“Elmer! Olsin!” Errol shouted at two of his comrades as they ran past. The two warriors approached with their swords drawn, itching to fight. “Send word to the western edges. Tell them to muster, and muster quickly.”
“But the battle is here,” Olsin said, pointing his sword at the skirmish.
“No, lads,” Artham said. “The Fangs are in the city. The battle is everywhere.”
Elmer and Olsin looked confused, but then a crash echoed through the building to their right. The window exploded as Green and Grey Fangs burst forth in snarling fury.
Errol screamed and swung his sword wildly. Artham leapt into the air and attacked the cluster of Fangs from above as one of the snakes bit Elmer on the forearm. Elmer screamed and fell while his comrades held the ground around him; he shuddered and writhed and then lay still. Artham and Errol fought on, dusting Fang after Fang until at last it seemed the Fangs in the house were finished. Olsin knelt at Elmer’s side and shouted his name, but his friend was dead.
“Olsin,” Errol said. “You have to warn the others. Go.”
Olsin nodded, placed a hand on Elmer’s head, and ran.
“Artham, go north. We need to summon everyone. Soldiers, citizens, anyone you can find. We’re spread out all over the city and if we don’t mount a defense, the Fangs will pick us apart like warm bread. Call everyone to the market. With our backs to the water, Riverside Road will leave the Fangs only one clear avenue of attack. If we can hold anywhere, we can hold here. But we must have help, and have it quickly. Fly, Artham, or the city is lost.”
Artham took to the air as Errol shouted orders to form barricades at every street leading into the market. North he flew, low over the heads of frightened Dugtowners, ordering them to make haste to the riverfront. He weaved his way down every street, around every turn, screaming till his voice was spent, stopping only long enough to aid any Skreeans under attack from the Fangs emerging from house after house, storefront after storefront.
Outside a tavern called the Roundish Widow he saw a thin fellow with a wide moustache hurling tankards at an onrush of Fangs. Artham skidded to the ground and fought beside him long enough to fend off the Fangs. The man croaked a hearty thanks.
“Get to the market at the riverfront,” Artham told him. “Bring as many with you as you can.”
Artham angled his way ever northward, glad to see that word was spreading. Dugtowners streamed through the streets with weapons drawn, heading toward the river with Fangs on their heels.
He landed outside the Flabbit’s Paw and ducked inside, looking for Sara. The tables were overturned and ashes from the fire were strewn across the floor, but there was no one inside. “Sara!” he called. He ran upstairs to his room and saw no one. “Sara?”
Artham looked at the bed, the covers strewn on the floor, the tray on the nightstand where the girls had served him tea, and remembered the terrible dreams he had dreamt. They hovered at the back of his mind and assaulted him with familiar taunts:Coward. Failure.
He shook his head and clamped his eyes shut. “No,” he said. The voices grew louder. He felt himself tremble, felt a sluggishness in his mind, disorientation and fear pulsing like dark music.
“NO,” he repeated, trying to hold onto his wits. He had to find Sara. He had to sind fara. The enemy was attacking. The attacking was enemy—find Cara Sobbler—she was in danger—Janner had told him to find her—to thank—thoo tank her—I left him!—I’m a Throne Warden—but you left him—the Fangs are coming—and now he’s dead, dead, dead, dead—
“NO!” Artham screamed. He dropped to his knees and tottered, and suddenly sleep seemed like a very good thing. He fell to his side, wings splayed out on the floor, and pressed his knuckles against his forehead. Some terrible feathery beast in his soul screeched triumphantly and chased away every thought, every word, before it could be formed.
He saw Esben chained to the wall in the Deeps of Throg, his lumpy, bearish face pleading—Don’t leave me, Artham. He saw the slick walls of the Deeps as he wriggled his way through the—You were supposed to protect me—dark heart of the mountain and soon to the Blackwood where—Come back for me, brother—his shame was doubled by his relief at having escaped Gnag’s prison.
Artham heard himself babbling like a baby even as Skreeans shouted and hurried through the street below his window.
