The Warden and the Wolf King

by Andrew Peterson

  If she couldn’t go looking for a home, she would stay and make one. That’s what the Shoosters were doing. That’s what Artham Wingfeather was doing in his treehouse. Nothing in their stories had happened the way they wanted—Artham’s mind was broken and his family was on the other side of the sea; the Shoosters were childless. Countless Skreeans would rebuild their lives atop the rubble of what was lost, and Sara would stay and care for her family of fellow orphans. The only home Sara would ever know would be the one she made for herself and for the children in her care. There was no home out there somewhere, no mystical land where all your restlessness was stilled and all your hopes fulfilled.

  From a distance, Armulyn waved at the orphans clustered in the street. He bowed to them then rounded the corner as he played the first notes of an Annieran tune.

  Sara’s heart broke. She looked around at the rubbish in the streets of Dugtown, the broken glass still littering the ground from the battle, the smudged faces of all her parentless children. She thought of Artham Wingfeather alone in the forest. The melody tugged at her heart and suggested a great beauty that lay beyond her ability to imagine.

  “I want to go home,” said a boy named Cliffin.

  “Me too,” answered a few other children.

  “This is our home now,” Sara said firmly. She put her hands on her hips and looked at the sign over the door.Really?she thought.Thimble Thumb’s Threads is our home? Armulyn’s song faded among the sounds of the city, and Sara sighed.

  “What do we do now, Queen Sara?” asked a little girl named Layna.

  “We make the best of it.” Sara bustled the children back inside. The truth was, she didn’t know what else to do. All she knew was that everything felt wrong. It felt wrong that Armulyn was leaving, that she was staying, that Borley was gone, that Artham was alone in his treehouse—that Sara’s parents had never come.

  The only thing that felt right was Maraly and Gammon in masks, fighting the bad guys in Dugtown by moonlight.

  Part Three

  Throg

  As was the custom in the long alliance between the Green Hollows and Anniera, Ortham bade farewell to Ban Rona and lived with his wife in the Castle Rysen on the Shining Isle, bringing with him a trusted friend and advisor. He chose, of course, Bonifer Squoon. And so, in time, Bonifer became the chief advisor to the High King of Anniera, and his soul was riven by his love for the queen and his hidden hatred for the king. He knew, with what was left of his conscience, that the cost of his nearness to the queen was the destruction of whatever goodness was left in him, yet he remained, watching for the moment when he might have revenge on Ortham Wingfeather.

  Bonifer Squoon was bequeathed a small house near the Castle Rysen and he filled it with books. He spent whatever time he could spare reading histories and accounts of battles and strategies of great kings, and indeed he was a valuable advisor to the king whenever enemies from the Woes of Shreve or the Jungles of Plontst made trouble for the free peoples of Dang. When the Pirates of Symia traded in dragonflesh and visited terror on sailors of the Symian Straits, it was Bonifer’s advice, according to many, that ended the strife.

  So Bonifer was well known in the lands and traveled often in search of books and knowledge. But when he returned home to his small house near the vast castle he felt again and again the knife in his heart of Madia’s love for Ortham. He sought to grow wealthy, to show her that he could be great as Ortham was great. He sought to show her his strength, and though he knew it would change nothing, his corrupt mind could not resist the urge to make himself visible and of great value in Madia’s eyes.

  During Bonifer’s travels he gathered word that a wise man living high atop the Killridge Mountains paid good money for animals of many sorts, and he seized the opportunity. Bonifer began quietly shipping cattle and dangerous beasts (lizards, snakes, bears, and wolves) from Anniera and Dang to the mysterious sage in the peaks. He thought little of what the man wanted with the animals and much of the gold he acquired in their sale. He planned to build a great house in Anniera, greater than the Castle Rysen, all for Madia. All for love.

  —From The Annieriad

  46

  A Poet of Plontst

  Day broke bright and clear, and a windless warmth melted the snow along the Outer Vales where Janner, Kalmar, and Oood camped. Several times during their long walk south and eastward toward the Blackwood and the foothills of the Killridge Mountains, the brothers’ minds sang with Leeli’s music and they had to stop until the vision passed.

