The Warden and the Wolf King

by Andrew Peterson

  37

  Dugtowners at the Riverfront

  As soon as Artham, Sara Cobbler, and Armulyn the Bard were safe behind the barricade, Borley pushed his way through the crowd and hugged his queen.

  “We made it, Sara! Every one of us!” he cried. “Your subjects are gathered near Johanicle’s Bootery awaiting your instructions.” He bowed, smiled at her with gleaming eyes, and stood at attention, ignoring the amused looks from the grownups around them.

  “Well done, Borley.” Sara kissed him on the forehead. “I couldn’t ask for a better general.”

  Borley’s jaw fell open and his cheeks turned red as apples. He fell briefly into a sort of glassy-eyed trance until Artham patted him on the back and snapped him out of it.

  “Good work, lad,” Artham said with a smile. “Why don’t you check on your soldiers?”

  “Soldiers,” Borley said dreamily.

  “I’ll go too,” Armulyn said. “I need to check on my orphans.”

  “Orphans,” Borley murmured as they left.

  Artham turned to Sara. “Where’s Gammon?”

  “I was going to ask you the same thing. I haven’t seen him since you left.” Sara was afraid to ask him if they’d found Maraly, so she didn’t. If they had, Artham would have said so. But surely it wasn’t too late to find her, even with the city overrun. Sara scanned the multitudes of people crammed into the market, foolishly wishing she might see Maraly spitting and laughing with the rougher characters.

  “Artham!” someone shouted over the din.

  “Errol,” Artham said. “Any word from Gammon?”

  “No. The worst of the fighting is still in the east. I suspect that’s where the Stranders were sneaking the Fangs into the city. A few Fang companies made their way to the north and west, but they were easily overtaken.” Errol, ragged from fighting, looked over the heads of the milling Dugtowners behind the barricade. Men with bows crouched near the top and shot arrows at Fangs on the other side. “He’s out there somewhere.”

  “If anyone can make it back, it’s Gammon,” Artham said.

  “Well, I hope he gets here soon. It’s getting dark and the Fangs in the streets are only part of the problem.”

  “What do you mean?” Artham asked.

  “I’ll show you.”

  Errol led Artham and Sara through the crowd to the riverfront. The Blapp was muddy as ever, slogging between Torrboro and Dugtown, indifferent to the battle on its banks. It had flowed for epochs, and would continue to flow long after this war was a distant memory.

  Errol pointed across the span at a cluster of boats and barges stretched as far as Sara could see to the east and west. They teemed with Fangs, and the hulking shapes of trolls rose among the Fangs like mountains over foothills.

  “What are they waiting for?” Sara asked.

  Artham took a deep breath. “Night.”

  As if it had been waiting for the mention of the word, the sun slid behind a wall of clouds in the west, casting the land in dull gray light.

  “My guess is that the Fangs in the burrows weren’t supposed to attack until nightfall,” Errol said, “which would have drawn our attention away from the river.”

  “Then the larger force would surprise us at the waterfront,” Artham said.

  “Right. Something must have triggered the attack in the city.” Errol looked at Artham. “I bet that something was you and Gammon.”

  Artham nodded. “If we hadn’t been looking for Maraly, we wouldn’t have run into the Fangs. They would have caught us by surprise at nightfall.”

  “Aye. And it would have worked, too,” Errol said. “Even so, we’re in trouble. Our leader is missing. There are Maker knows how many Fangs in the east city. And once the sun goes down, we’re going to havethem to deal with.” He pointed across the river. “Do you suppose you could find a few more guys with wings?”

  “Other than chorkneys, you mean?” Artham pointed his thumb at a corral of chorkneys in the west end of the market. They honked and shuffled as they were being saddled and fitted for battle.

  Errol grunted. “If only they could fly.”

  “Can they swim?” Sara asked.

  Errol and Artham started to answer, then looked at one another questioningly. Both said, “I don’t know.”

  “I bet their webby feet could do as well in water as on the snow.”