35
General Borley’s Plan
Sara saw a figure run past the front window of Thimble Thumb’s Threads, but when nothing else happened she turned her attention back to Armulyn. He was telling her about the places beyond the maps, the strange creatures he had seen, exotic cities and towns, the shape of the land, and above all, his gratitude to the Maker for having thought up such a world.
Another figure rushed past the window.Probably nothing, Sara thought, then looked over her shoulder at the orphans in the factory. Armulyn the Bard’s orphans were still timid, still adjusting to the strange city after having so recently lost their parents to Fangs. She didn’t want to alarm them. But suddenly more people ran past, this time with weapons and tools in their hands.
Sara interrupted Armulyn and stepped outside. “What’s wrong?” she shouted to anyone who would listen. “Someone, please! Why are you running?”
A young man with a hoe hollered over his shoulder, “Fangs in the city! Grab a hoe and get to the market! Gammon’s orders!”
Sara stared after him blankly. Fangs? In the city? She knew a battle was coming, but she had assumed there would be some warning—some, well,formality to it. Gammon had watchmen stationed around the perimeter of the city and on the torch towers, ready to raise the alarm in time for the battle. How could the Fangs have invaded so suddenly?
“What’s wrong, Queen Sara?” said Borley from behind her. A girl named Grettalyn stood at his side.
Sara forced a smile. She didn’t want to frighten them, but she also owed them the truth. Borley was a smart boy and had already shown great courage in the face of great danger. Still, she found it difficult to speak. Their last few months in the orphanage had been sweet and peaceful, and it brought her great sorrow that it was over.
“Ma’am?” Grettalyn asked. “Why are you sad? And where’s everybody off to?”
Armulyn approached and stood beside Borley and Grettalyn. “It’s happening, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Sara said, swallowing her tears. “We have to get to the river. Borley, you know what to do.”
“Yes, Queen Sara,” he said, puffing out his chest as they hurried back inside. “Come on, Grettalyn.”
Sara shut and locked the door as Borley and Grettalyn marched over to a table and climbed atop it.
“Attention!” Grettalyn said, since her voice was much louder than Borley’s. “Attention! General Borley has an announcement!”
Sara’s orphans shushed Armulyn’s and pointed their attention to Borley.
“What’s he doing?” Armulyn asked.
Sara lowered her voice and folded her arms. “He’s got it in his head that I’m his queen, and a queen needs a general. He makes for a good one, don’t you think?”
Borley clapped twice and put his hands on his hips. “Queen Sara has informed me that the time has come.” Sara’s orphans whispered among themselves until he held up his hands for silence. “Company commanders, stand at the perimeter with your soldiers! If you’ve recently arrived with Armulyn, divide yourselves evenly among the commanders. When we’ve organized into companies, weapons will be distributed and further instructions given.” No one said a word, so Borley clapped again. “By Queen Sara’s orders, get to it!”
At once, twenty of the older children chose spots along the walls of the main floor. Some stood on benches or chairs and raised their hands, calling out their company names.
“Sea Dragons here!” said a girl named Quinn from a chair near the kitchen door.
“Horned Hounds!” cried Wallis, the former Maintenance Manager, who stood on a chair near the opposite wall.
Sara watched w
ith pride as her orphans dutifully made their way to each of their leaders, bringing groups of Armulyn’s children with them. In a matter of minutes, all the children in the hall stood awaiting orders in twenty companies of ten or fifteen children each. Another group emerged from a storage room carrying a wooden chest for each company. The boxes were opened and the group leaders passed out forks.
Armulyn shook his head, impressed. “Did you organize all this?”
“It was Borley’s idea,” Sara told him, trying to keep calm in spite of the mounting chaos in the streets. “He drills them a few times a week.”
There weren’t quite enough forks to go around, so each group divided them among their oldest and strongest. They encouraged the smaller children and told them to keep close once the fighting started.
Once the weapons were divided, the room fell silent and Borley extended a hand to Sara. “Your troops are ready,” he said gravely. If he hadn’t been so serious, and if there hadn’t been real danger outside, it would have been humorous.
