Leeli nodded. “What will you do?”
“I should never have let them out of my sight. All this striving, all this death. A storm swirls around us. For years we’ve been at its center, and I don’t know how much longer I can bear it.”
Nia scooted Leeli over to make room on the bed, then pulled the quilt over their legs. Leeli put the bowl on the night stand and settled beside her mother, and the two of them rested in silence until Nia breathed the breath of sleep.
Leeli turned her thoughts to the heavens, and took up her pleading where Nia’s left off, praying a blessing of safety on her brothers, who even now walked deeper into darkness with each step.
Strangely, she felt no anger toward Gnag, who had wrought such evil on the world—only pity. And that pity aimed her prayers toward her brothers and their safety.
What could she do? Her leg was twisted by Fangs, and she was only nine years old. She was as weak as a flower. She stroked Nia’s hair, as Nia had often stroked hers whenever she was afraid. Then her hand drifted to the whistleharp. If she couldn’t go with her brothers into the heart of darkness, she would defend the Hollows. She would play. Her song was all she had, and she would send it skyward as long as she had breath to do so.
Long into the night, the Song Maiden of Anniera practiced fingerings in silence, recalling song after song and arranging them as a warrior might lay out weapons and sharpen blades. If, when the sun rose, the Fangs returned, she would be ready. A slight knock came from the bedroom door, and Podo poked in his head and smiled.
“Trade me places, lass. You have visitors.”
Leeli eased out of the bed as Podo slid in beside his daughter. Nia stirred but remained asleep, resting on her father’s great chest as she must have as a young girl. Leeli had never seen her mother so weakened, and she had never loved her so much.
“Yer crutch is by the door. Good as new.” Podo winked at her. The crutch was carved with her new nickname: Batwhacker. It wasn’t a pretty name, but since Podo had come up with it, she approved.
Leeli made her way downstairs in the quiet of the house. She knew there were wounded Hollowsfolk in most of the rooms and didn’t want to disturb them. When she reached the bottom floor she heard the murmur of voices and the clink of dishes being cleaned in the kitchen. Oskar stood at the door and smiled when he saw Leeli.
“Leeli! I’m glad you got your rest. It was a day to write about, I say!” He bowed, which made his swoop of white hair flop from his bald head. When he straightened, the white strands stood up like a plume of feathers until he palmed them down again. “Someone is here to see you.”
He opened the door and Leeli stepped out into the cold night. First she saw Thorn O’Sally standing beside Kelvey and their father, Biggin. They smiled proudly at her, then stepped aside so she could see beyond them.
Dogs had congregated in the front yard of Chimney Hill—it seemed that every dog in the Hollows had come. They sat at attention, tails wagging furiously, though their faces were grave. Baxter limped forward and barked once. Hundreds of dogs answered with a singlewoof.
Leeli smiled so wide her lips cracked and she grunted with pain. Baxter cocked his head and whined at her in answer. She stepped down from the entrance and moved through the dogs, patting heads and scratching behind ears. There were so many that they made a pool of warmth in the cold night.
“I don’t know dogspeak half as well as you, but it was pretty clear they wanted to see you real bad,” said Biggin. “They wouldn’t leave us be until we marched straight here from the houndry.”
“They’re waiting for orders,” Thorn said.
“And they’ll only take them from you, Miss Wingfeather,” Kelvey added.
“I don’t know what to say.” Leeli stood in the sea of dogs and looked to Biggin for help.
“Tell them what they’re supposed to do next,” he said.
Leeli felt one of the dogs licking her ankle. She knelt down and found Frankle, the rowdy pup. Leeli clapped her hands and he jumped into her arms. She stood up with Frankle as still as a sleeping babe in her arms and looked around at the Houndry Corps, feeling a pleasure that made her proud and humble all at once.
“We fight back,” she said. Then she whistle-clicked the same words in dogspeak.
Frankle raised his head and howled with all his might—which wasn’t much. The rest of the dogs joined him. Their howls rose into the night and the Hollowsfolk who were awake to hear them were glad.
