The Warden and the Wolf King

by Andrew Peterson

  The monster’s grip loosened, and the children slipped to the muddy shore. Gnag seemed to have forgotten about them. Janner and Kalmar helped Leeli to her feet and then backed away to hide behind a pile of rubble.

  Gnag trudged up the nearest street. His dragon feet squelched the mud, scraped the cobblestones, and snapped fallen roof beams like dried sticks. The sounds of his march echoed off the bones of the dead city.

  Then a faint sound drifted out of the hills.

  Leeli furrowed her brow. “I’ve heard that song before,” she said.

  Another wisp of music came, clearer and pushing toward them against the wind. Janner’s heart leapt, for it was a song that trickled out of the hills, a song as green as the Hollows in full spring, a song as old as Aerwiar. Janner remembered it. He couldn’t recall why, but he remembered it. And it was a beautiful thing, welcome and warm amid the wreckage of Ban Rona.

  Kalmar sniffed and grabbed Janner’s arm. “They’re at the Field of Finley.”

  “Who?” Janner asked.

  Leeli clutched her whistleharp. “The dragons.”

  “Everyone,” Kalmar said.

  “It worked,” Leeli said. “He did it.” A smile washed over her face and she looked at her brothers with shining eyes. “Grandpa did it.”

  Thunder shook the air. The storm was about to collapse on the bay.

  “I’m so confused,” Janner said.

  “He called the dragons. Yurgen killed him, but Hulwen—the younger dragon, remember? She must have stayed and fought. I can hear her singing.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. She’s asea dragon, remember?”

  “I’m telling you, that’s Hulwen’s voice.”

  “It’s true,” Kalmar said. “I can smell her. Not just her, either. There are several of them. And Hollowsfolk by the hundreds.” Kalmar looked at Janner with a blaze of hope in his eyes. “We need to get to the field.”

  Several streets away, the Gnag-Dragon’s head bobbed above the rooftops as he wandered through the city, kicking and stamping and muttering to himself. Janner sensed his thoughts, and they were all confusion and wrath and disappointment. He seemed a monstrous child in search of a lost toy.

  But as they watched, he stopped in his tracks, canted one ear to the air and listened. Then he whipped his great bald head to the east with a grunt.

  “No!” Kalmar howled. “Leave them alone!”

  Gnag looked over the rooftops and fixed the three of them with a wicked glare. He bowed mockingly, then ran up the length of Apple Way toward the edge of the city. His tail smashed buildings as he sped past and gained speed, until he opened his wings and took to the air.

  When he flew over the Great Hall, he swooped and shouldered its stout walls in an explosion of stone that mingled with the thunder overhead. The Great Tree shuddered and limbs cracked loose in splinters. Gnag laughed with the glee of his power and sped over the hill and down into the hollows, straight for the Field of Finley.

  “We have to warn them,” Kalmar said. Then he ran. He bolted like a gray arrow, arms and legs pumping with all the strength in his heart.

  “Come on, Leeli!” Janner said, grabbing her elbow.

  “Wait.” Leeli stood her ground. “I still have this.” She held out her whistleharp and arced one of her eyebrows just as Podo would have done. “Maybe they’ll hear me.”

  Janner didn’t want to disappoint her, but there was no way her little whistleharp’s call could reach the field.

  Then the storm descended on the city. The wind howled like Janner had never heard, and he and Leeli struggled to keep their feet.

  82

  The Battle Begins

  Leeli had no song in mind. She reached deep into her soul, the music flowering from the rich soil of a hundred tunes she had sung or played over the years. The bouquet she gathered was simple and warm, glimmering with all the hope her love had planted.

  Janner stood behind her with his eyes closed, abandoning all his resentment toward the Maker and praying boldly for the song to speed over the hills to the Field of Finley.

  The storm was dark but not malevolent, a joyful blast of thunder and rain, wind and wildness. It scoured the town of every mote of Fang dust, every loose shingle, every fragment of waste. It lifted Leeli’s song like a pebble and sent it skipping across the rolling, spring-green hills and hollows—but the storm also seemed to hammer the song into the ground, where Janner sensed it pulsing eastward, flowing like an underground river.

