lanky and appeared almost fragile, as if its bones were as thin as twigs. But what it lacked in strength of frame, it gained in hideousness. Its eyes rolled around in their sockets as if they had no purpose except to repulse. Its ears, though, were large and triangular, catching sounds the way sails catch wind. It was difficult to look at its face as it snorted and lurched closer.

  “Nothing here, sir,” Kalmar growled.

  “What are you doing here, wolf?” the bat squeaked, eyes spinning as it leaned forward, seeming to look everywhere but directly ahead. Its ears were perfectly still and pointed at Kalmar.

  “Thought I saw something. I was mistaken.” Kal knew he could best the beast if it decided to attack, but the noise would only bring more of them swooping down. His grip tightened on his sword, but he told himself to stay calm, to think before acting. Now was the time to think like Janner, even if it didn’t come naturally.

  “You smell . . . different.” The bat snorted and licked its teeth with a pointy little tongue. “Why do you smell different?”

  “I was fighting some of the stinky humans. One of them, uh, threw some soup on me.”

  The creature’s white eyes spun, its ears flitted up and down, and its nose twitched and sniffed quizzically. Then a mighty crash came from the other side of the Great Hall. The giant ears whipped backwards and the monster gurgled with pleasure. “At last. They’re breaking down the dungeon door. They’ll need your help, wolf.”

  “Excellent,” Kalmar said, faking a cruel smile. He had to get to the field.Now.

  The Bat Fang turned and unfolded its leathery wings, but its ears were still aimed back at Kalmar; it was waiting for him to follow. Kalmar took a few steps in its direction and the creature seemed satisfied. It flapped its wings and lurched into the air, squeaking with glee as its fellow Fangs battered the Great Hall. But as soon as Kalmar turned to run, the creature tipped its wings and swooped toward him, shrieking a warning to its fellow bats.

  “The wolf kin
g! He’s here!”

  12

  The Center of the Storm

  Kalmar put all his energy, all his attention, into running. He pushed through the snowdrift at the top of the hill beyond the brook and ran. But as he crested the hill he heard, too late, a whoosh of air and smelled the reek of the Bat Fang who had sounded the alarm. Claws scraped at his shoulders and caught hold of his cloak. He was lifted into the air, kicking and flailing.

  “I’ve got you,boy,” said the Bat Fang into his ear.

  Kalmar struggled and twisted, engulfed by the stench of death and filth. He managed to grab the hilt of his sword and with great difficulty drew it from the scabbard. The Fang’s flying wasn’t graceful, as Uncle Artham’s would have been—this was a lurching, heaving flight, which made it almost impossible to swing a sword. The Bat Fang screeched again, and Kalmar’s wolf ears heard answering calls in the distance. The others knew. Every time the Fang’s wing lifted, Kalmar saw more of the bats turning his way and flapping nearer.

  He gave up swinging his sword and instead pointed it backwards, under his armpit. With both hands on the hilt, he thrust it behind him and heard the Bat Fang gurgle with pain. The claws slackened and Kalmar cried a triumphant, “Oy!” before looking down and realizing that he was about to fall a great distance.

  The Fang crackled into dust, and Kalmar plummeted to the earth. When he hit the snow, his teeth clacked together and every bone in his body shuddered. But seconds later he realized he was sliding, then tumbling downhill. Without wasting a moment to collect his wits, Kalmar found his feet and raced toward the Field of Finley, thinking not of the gathering monsters behind him but of his family, his friends, and the Hollowsfolk who needed his help.

  It wasn’t until he crested the next hill that Kalmar realized he still had his sword—a good thing, too, because a moment later a shadow passed over him. Without turning or looking behind, he swung the sword, dimly aware that he had sent another Bat Fang’s ashes into the snow. Kalmar raced with all his strength, slowing only to batter at all the claws and wings and teeth that encircled him. The screeching was so loud and constant that he scarcely heard it anymore. All he could think about was the fire in his legs, a strangely pleasurable sense of purpose, and the army that waited.

  When at last Kalmar reached the hill that overlooked the encampment, his strength was spent. He stood on the hilltop, swinging his sword wildly at the cloud of beasts as they feinted and screamed and circled in the air.

  It was Carnack Ban Soran who saw him first. He was standing with his clansmen around a fire, holding a skewered hen leg over the flames when he glanced to the west. As he would later tell it, he saw a cloud of darkness whirling about the hilltop. He thought it was smoke, but instead of rising, it spun downward like a bewitched storm wind. Then he spotted Kalmar Wingfeather at the center of the churn, covered in green Fang blood and dust, wielding his sword like a hero of old. Ear piercing shrieks broke over the Field of Finley, yet through the awful sound cut the clear, golden voice of the High King of Anniera: “Help!”

  Arrows sprang from a hundred bows. The archers cleared the air of Bat Fangs in moments, then thousands of the fiercest fighters in Aerwiar poured over the hills to the aid of Ban Rona.

  Kalmar fell to his knees as the warriors raced past him. “Arrows . . . archers . . . to the Keep,” he panted. “Help them.”

  Then he collapsed into the snow.

  Carnack would later boast that it took two men to pry Kalmar’s fingers from the hilt of his sword.

  13

  Fighting for Bones

  When Kalmar woke, he was on his knees in the snow, fighting with two dogs over a leg of roasted hogpig. He looked at his hands. They were moist with mud and meat. He didn’t understand where he was or what he was doing.