  In the visions, Janner heard her weary thoughts and the words to the songs she played but saw only hints of the many shadows whirling about her. Kalmar, however, quaked at the vivid sight of the Bat Fangs, describing to Janner their upturned noses, their needled teeth, their veiny brown wings, and their milky eyes. He saw Leeli’s cracked lips, her wavy hair swaying as her head bobbed with the music, and he saw Nia beside her, then Podo swinging his legbone beside Rudric. But always, Gnag the Nameless lurked at the edges, taunting them, and Janner heard his gurgling old voice in his head:I’ll find you, Wingfeathers.

  When the visions vanished, the boys had no choice but shake off their fears and journey on. Late in the afternoon, when it happened for the last time, the boys saw that the Fangs had been driven back and their family was safe. They whooped and hugged one another while Oood looked on in confusion. Janner tried to explain the magic to the young troll but couldn’t make him understand.

  On the first day of their journey, they encountered no ridgerunners and no creatures more dangerous than a guggler. They camped in a blossoming apple orchard and continued on the next day as the dark line of the forest drew closer and the white peaks of the Killridges grew sharper and brighter, as if the land itself was baring its teeth. Kalmar’s speed served them well; he was able to catch a flabbit for lunch and later, when he chased a grounce into the brush, he happened to flush a flock of savory midgeons out of hiding. He caught four of the fat birds: one for each boy and two for Oood.

  On the third day they made camp near the first gangly trees of the Blackwood and decided that, with both a Fang and a troll in their company, a fire was safe enough. Besides, toothy cows were still hibernating and posed little threat so early in the spring.

  Janner, the first to wake, squatted beside the embers and nudged them to life. He heard Kalmar stir and turned to see his brother’s legs twitching with a dream. Janner tried not to think about how much it reminded him of Nugget, chasing thwaps as he slept. Kal had had no further lapses; Janner had seen no traces of yellow in his eyes, and even when Kal hunted he was himself when he came back, carrying his kill in his hands and not his mouth.

  But Janner couldn’t deny that something was happening to his brother, something he didn’t understand and couldn’t stop. He had told him again and again on their walk, “You’re the High King of Anniera. Your name is Kalmar Wingfeather.” He had made Kal repeat it back to him until it turned into a kind of chant: “I’m the son of Esben, King of the Shining Isle. I’m the son of Esben, King of the Shining Isle. I’m the son of Esben, King of the Shining Isle.” Janner heard Kal whispering it to himself as they walked. Even Oood, who must have thought it was a marching song of some kind, grinned at them and said, “I’maguhsunnub Esben, kinga da shiny eye!”

  But now, as he slept, Kal looked like a wolf. He looked like aFang. Only when Janner could see his brother’s eyes was he certain that it was the same old Tink. As Janner turned his attention back to the fire, he was startled by Oood’s voice.

  “Good Fang still?” the troll asked. He was lying on his side, a living, lumpy flesh pile at the edge of the camp. He had one fat finger deep in his ear, scratching away as if a family of mice had made a nest there in the night. Janner shuddered to think what might really be in there, and then he needed no more imagination because Oood removed his finger, caked with wax, and flicked it into the snow behind them. He laughed when Janner gagged. “Boy think Oood is yucky?”

  “No!” Janner gulped.
“Well, yes, but I don’t mind. Jannerlike Oood.”

  “Oood bring Janner to his home someday.”

  “To the Jungles of Plontst?” Janner couldn’t imagine wanting to go there—if Oood smelled as bad as this, what would a whole city of trolls do to his nostrils? To his brain? Even a honeymuffin would be better than that. “What is it like there?”

  “Treeeees,” Oood said with a sigh as he rolled onto his back and aimed his tiny eyes at the sky. “So many trees Oood can’t see blue. Big trees. Oood climb trees, trees no bend. Not dumb little trees like this,” he said, gesturing at the edge of the Blackwood, where some of the trees were as big as any Janner had ever seen.

  “Do you live in the trees?” Janner asked.

  “No, silly boy!” Oood laughed. He absentmindedly scratched his bellybutton with a stick. “Oood live in castle. Not toy castle like Throg,real castle.”