  “If we can upset their vessels we can upset their whole attack,” Artham said. “How many boats do we have?”

  “Not nearly enough. Five? Ten? The Fangs had control of the river when we took Dugtown back. They ended up with most of the boats.”

  “How many chorkneys?”

  “That’s the whole cavalry there. Forty-three.”

  “Well, until Gammon gets back,” Artham said, putting his hand on Errol’s shoulder, “it looks like you’re in charge. If I may advise you, it’s time to see how those birds do in the water. Do you think you can find forty-three fighters to brave the Blapp on the back of a chorkney?”

  “Aye. And the bigger ones can carry two.”

  “Good.”

  “What are you going to do?” asked Sara.

  “I’m going to find Gammon.”

  “And Maraly.”

  “Yes, of course. And Maraly.” Artham took a running start and flew over the heads of the startled Dugtowners. He circled the nearest torch tower, then disappeared beyond the rooftops.

  “I’m sure she’ll be fine,” Errol said, clearing his throat. He looked out at the mass of Fangs and trolls mustered on the far shore, then added in a quiet voice, “I’m sure we’ll all be fine.” He marched off in the direction of the chorkneys to inform his soldiers of the plan.

  The flame of Sara’s hope, which had managed to stay lit even in the Fork Factory, was beginning to wane. There was no one left to help them. Gammon’s Kimerans were already here. Almost every Skreean north of the Blapp was gathered in Dugtown, and the rest had already been captured by the Fangs or were scattered across the continent, unorganized, weaponless, and leaderless. Fangs hemmed in the Dugtowners and only the barricades held them back. More Fangs stood ready to cross the Blapp.

  “Queen Sara?” Borley said.

  Sara hadn’t seen him approach, and she jumped a little.

  “Ma’am, the orphans are hungry. And they want to see you. Everyone wants to know what’s going to happen.”

  Sara put her arm around Borley’s little shoulders. She could tell he was afraid but didn’t want to show it. “The Fangs are going to attack us,” she said. “And we’re going to fight. That’s all I know, Borley.”

  “I miss my parents,” Borley said quietly.

  “Tell me about them.”

  Sara led her little general back to the others. He told her all he could remember—his father had been a tailor, his mother a “really big lady,” as Borley put it—but Sara was only half-listening. She was thinking about her own mother and father, probably taken years ago. Even if Sara survived the battle, the war, she and the others would still be just as orphaned and just as homeless as they had been before.

  Sara imagined taking all the children to some beautiful, unspoiled place after the fighting—Glipwood, maybe. Then they could all watch the sea dragons from the cliffs every summer at the half moon. They could grow up together. Maybe she would even find a young man to marry and have children. Not Janner—he was long gone. She had nursed the hope that she might see him again, but he was a world away.

  She had to be realistic. She had to think about Skree. Her orphans. She had to find a home for them. It was difficult to imagine a world without Fangs, but it was worth the effort. She had never experienced it, really, but therehad been a time before Gnag the Nameless. Maybe peace would come again, and maybe she would live to see it.

  She didn’t allow herself to look back over her shoulder at Torrboro and the monsters that were coming with nightfall. If she did, the wind might snuff out what was left of her light.

  38

  The Roof of Flombode
’s Seedery

  Maraly had grown up hearing about the Strander burrows but had only ever seen them once, years ago, so she had no idea where she was going. Not only that, the tunnels were crawling with Stranders and Fangs, so she often had to snuff out her lantern and duck into a muddy cleft or pretend to be dead or unconscious like the other Stranders she had come upon. She climbed several ladders, poked her head through the trapdoors, and listened, hoping to find a safe house where she could hide, but every time she had seen or heard Fangs and ducked back into the burrow.

  Surely there were Dugtowners somewhere. There had to be, or the Fangs wouldn’t have anyone to fight. And if there was even one person left to resist the Fangs, it would be Gammon. She knew it.

  The tunnel took a sharp left and forked. Lamplight glowed from the right and she heard approaching Fang voices, so she scrambled into the darkness of the other shaft. She felt a cavity behind a ladder and backed into it. The lamplight grew along with the voices until she could make out what they were saying.