  The dogs snarled at each other and lunged at the bone again. Kalmar scrambled backward in shock. He tasted hogpig meat on his lips and in his whiskers. He must have been gnawing on the bone with the dogs—but he had no memory of it. All he remembered was arrows, the swirl of Bat Fangs, and the welcome sight of warriors rushing past.

  Kalmar looked around to see if any Hollowsfolk had noticed him fighting the dogs. They were always watching him, it seemed, waiting for him to prove their worst suspicions. He petted the dogs, not just to show anyone looking that he was in control but to prove it to himself as well.

  “Ho, King Kalmar.”

  Kalmar whipped around, hoping he had no meat dangling from his snout. An old woman approached with a basket of greasy bones, probably leftovers from lunch. Judging by the sun, it was late afternoon now, and his stomach was growling. He fought the urge to smack his lips like one of the dogs. The woman showed no indication that she had seen him on his knees in the mud. “Glad to see you’re up and about.”

  Kalmar wiped his hands on his Durgan cloak. “I was just checking on the dogs.”

  The woman wore a dirty apron over her winter coat. Her long, gray hair was pulled back in a ponytail and wisps of it hung about her wrinkled face. She looked like she had been working hard. “Got word about an hour ago that the bats were driven back to the skies. Ban Rona is secure.” She threw another bone to the dogs. “Thanks to you, Your Highness.”

  Kalmar smiled, reached over to the basket, and tossed the dogs a few more bones, resisting a mighty urge to shove one into his mouth. “Are my mother and sister all right? What about Rudric and Mister Reteep?”

  “Danniby brought word a little while ago. Your mother and sister are fine, as are the Keeper and the fat fellow. As for your grandfather, it would take more than a few Fangs to put an end to him. You’ll be wanting to get back to your family, I reckon.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, looking over the tops of the tents at the hill where he had collapsed. The snow there was brown with the dust of dead Fangs. He did want to get back and be sure his family was safe, but he couldn’t shake the memory of the shriveled Gray Fang in the dungeon. He still had its scent in his nose, and it frightened him. And as much as he wanted to check on his mother and Leeli, he couldn’t bear the thought of going anywhere near the madness down in that dark cell.

  He was afraid that he was sinking deeper and deeper into the same animal mindlessness that had overcome the captive Fang. Was this why Fangs were never garrisoned in one place for longer than a few months? He remembered that in Glipwood the Green Fangs were regularly replaced, and the ones who stayed, like Commander Gnorm, left a few times a year and seemed to return stronger and meaner. But what did it mean?

  Kalmar wished Janner could tell him what to do. He knew what hewanted to do. He wanted to run away. What if he woke one day with something worse than henmeat or hogpig in his teeth? His throat tightened and tears moistened his eyes. He looked away so the old woman couldn’t see, but too late.

  “Brave lad,” she said, placing a weathered hand on his arm. “There’s no shame in joyful tears. Hollish though I am, your courage today made me want to be Annieran. The Shining Isle is in good hands with you on the throne.”

  If only her words were true. She wouldn’t have said that if she knew what was inside him. The tears that dampened his furry cheeks were those of sorrow, not joy. He knew what was in his heart. He remembered with a stab of shame the despair he had felt when he walked into the darkness of the Stone Keeper’s chamber that day in the Phoob Islands. The Shining Isle wasn’t in good hands.No, Kal thought, clenching his jaw,as long as I’m the High King, Anniera is doomed. Doomed to be ruled by a weak boy who was poisoned and dying, while the wolf grew and growled from the shadowy corners of his mind, waiting for the day when it would reign in his heart, a snarling beast crouched on a bright throne, ready to pounce on those who loved him. He was so sorry for who he was and afraid of who he was becoming.

  Kalmar hung his head. There was no stopping the coming madness. He was sure of it. If his fate was to slowly lose his mind, then he had to do what he could before it was too late. He had to get to Castle Throg. He had to find Gnag and stop him, or die trying. An
d he would do it alone. Alone, so he couldn’t hurt the people he loved.

  “I’d better go,” Kal said with a sniffle.

  “Aye, Your Highness.” The old woman threw the last of the bones to the dogs and turned to hobble back to the food tent. “Go and protect the ones you love. There’s a battle to be fought.”

  Kalmar felt a great weariness as he climbed the long slope west of the Field of Finley. When he reached the top, he looked back over the empty encampment. He heard the dogs still fighting over scraps. He looked toward Ban Rona and saw smoke rising from the city.

  As usual, he had no plan. So he ran.

  He skirted the field, then turned southeast and ran straight for the Killridge Mountains—toward Gnag the Nameless, praying that the boy inside the wolf would live long enough to do what needed to be done.

  Squoon was a student of history and language, handsome in his way but misunderstood by the burly warriors of the Hollows because of his bookishness and reserve. Bonifer never attended the games, and indeed he cared little for the world outside the library. It was the past that fascinated him. So when Madia appeared one morning in the library he had no idea who she was. He and Madia were fast friends, and for weeks they read together, ate together, and walked the streets of Ban Rona. Being secretive and shy, Squoon told no one of his heart’s capture by the young woman. He was as enchanted by her quick mind and poet’s tongue as he was by her beauty, and he resolved to marry her. But he spoke of her to no one—until one day, just before the Finnick Durga, he confided in the nearest thing he had to a friend: Ortham Greensmith, a young man with whom he had nothing in common other than the street where they lived.