“Thank you, Borley,” Sara said as she mounted the table and stood beside her noble general. She proudly surveyed the children in silence, partly because of the lump in her throat and partly in defiance of the fear in her gut. They looked to her for courage, and she was determined to give it to them—what little she had, anyway. “The Fangs are in the city. Gammon has summoned us all to the market at Riverside Road to make our defense.” She waited for the whispers to die down. “If we hurry, we can be there in minutes. But the streets are crowded with Dugtowners, and there are likely to be Fangs out there, too. We have to hurry, but we can’t lose our heads. Commanders, keep your companies together at all times. Children, obey your commanders. Follow them. Stay close until you reach the river. I don’t want to lose even one of you. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Queen Sara,” they answered.
Sara turned to Armulyn. “Sir, will you play for us as we go?”
“Yes, Queen Sara,” he said with a bow.
“Children, if you get lost or separated from your company, listen for the bard’s whistleharp and follow the song.”
There was little time to say anything else, but Sara dreaded issuing the command to go. The orphans were in her keeping, and she felt the weight of each of their young lives resting on her shoulders. She didn’t want any of them to suffer more than they already had.
Outside, Dugtowners hurried past. The clash of battle grew nearer, filling the streets. Just as she was about to give the order, the door crashed open, and there stood a Grey Fang, panting like an angry dog. It saw the mass of children, smiled, then arched its back and howled.
Armulyn stepped between the children and the Fang and strummed his whistleharp. He blew on the whistle and played a fast jig, tapping his feet on the floor and working his elbows like a duck. But the melody was shaky and out of tune; there were so many wrong notes that Sara cringed.
The Fang’s howl was cut short and it cocked its head at Armulyn, wondering what in the world the strange man was doing. Then it began to laugh. Two more Fangs appeared in the doorway in answer to the first one’s call, and the three of them pointed and laughed at the bard, mocking his dance and howling all the louder. A bead of sweat trickled down Armulyn’s cheek.
He finished his shaky song and struck a pose with one hand out, as if he were waiting for applause. The Fangs doubled over with laughter. “Do it again!” the first one barked between breaths.
Armulyn raised his whistleharp once more, and Sara saw that his hands were trembling. This time, however, the notes were clear and beautiful, and the Fangs covered their ears, doubled over, and whined.
Suddenly Borley leapt from the table. “For Queen Sara!” he screamed, and the orphans surged forward. Sara stood on the table in shock as her army streamed past her, past Armulyn, and overcame the three Grey Fangs before they knew what was happening.
The children filed out by company, trampling Fang dust and armor underfoot. Sara hopped down, took Armulyn’s hand, and joined their mad rush to Riverside Road.
The streets were jammed with Dugtowners. Armulyn struggled to play his whistleharp while he ran, but the music was more pleasing than before. He wiped sweat from his brow and said, “Sorry, Sara. It’s hard to play when you’re scared.”
“It doesn’t matter how pretty it is,” Sara huffed. “It lets the children know you’re still alive. Keep playing!”
The street was a river of people, and Sara and her army were swept along in its current. Whenever they passed a side street or alleyway, some of the Dugtowners darted to the left or right, seeking a quicker way to the Blapp, like streams in a rainstorm. She saw Wallis and his company bolt off to the left, and two more companies followed. Just ahead she spotted the green scales of several Fangs as they battled the onrush of Dugtowners. The traffic slowed, and more of her army sped away down an alley to the right. They were splitting up, which she hoped was a good thing. If Fangs blocked the main roads, then at least some of the orphans might make it to safety.
The more Armulyn played, the better his music became, until at last he sounded the way Sara remembered him at the Dragon Day festival. The Dugtowners took heart from his playing, and some even recognized him.
“Armulyn the Bard!” they shouted and clapped him on the back as they ran. “I like your songs!” they said, laughing absurdly as more Fangs appeared in the streets.
He began an old song, something that sounded Annieran to Sara, and it made her heart ache for its beauty as they rushed past the Flabbit’s Paw.