Beyond the Watercraw and in the crags along the Dark Sea of Darkness, where Bat Fangs and Grey Fangs lurked, the dogs’ howls spread through the shadows and planted, for perhaps the first time since they had been Fanged, the seeds of doubt in the Fangs’ minds. Doubt that victory was certain. Doubt that the battle was nearly over. Doubt that they would ever be able to topple the defenders of the Green Hollows.
Part 2
Skree
Bonifer sped to the library and slumped at the table where he and Madia had spent many long hours together, waiting for her to join him as she usually did. But she never came. The sun set, and he was alone with his books and an empty heart. Full of anger, Bonifer stole to the homes of each of the contenders for the Durga and conspired to make Ortham the target of each warrior’s strength. The warriors, thinking it nothing more than sport at Ortham’s expense, agreed in hopes that a concerted effort to outwit the young warrior would increase their chance at victory.
On the day of the games, Bonifer watched with secret glee for the humiliation of his friend and anticipated the surety of his union with Madia Wingfeather. The boot was hidden in the hills, the horn blew, and the young men of the Hollows dashed away to find the boot and return it to the field. When after several hours the Hollish men appeared on the horizon in pursuit of the boot holder, it was no surprise that Ortham possessed it. Bonifer was unconcerned, because he could see that his plan was working. From his vantage point it was clear that Ortham was limping and badly wounded. There was no way he could win, especially now, at the finish, when a hundred unwounded men pursued him.
Bonifer saw Madia stand and put a hand to her mouth in fear for Ortham’s safety—and then Bonifer understood his folly. For Madia was no ordinary woman, impressed only with victory and strength of limb. She had eyes to see strength of heart and courage, too. And it was courage that drove Ortham, wounded and weary, to the Field of Finley at the last.
Bonifer’s minions set upon Ortham with ferocious intent, but they could not wrest the boot from his grasp, for it was love that drove him more than victory. Beneath a heap of strong men, Ortham lay motionless, clinging to the boot that he believed would win Madia’s heart. And it did. She raced to the field and kissed his forehead though he had passed from consciousness, and Bonifer knew that he himself had passed from hers. Ortham had won, despite Bonifer’s treachery. The warriors who had dealt unfairly with Ortham were silent in their shame and told no one of Bonifer’s conspiracy.
So it was that when Ortham was returned to health, he knew not that his friend had betrayed him. Instead, he kept Bonifer close. He included him in his wedding plans. And on the day the princess of Anniera and Ortham Greensmith were wed, Bonifer stood by as Ortham’s friend and compatriot.
—from The Annieriad
25
The Flabbit’s Paw
Three days earlier (while Janner was eating the thirteenth muffin at Chimney Hill) Sara Cobbler and Maraly Weaver stood outside an inn and tavern called The Flabbit’s Paw, which was nestled deep in the grimy heart of Dugtown.
An unseasonably warm spring morning had risen upon the land of Skree, and the sun had stirred up swarms of flies, gnats, and snidges, all of which celebrated the new season by biting or stinging every square inch of flesh they could find. They buzzed around horse-drawn carriages and wagons as they rolled past, and descended in droves on the droppings left behind.
The two girls outside the tavern swatted at insects as they talked. Sara Cobbler stood straight and poised; Maraly Weaver slouched, kicking
listlessly at the mud. Sara wore a bright blue dress and a cloak with the hood pulled back; Maraly wore dirty leggings and a tattered overshirt. Sara’s hair was pulled back in a ponytail; Maraly’s hair was stringy and damp. Sara wrinkled her nose at the ever-increasing stench of the warming city; Maraly spat and swallowed a burp. A passing stranger might have thought that proper Sara was buying something from poor Maraly, or that perhaps fierce Maraly was in the process of robbing innocent Sara. But in truth, the two girls were close friends, drawn together by their mutual concern for the occupant of room twelve of The Flabbit’s Paw.
“How is he today?” Sara asked.
“The same. Still won’t eat much.”
“Is he awake?”
“Hard to tell. You know how he is.” Maraly picked at her teeth with a twig. “We better get him up. They’ll stop serving breakfast soon enough.”