  Janner shut his eyes and struggled to keep his footing as his Durgan cape whipped around him and Leeli both, snapping like a flag in the gale as Leeli gave herself over to the magic of the music, heedless of the stinging rain and crashing thunder.

  “Your Highness, there’s a storm coming,” Oskar said.

  “I see it.”

  Nia and the other weary survivors of the Battle of Ban Rona were gathered on the Field of Finley to pay tribute to their dead. Old and young, wounded and able, they came to the field believing the great battle—and perhaps even the war—was over. With the sea dragons’ help, the last of the Fangs had been dusted, and it seemed there was no one left to fight.

  Hulwen the Dragon Princess watched the ceremony from the eastern end of the field; the graceful, battered length of her amber body shone like a jewel in the valley’s palm. Her front two fins, now that she was out of the water, looked more like wings, her rear fins like legs. Six other dragons, old and young, also rested at the edges of the field, and Hollowsfolk from every clan were scattered among them.

  At the center of the field a bier blazed, and Rudric stood near the fire with his head bowed. Hulwen sang the lay for Yurgen’s son, the same melody they always raised at the cliffs of Glipwood under the sundered summer moon.

  “Wait! Quiet!” Nia said, and the dragons lifted their great heads to listen.

  “What is it, Your Highness?” Oskar asked. He sat on the wet grass with the First Book in his lap and peered up at Nia. He heard the melody as the wind burst over the field and his eyes widened. “Is it—”

  “Yes!” Nia cried. “It’s Leeli!”

  The Hollowsfolk murmured. The dogs whined and wagged their tails.

  Then, against the black canvas of the sky, Gnag swooped over the rise and landed on the hill. He struck the same pose he had employed in vain at the Watercraw. Nia screamed. Rudric gasped and drew his warhammer.

  Gnag heard Nia’s scream and smiled down at the gathering on the field. Then his smile faded. He saw the dragons as they lifted themselves to their full height on their fins and stared at him with defiance.

  The survivors faced Gnag, their courage wakened by Leeli’s music as it had been when the city was under siege, and drew their weapons. At the sight of the monster, they might have cowered, might have cast themselves upon Gnag’s mercy or fled, but with the melody surging through the air and earth, piercing their hearts with its great beauty, wounds were forgotten, strength was replenished, and fear only served to renew their fury.

  A gray form appeared at the top of the hill, no more than an arrowshot north of the Gnag-Dragon.

  “Kalmar?” Nia whispered.

  Kalmar answered with a mighty howl that mingled with Leeli’s song, the whistling gale, and the shouts of the Hollowsfolk. He called them to battle with the authority of a high king of Anniera.

  “Fight! Fight for the dead and the living! For the hills and hollows and the Shining Isle!” His ancestral blood spoke the words and his heart answered his own call as if he had been overtaken by a soul more courageous than his own.

  Kalmar ran straight toward Gnag. He bared his teeth and attacked. With a fool’s bright and reckless will, he leapt onto Gnag’s scaly leg and scrambled to his back. Gnag grunted with surprise and clawed at Kalmar like a man swatting at a wasp.

  The Hollowsfolk charged with the dragons and dogs and sped up the hill to aid their king. Gnag was distracted by Kalmar long enough to be caught off guard by the living wave that crashed upon him. Dragons snapp
ed at his arms and legs, Hollish men and women hacked with sword and beat with hammer, and the hounds of the Hollows tore at his heels.

  Gnag tottered and fell, a thrash of wings and white flesh struggling against their holy wrath.

  Then came the rain. All creation was bent against Gnag’s black soul as the storm descended and the warriors rose. It seemed for a moment that it would be as easy as that.

  But Gnag’s strength was great and his hatred greater. He burst from the cluster. Kalmar and the Hollowsfolk flew away like leaves in a gust; the dragons tumbled back.

  Gnag snarled, bared his rotten teeth, rolled his bulging black eyes, and leapt into the air with a growl of triumph. He spread his wings and flapped free. The wind kicked him from side to side, but he gloated in the sky, feinting and diving amidst flashes of lightning, then swooping to batter Hollowsfolk, dogs, and dragons alike.

  Kalmar stood at the center of the melee with a sword he had taken up from a fallen Hollish warrior. “Come down and fight!” he screamed, and his words roused the warriors again.