36
Too Good Not To Be True
Artham P. Wingfeather was lost in an agony of remembrance. He tossed and turned on the floor of his room in the Flabbit’s Paw like a child in a fever dream. He mumbled and wept, drooled and whimpered. In his mind he lay on the floor of a dark chamber as specters and ghouls lurked in the shadows around him, beating leathery wings, taunting, sneering, laughing.
He clapped his hands over his ears and tried to silence their words.Traitor. Coward. Freak. But the harder he tried to ignore them the louder their voices became. Hideous, wicked faces darted out of the shadows and scowled at him every time he opened his eyes. He had the sense that his soul was shrinking, or the version of himself in the dark chamber was shrinking, as the monsters grew and grew in their flapping madness.
With all that was left of his diminishing voice he pleaded with the Maker to help him, to quiet the voices, to speak light into his darkness. But the ghouls only laughed louder, grew more violent in their gyrations, closed in on him like the teeth of a giant mouth about to chew him up and swallow him.
Then, as if from a great distance, the faint strains of a luminous melody floated into his mind. The evil voices in his head changed subtly, as if they too heard the song. They snarled and redoubled their efforts, but the angrier the voices became the brighter the music seemed. Artham’s breathing slowed. He listened. He yearned for the song he heard, reached for it desperately like a drowning man for a rope.
Then he saw her.
Leeli Wingfeather in the dark, on the roof of the Great Library of Ban Rona with Nia at her side. She was surrounded by wings—dark, leathery wings like the ones in his nightmare—but on she played. Her courage burned like a sun. Her songs woke his heart and called to him:Artham. Protect. Protect those in your keeping. Fight for them.
He sat up as if he had been poked with a hot iron. He blinked, looked at his surroundings in confusion, and staggered to his feet. Where was he? The room was familiar. Room twelve. There was his bed. He saw a teacup on the nightstand, and remembered a girl sipping from it while she watched over him.
Sara. Sara Cobbler. He closed his eyes again, listening for the melody that had awakened him—Leeli was playing somewhere, sending the song of her beautiful heart out over the rooftops of Ban Rona.
But now, though Artham was awake, he still heard the melody—something vaguely Annieran—and he realized the song wasn’t only in his mind, but in his ears as well. The melody
, nearly drowned by the clamor of voices and the clash of battle, drifted through his window and filled his heart like pure water poured onto the soil of a thirsty garden.
“Sara!” he cried. He ran to the window and flung it open.
Multitudes ran through the street below, and in the distance, Fangs roared and fought them. Then he saw her: Sara Cobbler running beside a scrabbly looking fellow with dark hair and bare feet.
“Sara!” he shouted, and she stopped and stared at him as the rushing crowd jostled her.
From across the street, a Green Fang leapt from the door of Blarn’s Grocery and swung his sword at the Dugtowners running by. The Fang inched closer to Sara with every swipe.
Artham dove from the window, spread his wings, and descended upon the Fang. He wrenched its sword away, dispatched the beast to its dusty fate, and turned just as Sara Cobbler wrapped her arms around his waist and held him tight.
“Hello,” said the man with the whistleharp, wonderstruck as a little boy. “Are you—are youhim?”
“Artham Wingfeather at your service.”
Armulyn smiled and stared at Artham as if he had come face to face with the stuff of his dreams. After all, he had. “Then it’s real?” he said. “I mean—really real?”
“What’s real?” Artham said with a smile.
“Anniera,” Armulyn whispered.
Artham laughed. “Of course it’s real. Where do you suppose the songs come from?”
“I was never certain,” Armulyn said. “I hoped. I dreamed. But it all seemed too good to be true.”
“Too goodnot to be true, you mean.”
Armulyn the Bard wiped a tear from the corner of his eye.
“Well don’t stop playingnow,” Artham said with a smile and a shake of his wings. “We need those songs. Now more than ever. Go on.”
The bard played again, without a trace of fear, weaving a melody that roused the Dugtowners to greater courage as they ran. The Fangs of Dang within earshot cringed and buckled in the face of the Skreean onrush. Artham strode beside Sara like a king in a parade, his sword aloft for the Dugtowners to see, and Armulyn the Bard led them.
The Warden and the Wolf King Page 17