Sara followed Maraly into the tavern, ignoring the sullen looks of the patrons who slumped wearily over their tankards or plates of food. The girls climbed the stairs to room twelve and entered without knocking. Artham P. Wingfeather lay on the cot, thrashing in the throes of a nightmare.
“Esben, no,” he mumbled. “I’ll come back. I’ll—”
“Artham,” Sara whispered as she sat at the edge of his bed. “Artham, wake up.”
“Don’t sing the song!” he shrieked as he sat up and looked around wildly. He spread his wings wide and trembled. Then he blinked, saw the girls looking at him with concern, and covered his face with his reddish hands. “I was dreaming.”
“It’s over. We’re here now,” Sara said.
“Have a drink,” Maraly said. She poured him a mug of water from a pitcher by the bed and handed it to him. “Then we’re taking you downstairs for breakfast.”
“Thank you, girls. But I’m not hungry.” Artham lay back down and stared at the wall. “Not hungry, hot nungry, got notty bungle bee.”
At first, Artham’s babbling had disturbed Sara, but now she was used to it. He was feeble and harmless when he was like this, but when she looked into his sad eyes she saw that there was someone else in there—someone with a strong voice and no hint of insanity. That was the voice he used when he was sleeping. But ever since the Fork Factory—when he had collapsed to the ground shrieking about a song and someone named Esben—Artham had done little more than babble and dream terrible dreams. All winter long he had lain in bed or paced the room, staring at his reddish claws and weeping.
Maraly said Artham was a Throne Warden of Anniera, and she even seemed sincere when she said it. But Sara had never been sure whether the Shining Isle of Anniera was a real place or just a fairytale people told little children. It sounded too good to be true. Maraly (and Gammon, her adoptive father) claimed that Artham had been captured by Fangs and had been transformed, but instead of turning into a monster he had turned into this strange, majestic bird-like man.
Most astonishing of all, though, was the fact that if their stories were true—if indeed Artham Wingfeather was one of the Wingfeathers from the Shining Isle—then Janner Igiby, whom she had known since the Dragon Day Festival in Glipwood, was also a member of the royal family. He had certainly behaved like a prince, braving the coffin in the Fork Factory in order to enact his plan of escape. There was something in his eyes that had seemed different from the other children, but Sara wasn’t sure if it was real or if it was only her imagination.
And yet, at the very mention of the Isle of Anniera, she felt warmth in her bones. As a girl, she had heard Armulyn the Bard sing of it; she had heard her mother and father tell stories of it, and those stories were seeds planted deep inside of her that had grown shoots and green leaves around her heart. Part of the reason she always came here was that Artham reminded her of Janner. And though she hardly dared admit it to herself, she also came because she yearned for the stories about Anniera to be true. Being near Artham Wingfeather helped her to believe.
Yet there he lay in a feathery heap on the bed, blabbing at the wall.
“Come on, then,” Maraly said, yanking the pillow from under his head. “I waited on breakfast so I could eat it with you, birdman. They’ll stop serving any minute. And I happen to know it’s eggs and hogpig steamers today.”
“All right, all right,” Artham said as he swung his feet to the floor and stretched. When he did, his feathers shook. “Stoggy.”
“What?” Maraly asked.
“Eggypigheamers and stog.”
Sara and Maraly rolled their eyes at one another as they helped him up. They led him downstairs, trying to ignore the glares of the grungy Dugtowners. Once they were seated at a small table in the corner, the proprietor arrived at the table with his arms folded and resting on his paunch.
“We’ll have three breakfast plates, please,” Sara said.
“Aye. I bet you will. And who’s paying for this?” he growled.
Maraly narrowed her eyes and scowled back. “You know who.”
“Well, he’d better. I ain’t seen him in two days.”
“He’s busy defending your city from Fangs, in case you forgot,” Maraly said, sneering. “And he won’t be too keen if he finds out you’ve been skimping on the arrangement.”
The proprietor and Maraly engaged in a staring match, which Maraly won. Then he shook his head and bumbled off to the kitchen, muttering about freaks and Stranders. Artham ignored the whole business and sat quietly, drumming his fingers on the table and bobbing his head.
“How are the orphans?” Maraly asked.