  “A castle?” Janner could hardly believe his ears. He had assumed trolls all lived in caves or swamps. “Are you a prince?”

  Oood laughed again, enough to finally wake up Kalmar. “No, not prince. Oood have big family. Family friends with king, but not king. Oood family make words.” The troll’s heavy brow furrowed as he struggled to convey his meaning. He held his giant hand out with the stick between his fingers as if he were holding a quill.

  “Write? You write?” Janner asked with surprise.

  “Write! Yes. Oood write. Oood’s papa write, his mama write.”

  “What do you write?” Janner asked.

  “Is breaffrst ready?” Kalmar mumbled as he sat up and yawned.

  Janner ignored him. “Do you write . . . stories?”

  “No stories. Oood write . . . pretty words. Words about this.” He pointed at his own chest.

  “Words about your heart?” Janner asked. “Poems?”

  “Ha! Yes. Oood writepoems.”

  Janner was speechless. Not only did trolls live in castles, they wrotepoetry?

  “Poems?” Kal said with disinterest. “That’s great. Get him to recite one tonight so I can get to sleep faster. What about breakfast?”

  “Do you know any poems?” Janner asked, ignoring Kalmar.

  “Poems? Ho ho!” Oood laughed again. His smile was so hideous that Janner couldn’t help but smile back. “Oood know poems! Poems and poems and POEMS.” Oood sat up and looked at Janner distrustfully. “Janner want Oood to say poem? Janner not make joke?”

  “No, I’m not joking,” Janner laughed. “I like poetry.”

  Oood’s mouth widened into a smile so big his eyes disappeared between his cheeks and his brow. It was a face that hadn’t had much reason to smile for a long time. Little bits of dirt that had been caked onto his skin dropped to the ground. Oood clapped. Even Kalmar stopped rooting around in the midgeon bones and listened.

  “Oood not supposed to say poem to humans. But papa and mama not here. Boys not tell. Right?”

  “Right,” Janner said. “It’s our secret.”

  Oood cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “Oood say poem called—called—in boys’ words it called ‘Rain and Fire.’ Right?”

  “Right,” Janner repeated.

  After a moment of silence, during which the sun broke the horizon and a chorus of birds sang, Oood closed his eyes and spoke in a voice that was at once soft and booming:

  Grrk. Glog-glogackwoggy!

  Grrk. Glog-glogacksnock-jibbit,

  Ooog, wacklesnodspadgenoggy,

  Nacketbrigglesweeeeeem! Grrk. Squibbit?

  When it was over, the birds had fallen silent.* Janner found that, even though the sounds had been strange and, to his ears, unpleasant, Oood’s rich voice and passionate recital had stirred his heart. Kalmar looked at Janner and raised his eyebrows as if to say, “That was a pleasant surprise.”

  Oood blinked and came back to himself, then looked at the ground bashfully.

  “Thank you, Oood,” Janner said. “That was beautiful.”

  Oood’s head whipped up and his cheeks flushed, if not red, at least a less sallow shade of warty flesh. “Boys like poem?” he asked with wonder.

  “Yes,” Kal said, stepping over and patting Oood on the shoulder. “It was great. Who’s hungry?”

  Oood shrugged shyly and poked his stick at the ground, so pleased with himself that he couldn’t meet Janner’s eyes. “Oood’s papa wrote poem. His papa GREAT poem maker.” Then his great shoulders slumped. “Oood’s papa gone. Bad trolls take papa to Gnag.” Oood’s chest rumbled in a way that would have terrified Janner in any other situation. The troll threw the stick into the fire and smashed his fist into the ground so hard that sparks flew.

  “Gnag took our papa too,” Janner said.

  “Gnag—is—BAD,” Oood boomed.

  “So let’s go get him,” Kalmar said quietly. “After breakfast.”

  Oood nodded. Janner nodded too. Kalmar sniffed at the air and spun around.

  “What is it?” Janner asked, reaching for his sword. Kalmar pointed a little way south, at the edge of the Blackwood, and Janner spotted movement but couldn’t tell what he was looking at.

  “Toothy cows. They must have smelled the fire.” Kalmar looked at Janner with worry. “A herd of them, coming fast.”