  “Isssssthere no way in?” said a Green Fang.

  “Not that we can find,” answered a deeper voice—a Grey Fang. “They’ve barred all the trapdoors at the market. We’ll have to breach the barricades.”

  “It won’t matter,” said the first one. “The Stone Keeper will launch the attack sssoon enough. Having them all in one place will only make it easier.”

  “Shh! I smell one of them.”

  The Grey Fang sniffed. The shadows cast by the lantern on the opposite wall shifted. Maraly’s heart pounded. She looked up at the ladder, wondering if she could make it through before the Fangs caught her—and what would happen if she emerged into a house full of more Fangs?

  “I don’t sssmell nothing,” said the Fang.

  “That’s because you’re a lizard, you fool.”

  “I’d rather be a lizard than a puppy.”

  “I’m no puppy,” the Grey Fang snarled and hit the other one. “Puppies can’t punch.”

  “But lizards can!”

  The Green Fang hit back, and Maraly listened to the hissing and snarling of a fight unfolding around the corner. If she could hurry up the ladder, maybe they wouldn’t notice. The lantern fell to the floor and cast the shadow of the two Fangs on the wall where she could see. The Grey Fang jumped on the snake’s back and assailed it with punches, snapping its teeth furiously, but the Green Fang’s neck was long enough that it was able to whip its head around and bite the wolf on the neck. The Grey Fang fell back with a whimper. Maraly covered her mouth as the snake kicked the prone Grey Fang and a cloud of dust rose. Some of the dust drifted down her tunnel and floated in the lantern’s beam.

  “Ouch,” said the Green Fang, inspecting its wounds. “Puppies bite.” It grabbed the lantern and slunk away, leaving Maraly panting in the darkness.

  She climbed the ladder and poked her head into a dimly lit storage room. There was fighting outside, but there didn’t seem to be anyone in the house. She eased her way out of the burrow and gently closed the trapdoor. The kitchen was empty, and the hallway that led to the front door was, too. She tiptoed down the hall and peeked out the narrow window beside the door. There were Fangs in the street, standing over a group of fallen Dugtowners. The Fangs sheathed their weapons and congratulated themselves, then marched off, leaving the dusky street empty.

  “I just have to make it to the market,” Maraly whispered to herself. “Maker let Gammon be there.”

  She edged out to the front stoop, thankful that with Claxton gone she only had Fangs to worry about. After listening for a breathless moment, she struck out, keeping close to the buildings in case she needed to hide. A block away, at the intersection of Ewang Avenue and Yuplo Street she encountered several heaps of dust and piles of Fang armor outside of Flombode’s Seedery and retrieved a rugged dagger.

  Maraly looked to the left and right, frustrated that she couldn’t tell where she was. She didn’t remember either of the street names, and had never heard of Flombode’s. The light was fading fast and she didn’t want to waste a minute going the wrong way.

  She craned her neck and looked up at the eaves above her, then slipped into the seedery. She crept through baskets labeled Totatoes, Yimples, Sugarberry Starters, and Rutypams, looking for a stair that would lead her to the roof. At the rear of the store she found it and climbed the steps, wincing at every creak until she reached the top floor and ascended a steep set of stairs to the roof. A veil of high clouds crept in from the west, and in the east the first stars were beginning to twinkle. She knelt at the edge and waited for a troop of Fangs to pass, then peeked out over the city.

  Several streets away she saw the river, and to her right, in the distance, lay the waterfront market. Between two rows of buildings she saw the dark mass of the barricade the Fangs had mentioned. Figures hunkered at the top shooting arrows into the shadowy streets where she knew the Fangs were concentrated. It was a long way. She had no idea how to get there, or how to get past the barricade and into the safety of the Dugtown army. If the Fangs had no way in, then she didn’t either.

  Maraly spat and sat down, leaning her back against the rooftop rail. She felt terribly alone. Everyone she knew was in the marketplace, and she was stuck in the dark where she could do nothing but wait for the battle to be over.