  Gnag loosed a bestial bellow and dove again, aiming for Kalmar alone. Kalmar dove to the side, affording the dragons and warriors a chance to stab and bite at the monster. Gnag flapped into the air again. He was wounded, with blackish sludge running down his flanks instead of red blood, yet he was unfazed, and again he exulted. He circled above and laughed like the thunder that rumbled over the field.

  “Kal!” Nia shouted, running up the hill with the others. “Where are Leeli and Janner?”

  “They’re alive,” he answered without taking his eyes from Gnag. “They’re at Ban Rona.” Nia wanted to hug him and knew he wanted to be hugged, but this wasn’t the time. He wasn’t just her son—he was the king, and the people needed a king to follow.

  “Kalmar,” Rudric said as he approached. “Is that him?”

  “Gnag the Nameless,” Kalmar said, “but worse.”

  Nia stood beside Kalmar and watched Gnag, wondering how they would defeat such an enemy, even with the sea dragons on their side. She looked at Hulwen, who pushed herself up as well as she could, snapping vainly at the air. The other dragons did the same. For the moment, Gnag seemed content to taunt them as he circled them in the air.

  “What is he doing?” Kalmar asked. Gnag’s attention was drawn to the hills in the south, as if he were peering at the distant mountains, thinking of his lair.

  “He’s leaving,” Nia said angrily. “We can’t let him escape. This is our chance to end this forever.”

  “He’s not leaving. Maker help us.” Kalmar pointed to the south.

  Gnag threw back his head and bellowed, “COME, MY MINIONS! SUBDUE AND DESTROY!”

  Kalmar, Nia, and Rudric watched a tide of ridgerunners pour into the valley. Grey Fangs ran among them, shouting orders. Some of the ridgerunners whirled slings over their heads while others shot arrows—the first of which thunked into Hulwen’s side. She roared with pain as she heaved her girth around to meet the onrush.

  The Hollowsfolk gathered into a line and braced for the ridgerunners’ charge. They were a skirmishing race, unaccustomed to open battle, so no eye had ever seen so many of them in one place.

  Kalmar shouted for them to stop. They were enemies, yes, but were in truth only loyal to themselves and their fruit. Nia knew it was some empty promise of reward from Gnag that now drove them to their doom. Hollish warriors looked to Kalmar for orders; they didn’t want to slay the ridgerunners, but there were thousands of them.

  Ridgerunner arrows and stones wounded and killed Hollish brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers just as surely as if Fangs had loosed them. The first of the little creatures fell easily to the Hollish defense as Gnag wheeled and the storm shook the heavens. There was little to do but fight back. The uncertainty of the Hollowsfolk turned to desperation as they realized how outnumbered they were.

  Then, as the Gray Fangs among the ridgerunners pushed through, howled and struck, another wave of Green, Grey, and Bat Fangs swept over the hill behind them. They had sent the ridgerunners first to take the brunt of the Hollish defense.

  The sea dragons did their part, raking their fins and tails through the ranks of ridgerunners, roaring and chomping and pounding as if threshing wheat. Even Oskar N. Reteep had found a sword and swung it like an old woman swatting flies. Ridgerunners fell, but more came—and more streamed in from the hills. Every minute, more Hollish warriors and dogs died, and it was clear that soon there would be nothing to do but surrender or be crushed.

  Everything Nia knew to be true of the men and women of the Hollows told her that they would never surrender; when the storm passed, the sun would shine on a field of death and defeat. The dragons might survive, but what of that? They would make their way back to the sea and live on in the silent deeps.

  “Slay them all!” Gnag said as he swooped overhead.

  Nia, jostled by warriors pressing into battle from the rear, looked behind them as if some unforeseen aid might sweep over the opposing hill, but none came. Who was left to fight? These were the last of the Hollowsfolk. There were no more Annierans.

  Then her eyes were drawn to the west, toward Ban Rona, and she saw that Janner and Leeli had reached the field at last. They stood together in the wind and rain, looking on with shock. Their eyes met Nia’s, and the strength of their love passed between them. Janner took a step nearer the chaos. Nia knew he wanted to fight, but she waved her arms and screamed, “Janner, no! Keep Leeli safe!”

