The Warden and the Wolf King

by Andrew Peterson

  There was no fork, only the tunnel stretching on into darkness before them. Artham took a step backwards, then another. Then his arm shot into a recess in the wall that Gammon hadn’t noticed, and he yanked a filthy woman into the lantern light. She was covered in dirt from head to toe and blended perfectly into the walls of the burrow.

  She hissed and struggled, and Gammon caught sight of the glint of steel in one of her hands. Artham slammed her into the opposite wall and the dagger fell to the floor. The woman bared her yellow teeth and snapped at Artham like a wild animal. Gammon set the lantern on the floor and helped pin her to the wall, wondering how many other Stranders they had passed without knowing it.

  “Let me go!” she shrieked.

  “We’ll let you go when you tell us where Claxton Weaver is,” Artham said.

  She smiled wickedly. “Never.”

  “No?” Artham said. He flexed his claws, spread his wings to their full width and loosed his most terrifying hawkish scream. The woman’s eyes shot open so wide that Gammon almost laughed.

  “He went that way.” The woman pointed a trembling hand down the tunnel. “Bear to the right at the first fork, then down at the next three. Turn left and climb the ladder. That’s where they’re meeting, or so I heard. I hope you catch him. Us in the West Bend never liked him besides.” She grinned. “See if you can get his pone!”

  Artham released her and she dropped to the floor like a pile of rags. He nodded at Gammon and off they ran.

  The woman’s rattling voice echoed after them: “I’d be quick! There ain’t much time!”

  “What does that mean?” Gammon asked. Artham didn’t answer, but the two men ran faster. Gammon had a difficult time keeping up. All he saw was those fluttering wings in the yellow lamplight ahead of him and occasional glimpses of Artham’s white hair.

  “Duck!” Artham shouted, and Gammon just had time to slide beneath a dip in the tunnel ceiling before the two of them tumbled down a steep, muddy slope. They came to a jarring halt at the bottom. Gammon stood and brushed himself off.

  “I guess that’s the first downward fork,” Artham said, peering ahead. “Two more, then a right.”

  “After you,” Gammon said.

  They hurried on and soon came to the fork the woman had told them about. They veered right down another tunnel, took the next left turn, and after a stone’s throw stood panting at a dead end, craning their necks up at the top of a ladder.

  “The question is,” Gammon said, “can that woman be trusted?”

  “She can’t,” Artham said with a shake of his head. “But at least we’re not wandering aimlessly. If this is a trap, we’ll just have to spring it, eh?” He smiled at Gammon as he drew his sword. “Ready?”

  “The Florid Sword doth be ready at all moments of timeth,” Gammon said wryly. Artham started up the ladder, but Gammon stopped him. “Let me go first. If it’s a trap then you can—you know—do your bird thing and fly out. That’ll give them a pleasant shock, eh?”

  “I like it,” Artham said as he stepped aside and flexed his wings.

  Gammon handed Artham the lantern and inched his way up the ladder, the top of which disappeared into a narrow shaft well over both their heads. Gammon’s shoulders touched both sides, and he had to retreat back down into the open so he could arrange his sword with the point facing upward. He noticed as he climbed that the rungs were soiled with fresh mud. Someone had come this way not long ago.

  “Hold on, Maraly,” Gammon whispered.

  He couldn’t see much, but he fumbled around at the edge of the trapdoor until he found the hidden trigger, then paused. He heard footsteps, the creak of floorboards, and muffled speech, but it all seemed to come from another room, so he pulled the little lever and heard a muted click. Gammon held his breath and pushed up the trapdoor.

  Light shone through the crack and blinded him momentarily as his eyes adjusted. The room was empty—of feet, at least. He saw the legs of a few chairs, a chest of drawers, and the edge of a blanket hanging a few feet away. He lifted the door enough to get his head out. It was a cozy bedroom. Sunlight beamed through a window and dust motes danced lazily in the glow. Gammon climbed through the trapdoor and snuck into the nearest corner, barely breathing, listening to the voices in the other room. The bed was made, a few reading books rested on the nightstand, and a pair of slippers were tucked under the edge of the bed. Whoever slept in this room was no Strander. Claxton Weaver had never worn a pair of slippers in his life.