  “Maraly!” someone shouted.

  “Now I’m hearing things,” she muttered.

  “Maraly, where are you!”

  That wasn’t her imagination. She spun around and looked over the city again. In the distance to the left, she thought she saw a shadow flying through the night, bounding from rooftop to rooftop. Just behind it, a howling mass of Fangs pursued.

  “Gammon!” she cried, before she could stop herself.

  The shadow didn’t pause, and she heard the voice again: “Maraly!”

  The Fangs were gaining on him. Maraly’s heart leapt into her throat. She stood up and waved her arms, but she knew it was too dark. From such a distance, Gammon would never see her.

  Another group of Fangs appeared in front of Gammon. The shadow stopped at the peak of a roof and spun, slinging his dark cape as the hunching Fangs scrambled toward him from the front and rear.

  “No,” she said with a scowl as she backed away from the edge. “This ain’t how my Gammon is going to die.”

  The distance to the next building wasn’t great—no different than some of the trees she had jumped between in Glipwood Forest. If she could make it, she would have an unbroken strand of rooftops to dash across. She might be able to get close enough to distract the Fangs and give Gammon a chance. There was no way in Aerwiar she was going to sit there and watch him fight to the death.

  Maraly took a deep breath, ran with all her might, and jumped from the roof of Flombode’s Seedery.

  As soon as she was in the air, she knew she had underestimated the distance. Her arms flailed, the cobbled street rushed up at her, and a scream escaped her throat. She didn’t make it.

  39

  Strander, Birdman, Florid Sword

  “I’ve got you,” said Artham as he lifted Maraly up over the rooftop. She was shocked, then relieved, then shouting orders at Artham all in the space of three seconds.

  When she had realized she was going to miss the roof, she was irritated more than anything else; irritated at herself for not being able to jump far enough, and also that it was a silly way to die. She had time to feel a stab of sorrow that Gammon would have no one to help him. But then two strong arms had come from nowhere and scooped her up. Now that she wasn’t dead she was left with nothing but the irritation.

  “We need to help Gammon!” she shouted, wriggling out of Artham’s grip and running along the roof again.

  “Maraly, wait! I need to get you to safety!”

  “I don’t want safety!” she yelled over her shoulder. “I want Gammon!”

  If the birdman wanted to help, then good, but she wasn’t waiting around for him.

  As she ran she felt his arms under hers and
her feet lifted from the roof. “Put—me—down,” she snapped, kicking the air like a child throwing a fit—which, in fact, she was.

  “Easy!” Artham said with a laugh. “You’d better have that dagger ready.”

  Maraly stopped squirming and realized that Artham was flying straight at Gammon, who, though he had managed to keep the Fangs at bay, was running out of tricks. She pulled the dagger from her belt and grinned.

  “Gammon!” she shouted.

  Gammon thrust his sword at a Grey Fang that was scrabbling up the roof and glanced over his shoulder. The light was nearly gone, so she couldn’t see his face, but she heard the tremble of wonder in his voice just before Artham released her.

  “Maraly?”

  She landed in a crouch, one hand gripping the roofline and the other waving her dagger at the Fangs. They hissed at her and she hissed back. “You look like you could use some help,” she said. “We can hug later.”

  “Aha!” Gammon bellowed, but not like the Florid Sword. He bellowed it like a man whose child was dead but had come back to life.

  He and Maraly stood back-to-back, one on each slope of the roof, swinging their blades at the Green and Grey Fangs that surrounded them. They faced death with full hearts. And they probably would have died, too, because more and more Fangs rallied to their position, scaling the buildings and thronging the streets below—but Maraly and Gammon weren’t alone.

  Artham flapped over the Fangs’ heads, swinging his blade, at times landing lightly to aid either Maraly or Gammon, then taking to the air again. Fangs struggled to keep their clawed feet from slipping on the steep roof as they fought, and more than once when one fell he took several others over the edge with him. When night fell, the Fangs regrouped.