  Janner couldn’t hear her, but he seemed to understand. He grabbed Leeli’s hand and pulled her back, but Leeli jerked her arm away and lifted her whistleharp to her mouth. Nia fought back a shrieking ridgerunner that had broken the line, then she waved her sword in the air and shook her head. “Leeli, don’t!” Leeli and Janner were helplessly exposed, standing where Gnag could swoop down and kill them in an instant. Her music would only draw his attention.

  Then Nia saw Leeli pointing beyond the field and saying something to Janner. He peered into the eastern hills, and his jaw fell open.

  Nia had no time to wonder what Janner had seen because Rudric shouted her name. She turned in time to face a wounded Gray Fang with a short sword. It snarled at her and lunged. Nia tried to dodge the blow, but two ridgerunners were tugging at her dress and threw her off balance. Just before the Fang’s sword struck, Rudric’s hammer slammed into the Fang’s chest and sent it soaring backwards. It turned to dust before it hit the ground.

  The six dragons—for one had fallen—writhed under a heap of stabbing ridgerunners, hundreds of the little beasts on each of them. Poor Hulwen moaned as she struggled. Everywhere Nia looked her people and allies were either wounded or dead—and above it all, glorying in his certain victory, was Gnag the Nameless.

  83

  Hulwen’s Healing

  “Oood!” Janner shouted, all but dancing for joy. The troll was a long way off, cresting the opposite hill, but Janner knew it was him. He didn’t understand how, but he didn’t care. Oood was alive.

  And he was riding something. That something had a mouthful of dangerous yellow teeth—and it mooed. The toothy cow turned its head to snap at Oood, and the troll thumped its jaw and waved a disapproving finger. The cow obeyed.

  Just behind Oood, a throng of lurching, misshapen cloven appeared on the hill and spread out on either side of him. Elder Cadwick galloped up next to Oood and surveyed the chaos. He raised a sword and shouted, and his voice carried through the rain and wind to Janner and Leeli.

  “I can’t believe it.” Janner laughed and pointed. “I can’t believe it!”

  “Who is it?” Leeli asked.

  “The cloven,” Janner said. “And one wonderful troll.”

  Cadwick charged down the hill, and the cloven followed with Oood among them. The Fangs and ridgerunners in the fray didn’t see them until it was too late. The cloven cut into the enemy’s ranks like a plough into a garden plot, and Gnag’s army rolled like churned soil.

  There were hundreds of cloven,
small and large, long-limbed and skittering, furry and lumpy—every one of them grobbling or shrieking with battle rage. Oood, who seemed to have grown since Janner had seen him last, slung his fists like battering rams.

  The Fangs’ morale broke. They cowered and stumbled and wailed, and then they began to retreat. Ridgerunners shot away from the slaughter like bees from a hive.

  The dragons, though nearly overwhelmed, had decimated the enemy’s numbers—but they’d done so at great cost. Two more of the dragons were dead, and the remaining four lurched about the field, badly wounded.

  From the hill, Janner watched Kalmar, Nia, and Rudric hurry over to Elder Cadwick as the Hollish warriors stared warily at the cloven. They spoke a few words then began gathering weapons from fallen comrades and readying themselves for the next attack. Cadwick barked orders at the cloven and they reinforced the Hollish line, which was arranged protectively in front of the battered dragons.

  The battle lulled—but only for a moment. Gnag the Nameless was enraged. He bellowed from the sky, ordering his army to attack, and the Fang commanders rallied their forces and sent a new wave streaming onto the Field of Finley.

  “Janner, we have to help,” Leeli said, with Podo’s fire in her voice.

  “Mama told us to stay back,” Janner said. “I have to keep you safe.”

  “Then keep me safe.”

  Leeli broke away and limped as fast as she could down the hill. Janner followed, but made no attempt to stop her. They reached the field just as the new wave of Fangs and ridgerunners smashed into the defense.

  Leeli limped straight to Hulwen and knelt at her head. The dragon was alive, but her chest rose and fell unsteadily as she struggled to breathe. Her wounds bled freely. Hulwen’s broken fin—the one Podo had maimed years ago—lay in the mud near Leeli’s twisted leg as she stroked Hulwen’s face and spoke soothing words, oblivious to the battle.