  When Gammon was certain his entrance was undetected, he knelt by the trapdoor and whispered for Artham. Artham shouldered his way through the opening, losing a few feathers in the process. They floated briefly in the sunlight before settling on the floor, and Gammon smiled as he thought of the mystery those reddish feathers would pose to the owner of the house.

  The two men snuck across the room, wincing at every creak of the floorboards. Gammon placed his hand gingerly on the doorknob then raised his eyebrows at Artham, who nodded and readied his sword. Gammon took a deep breath and turned the knob.

  The voices in the house fell silent. Gammon and Artham looked at one another in panic, then Gammon flung open the door. The two of them jumped into the room and brandished their swords.

  More than twenty Green Fangs looked at them in surprise, then bared their terrible teeth and hissed.

  31

  Fangs in the Street

  “It’s him!” one of the Fangs shouted, pointing at Artham. “The one with wingssss! Kill him!”

  Gammon stopped in the doorway as the familiar reek of Fang flesh wafted over him. Artham grabbed Gammon’s arm and pulled him back into the bedroom just as the Fangs rushed toward them. He slammed the door shut, but it didn’t latch, and the onrush of lizards crashed into it so hard the house shook. Artham was thrown to the floor by the impact. Gammon, finding his wits again, jumped forward and held the door until Artham got to his feet.

  “How in the Deep did Fangs get into Dugtown?” Gammon shouted. “There are too many of them to fight!”

  Artham glanced at the trapdoor, then at the window. The Fangs slammed into the door again. “If we can get outside I might be able to lift you!”

  “Go! I’ll hold the door!”

  With a mad flap of his wings, Artham leaped for the window and crashed through.

  The Fangs banged on the door and inched it open, their scaly claws reaching through the crack like a mass of wriggling worms. First a sword then an axe stabbed through the door only inches from Gammon’s face. He couldn’t hold it much longer. The window seemed impossibly far away, on the other side of the bed. The Fangs shoved the door open another few more inches and Gammon’s boots slid across the floor. He pressed his back against the door with all his might, glad to hear shouts of pain as the Fangs’ fingers were crushed.

  Another blade smashed through the wood, and with a mindless yell Gammon released the door and bounded onto the bed, diving headfirst for the window as the Fangs poured into the room. He soared through the opening and felt Artham’s hands on the back of his belt and the collar of his coat as he was lifted into the air. Gammon heard hissing, the splintering of wood, and the furious rush of Artham’s beating wings.

  Artham strained and flapped and rose slowly over the eaves and then let go, sending Gammon crashing face-first into the roof.

  Gammon blinked and shook his head. Where was his sword? Where was Maraly? Where washe? He staggered to his feet and climbed to the apex of the roof as the Fangs poured into the street. This shouldn’t be so difficult, he thought. The Florid Sword had escaped worse situations than this—but that was always at night, and he always had the advantage of surprise.

  Artham alighted next to him and handed him his sword. “You dropped this,” he said. “Also, you’re heavier than you look.”

  “It’s all brains and muscle,” Gammon said.

  He tried to ignore the Fangs clambering through the window and into the little back garden as he scanned the rooftops to get his bearin
gs. He knew Dugtown well, and thanks to his night prowling as the Florid Sword, he knew the rooftops of Dugtown better than anyone.

  He saw the spires of Castle Torr in the distance, the kitten’s tail and ears lifting over the misty river in the south. He spotted several torch towers, the hulk of the Fork Factory to the west, and knew that they had emerged on the eastern end of the city. The bulk of his army was centered near the marketplace at the waterfront, but there were sentries stationed at either end of the city.

  So how did so many Fangs make it into Dugtown without being seen? The answer was obvious: Strander burrows. Claxton had been smuggling Fangs into the city for a surprise attack. That was why he had come for Maraly. That was why the woman in the burrow had said there wasn’t much time.