“Everyone’s on edge with the change in the weather,” Sara said. “They’re worried the Fangs will attack any day.”
“Me too.” Maraly leaned back in her chair and drew one of her throwing knives, then began cleaning her fingernails with it. “I’ll be glad when they do, to be honest. I hate all this waiting around.”
“Well,something’s going to happen. There’s no way the Fangs will just let us keep to ourselves for the rest of our lives.”
The proprietor arrived and flung their plates down, then marched away without a word. The Flabbit’s Paw was as filthy as any other tavern in Dugtown, but Sara had to admit the food was delicious.
Artham poked at his breakfast but didn’t eat. Sara filled his fork with food, shivering at the thought that she had probably helped to make that fork in the factory. “Open up,” she said, and Artham’s jaw fell open. She fed him like a baby, then put the fork in his hand and encouraged him to eat on his own. Maraly tapped him on the shoulder and offered him some water to drink when she wasn’t shoveling eggs into her own mouth. For all her gruffness, Maraly was tender when it came to Artham.
Suddenly, a dark figure burst into the tavern. All conversation ceased. Patrons peered at the caped man silhouetted in the light streaming through the door.
With a flourish of his cape, the man leaped into the center of the room, struck a pose, and said, “Aha! Avast! ’Tis I, the Florid Sword, and I seek Maraly Weaver with mine own eyes and noble intent!”
26
Snoot’s Livery and Cupcakes
The Dugtowners in the tavern glared at the Florid Sword as Maraly, Sara, and Artham excused themselves. Considering that Artham and Gammon had led the charge against the Fangs and freed Dugtown the previous winter, the residents should have feigned some kindness. But even before the Great War, Dugtown was a villainous hive of scum and wretchery, and nine years of Fang oppression had only made the Dugtowners more hostile.
Sara wished she could handle them the way Maraly did. Maraly seemed right at home, sneering back at anyone who gave her an ill look, her hands drifting to the knives hanging at her belt. Sara only nodded and smiled nervously as she led Artham by the hand. He stared at the floor and shuffled along like an old man, which was good, Sara thought, because at least he was oblivious to all the leering eyes.
“We fly! Aha! Away!” cried the Florid Sword. He swished his blade through the air thrice, then removed his wide-brimmed hat and bowed low. “Resume the consumption of thy eggish scru
mption!” He smiled. “I believe I made that word up. And it rhymed! Gleeful are the delights a new day bringeth!”
When Artham and the girls had exited the room, the Florid Sword spun around and marched outside.
“What’s wrong?” Maraly asked as they bustled up the street.
“It’s Claxton,” Gammon said darkly.
Maraly stopped on the front steps. “I ain’t going back.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t let him take you. But heis your father, and I think it’s fair that he at least gets to lay eyes on you before—”
“Before what?” Maraly asked.
“Before I kick him out of Dugtown. I don’t trust him. There are Dugtowners who think the Fangs are going to win this war, and they’re trying to come out on the right side.”
“Spies?” Sara asked.
“Lots of them,” Gammon muttered. “It’s hard to know who to trust.”
“You can trust us,” Maraly said, taking Gammon’s hand.
He smiled at her, eyes twinkling in the black cloth of his mask as he led her to the left and down Veemin Court. “You can trust me, too.”
“You can must treeee!” Artham said with a flap of his wings. He scratched his head. “Trust me. Trust me. Trustme.”
Sara took his bird-like hand as Maraly had taken Gammon’s, and the four of them turned another corner.
They scooted past Dugtowners leading goats or carrying baskets of root vegetables, all of whom grunted and grumbled as they passed. Gammon led them uphill for several blocks, past terraced buildings where people lounged out of the upper windows and gabbed with one another, occasionally hurling a shoe or a handful of food out of anger or plain mischief.
Outside a place called Snoot’s Livery and Cupcakes, a small crowd had gathered and was harassing two Kimeran warriors who stood stoically at the doorway with their hands folded over their sword hilts. The crowd was made up of Stranders. Sara could tell by the smell—and by the matted hair, the harshness of their voices, the knives, and the clouds of flies.
The Warden and the Wolf King Page 12