  “I guess that means they’re out of hibernation,” Janner said. “Which means they’re hungry.”

  47

  A Toothy Stampede

  “Cow?” Oood stood and peered into the distance. “Oood kill cow. Eat cow, too.”

  “Not one cow, Oood! Many cows!” Janner shouted as he shoved supplies into his pack and buckled his scabbard to his belt.

  “Many cows?” Oood patted his belly and smiled. “Oood eat MANY cows!”

  “No!” Kalmar yelled. “Many cows eat Oood! Eat boys, too!”

  At last, the sound of the stampede reached them—horrible moos, the rumble of hooves, the gnashing of yellow teeth. Finally Oood seemed to understand their peril. “Too many cows!”

  “We have to go!” Janner said.

  Oood scooped the boys into his arms like babies and ran straight for the forest. He carried them deeper into the trees with every stride, crashing into branches that Janner would have preferred to duck under. The Blackwood enveloped them while the stampede thundered toward the fire—but Janner knew the toothy cows would catch their scent soon enough.

  Janner had no time to think about Oood’s stench or the branches scraping his face because there were more toothy cows in the forest, many of them emerging groggily from burrows or stretching as if they had just awoken. It seemed all the toothy cows in the Green Hollows had chosen this particular day to wake up hungry.*

  The cows were slowed by the trees, but so was Oood. With every glance behind them Janner saw that the beasts were getting closer, and the racket was waking more of them by the minute.

  “Oood, get up into the trees!” Kalmar shouted. “Cows can’t climb!”

  Oood grunted as he leaped for the nearest branch. Janner and Kalmar braced for what was sure to be a jolting climb, but the branch broke and they all crashed to the ground. The boys tumbled through the leaves, then wobbled to their feet.

  Janner wanted to grab Kalmar and scramble up one of the trees. But what about Oood? They couldn’t just sit in the branches and watch as their friend was gobbled up. Besides, the trees were so thin that with so many cows, it wouldn’t take long for the beasts to gnaw the trunk down.

  The forest around them mooed with fury as cows of all sizes and colors charged them from every direction. Oood snapped the boys up again with a growl-moan, knocked a cow aside with one arm, and pushed on through the forest.

  Suddenly, Oood howled with pain and lurched. Janner looked over his shoulder and saw a young, skinny cow snapping at the troll’s leg. Janner drew his sword, but Kalmar had already swung around, holding Oood’s belt with one hand and swinging his sword at the cow with the other. Oood managed to reach back and punch the cow in the jaw. It tumbled to the earth and tripped several cows that were just behind it.

>   More and more cows were coming, Oood was running but wounded, and there seemed to be no end to the skinny, twisted, useless trees.

  Then Janner saw Esben.

  Well, not exactly Esben, but it looked so much like his father’s cloven form that Janner’s skin went cold. He only saw the creature for a moment, something lumpy and gray, hunched against a tree. It hadn’t appeared concerned about the toothy cow stampede, which was odd, but even odder was the fact that the cloven had been holding a sword.

  “HELP!” Oood shouted. “HELP!” It was a word trolls seldom used.

  Janner turned, wondering who in the world Oood was speaking to, and saw a mossy stone wall looming over them. At the top of the wall stood an array of monsters—hairy ones, scaly ones, skinny and girthy ones, many of whom held torches, and all of whom held weapons.

  A wide, timbered gate swung open as Oood approached, then slammed shut behind him. The cows roared and crashed into the gate, but it held. Oood staggered and fell to the ground, which hurled Janner and Kal through the air.

  Janner landed ten paces away and shook his head to clear the stars out of his eyes. He looked around at a silent multitude of cloven.

  Janner was too astonished to be afraid.

  The creatures were so varied in shape and color that Janner had a hard time distinguishing them from one another. They were like a mass of breathing body parts with eyes.

  Janner stared, dumbfounded, until one emerged from the crowd. It had the body of a horse, the torso and arms of a man, but its face was lumpy and cat-like. It wore a sword slung over its shoulder. It bowed its head at the boys and said in a rich, raspy voice, “Welcome to Clovenfast.”