  One of the Fangs scrambled over the edge of the roof and crouched, blade drawn and fangs bared. Venom dribbled down its chin and steamed on the shingles. Artham waited until the Fang leaped, then spun and easily dispatched the creature with his sword. It tumbled from the roof and landed among its fellow Fangs, its scaly skin already shriveling and crumbling to dust. More Fangs burst from the house and congregated in the back garden as well as the front. Gammon heard shouts and cries of alarm and saw Dugtowners in the streets, shocked at the sight of Fangs in the city again after so many months.

  “I suppose it goes without saying,” Artham said as he wrinkled his nose at the green Fang blood on his blade, “that you need to get out of here.”

  “Why’s that?” Gammon said with a grin.

  “I’d carry you, but all those brains of yours makes it impossible.”

  Another Fang leapt to the roof and attacked. Gammon parried a blow, planted his boot on the Fang’s chest, and sent it flying into its comrades below.

  “Wings would be nice about now.” Gammon dragged a forearm across his brow and glanced over his shoulder at the line of rooftops stretching back along the north side of the city. He pointed to a two-story house across the street. “Can you get me to that building?”

  “I think so,” Artham said.

  “If you can get me over there, I can manage. Then I need you to fly to the market on the waterfront. Find Errol. Tell him the battle is begun. We need to muster at the market and set up barricades. There’s no telling how many Fangs are in the city.”

  “What about Maraly?” Artham said.

  Gammon shook his head. He had no idea how to find her now. Claxton could have taken her anywhere. “I’ll find her. But finding her will make no difference if we lose the city. Ready?”

  Just as two more Fangs scrambled onto the roof, Gammon saw something that made his heart lurch. Across the street a door flew open and another company of Fangs streamed out. The frightened Dugtowners in the streets doubled their panic. Then, further down the lane, more Green and Grey Fangs leaped forth, breaking windows and joining the poor Dugtowners in battle. Claxton had been busy.

  “Hurry!” Gammon shouted. “Get me to that rooftop!”

  Artham wrapped his arms around Gammon’s chest from behind. “Jump on three,” Artham said. “I’ll need all the help you can give me.”

  They charged the Fangs in front of them, counting as they ran. On three, Gammon jumped with all his might. Artham flapped as hard as he could and the two men sailed over the heads of the angry Fangs—but they dropped immediately. Gammon’s boots bumped the heads of several Fangs and they clawed at his legs.

  “Higher!” Gammon screamed.

  But Artham’s strength gave out, and the two of them landed in the middle of the Fang-choked street. The lizards hissed and advanced.

  “Three!” Artham shouted again, and Gammon jumped.

  This time they rose over the Fang’s heads and lurched upwards, closer and closer to the rooftop. Gammon reached out and closed his fingers on the gutter. Artham let go and left Gammon dangling there. The birdman soared a circle over the Fangs’ heads, then alighted on the roof and pulled Gammon up.

  The two men collapsed and lay on their backs, catching their breath as chaos erupted below them. They looked at one another and nodded, then without another word Artham took to the sky and sped to find Errol.

  Gammon looked out on the battle unfolding in the street. He saw Skreeans fall with every passing second, but also saw with pride that many Fangs crumbled to dust, too. He struck his best Florid Sword pose and raised his voice. “Skreeans! This is your city! Fear not the Fangs of Dang, for they are soulless and heartless, and fight for nothing but war itself! You fight for your comrades and families. You fight for your home and freedom! ’Tis I, the Florid Sword, and I fight for thee! Help is at hand! Aha!”

  The Dugtowners and Fangs stopped fighting long enough to shout an answer. The Fangs screamed for Gammon’s death. The Skreeans bellowed their battle cries. Then the Dugtowners pushed back at the Fangs who were streaming from their hideouts in greater and greater numbers.

  Gammon dashed from rooftop to rooftop, black cape flying, a shadow that swept across the city as he roused his people to war. All the while, he scanned the streets below for one wretched face, Claxton Weaver, and one lovely soul, Maraly Weaver, for whom he planned to lay down his life when the time came.

  32

  The Weaver Family Reunion

  Maraly huddled in the corner of a house she didn’t know. The windows were shuttered and candles were lit, though some sunlight crept through the cracks. It appeared to have been a well-kept home at some point, but the Stranders had taken care of that. Not only had they made a wreck of the place, it stank now from floor to ceiling. Maraly had spent enough time with Sara and Gammon that for the first time in her life she wished the people around her would bathe.

  Stranders of the East, Middle, and West Bends were crammed into the house, rifling through cupboards for food to eat, pocketing whatever they could find that had the least bit of shine. Two of them—an old man and a younger woman, who were each so filthy they were hard to tell apart—had already come to blows over a small looking glass. They had argued over it for a few minutes, then they had fallen to the floor wrestling over it, then they had started kicking and punching while the others goaded them on. In the end, they were both bloodied and unconscious with the looking glass (now broken) lying on the floor between them. Maraly’s fourth-aunt-cousin Poggy had promptly snatched it up, pointing her knife at everyone in the room. “I need it most, anyhow,” she sneered, peering at her reflection. She licked her dirty thumb and stroked her eyebrows.

  Maraly had once enjoyed these people’s company. She shook her head shamefully and pressed herself against the wall, hugging her knees. Only a year agoshe might have been the one scrabbling on the floor over the mirror.

  Claxton sat near the fireplace with his legs sprawled out. He picked little things out of his beard and chewed on them like candy.

  “Mammy!” Claxton grunted. “I need some spunkel soup. Be quick about it.”

  Nurgabog? Maraly had assumed her grandmother long dead. Janner had told her of how Nurgabog had helped him to escape the Fangs in the river burrow. According to Janner, Nurgabog even told him where Kalmar had gone. But she had been badly wounded when he left her. Surely she had died.

  Then again, Nurgabog was a Strander. One didn’t live long in the East Bend without being tough as an udder, and Nurgabog had lived longer than any person Maraly knew. She could be as rotten as the rest of them, but she had always been kind to Maraly—kinder than Claxton had ever been, anyway.

  Maraly tried to catch a glimpse of her granny, discreetly peeking past the men and women standing about and belching (among other things).

  And there she was. It had only been a few months, but Nurgabog seemed to have aged ten years. She could barely walk, and she was filthier than ever, her eyes downcast, her hair hanging ragged around her muddy face.

  Maraly wanted to call out to her, mainly to give the old woman something to smile about. She would be glad to see her granddaughter alive and well, wouldn’t she? But Maraly decided not to draw any attention. Her hands and feet w
ere bound but she still had a few knives hidden away, which meant that she might be able to escape if the right opportunity arose—and escaping was far easier if one didn’t draw attention.

  Nurgabog hobbled over to Claxton with a bowl in her trembling hands. He took it from her roughly, then shouted at her when some of it spilled. Nurgabog stood there as bent as a tree branch, nodding contritely to her wicked son. When she turned, Maraly noticed that Nurgabog kept one hand on her side, where Janner said she had been stabbed. Maraly’s reasons to despise her father were mounting by the minute.

  A man Maraly didn’t recognize entered the house, flooding the main room with light and rousing a chorus of curses. He was as tall as Claxton but skinny as a paddle—he was as wet as a paddle, too. Water dribbled from the braids in his beard. He shut the door and bowed, then said, “Permission to come near, Strander King?”

  The room fell silent. Claxton wiped his chin, put down his bowl of spunkel soup, and shrugged. “Aye. Come near, Jimbob. What news from our Fang comrades?”

  “The battle is on, sir. The Fangs are fighting not three streets away, all along River Road.”

  The Stranders’ silence deepened. Maraly thought she saw a flash of worry cross her father’s face, but it was hard to see much beyond the beard. “That’s sooner than they told me. It was supposed to happen after sundown,” Claxton said.

  “Aye. They say the birdman started it.”

  Claxton stood and threw his soup bowl against the hearth. Nurgabog bent to pick up the shards.

  “Leave it be, Mammy,” Claxton spat.

  Either Nurgabog didn’t hear him or she ignored him, and Claxton pushed her to the floor with his boot. Nurgabog hissed with pain and her hand went to her side again. Even for a Strander, his actions were offensive. Everyone in the room must have known that he’d administered the wound in his mother’s side, because their attention—perhaps even some impossibly small amount of actual pity—was on Nurgabog.