A Royal Guide to Monster Slaying

by Kelley Armstrong

That’s when something hits the back of my head. Lands on it. I twist to see brown fur and creamy antlers. A squeak that tells me I haven’t been attacked by a monster. Well, I have, but it’s only the blasted jackalope.

  He must have woken alone and come running, following my scent trail. Seeing me, he took a flying leap at my head. Now he’s falling, squealing in panic. I twist to catch him before he tumbles into the stream, but I move too fast. I’m already off-balance from him landing on my head, and when I grab him, I start to fall.

  I throw him onto the bank and grab for a rock. My left hand doesn’t find one. My right does, but it touches down on a wet, mossy stone. Before I can get a grip, my fingers slide off, and I tumble into the stream.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  he stream is fast-moving, but the spot I chose for washing is shallow. I’m very pleased with myself for thinking about it beforehand. I’ll be fine. Just fine. The current tosses me, but I manage to get onto all fours. Meanwhile, the jackalope goes crazy on the bank, tearing about and screeching his alert call.

  “I’m fine,” I shout to him. “Just hold on.”

  The water isn’t even knee deep. I push to my feet and walk slowly. I lift one foot and—

  It’s wedged under a rock. When I try to free it, I slip and the current grabs me. The next thing I know, I’m on my back with the water rushing over me. My foot’s trapped, and water rushes over my face like someone’s dragging me backward against the current. I sputter and gag. Water fills my nose and mouth, and I can’t breathe.

  I can’t breathe.

  I escaped a gryphon, and I’m going to drown in knee-deep water.

  I kick wildly. My foot flies free and I tumble downstream so fast I can’t even flip over. My back scrapes over rocks as I spin.

  Sputtering and blinking, I spot an overhanging branch.

  The branch rushes at me full speed, about to whip past over my head. I reach up and my fingers skim the leaves. One hand smacks solid wood. I grab the branch and I hang there, my body caught in the current and being dragged downstream. I grit my teeth and stretch my other hand up. Water blinds me, and I fumble around. Then my fingers find the branch.

  Holding it with both hands, I inch toward shore. One hand slips. I flail, and the current grabs me, ripping the branch from my hand. I drop backward…right onto the shore.

  My legs rest on the ground, but my upper body still lies in a shallow pool, water spraying my face. I resist the urge to scramble onto land, and I catch my breath first.

  When a growl ripples over, I freeze. It comes from behind my right shoulder. I twist, but wet curls plaster my face. I blink and see a familiar form. Blurry but familiar.

  “Malric,” I say, the word coming in an exhale of relief.

  He growls again, his head lowered.

  I roll onto the shore. “Yes, yes, I’ve gotten myself into a terrible mess. Again. But I’m fine.”

  I flip my hair back as I sit up. “Let’s get back to camp—”

  I stop as I look over to see…not Malric. I jump to my feet, hand reaching for my sword, only to realize it’s back in the cave where I slept. All I have is my dagger.

  The beast lunges. I spin out of its way. My foot hits sand, and I nearly skid into the water. I manage to right myself and back up fast with my dagger raised.

  The creature in front of me has a canine body, hunched shoulders and a sloping back. Its fur is reddish-brown with yellow stripes. It has the face of a wild dog and the snout of a boar. A boar’s tusks, too. Sharp, deadly tusks.

  Warakin.

  The beast charges. I dodge—away from the stream this time. I brandish my dagger at the beast, but it pays no attention. I don’t blame it. While a warakin isn’t as big as a warg, it’s larger than a wolf, and it’s not at all afraid of a girl waving a blade shorter than its tusks.

  So we dance. It charges. I spin out of the way. Charge. Spin. As I move, ducking and dodging, I keep glancing at the stream. I’d be safe in the water. Safe from the warakin. Not safe from that fast-running current.

  I see rocks, though. Three big stones cross the stream like lily pads.

  The next time the warakin charges, I wait until the last second before dodging. Then I keep running for that first rock. I just need to jump—

  Something hits my arm and knocks me off balance. As I stumble, I see an arrow lodged in my sleeve. Where—?

  Forget the arrow. There’s a warakin running straight at me. I dive to the side and hit the ground in a roll. I’m leaping up when another arrow whizzes past. It hits the warakin in the shoulder. The beast squeals in rage.

  “Tree!” a voice shouts.

  The warakin rushes at me. I try to dodge, but a bush blocks my way. Instead, I vault over the beast and run.

  “Get in the tree!” Running footsteps accompany the voice.

  I scramble to a stop. The warakin is right there, its nostrils flaring. I raise my dagger, ready to jab—

  A figure bursts through the undergrowth, running at the warakin. The beast swings toward it…and the figure leaps the beast like a hurdle, landing on its feet. His feet. It’s a boy, holding a bow.

  “Get in the tree!” he snarls at me.

  I see the arrow on the ground—the one that fell out of my sleeve. I grab it. When the warakin charges, I jab it in the shoulder as I spin out of the way. The beast lunges at me. I jab it again.

  The boy yells dire warnings of doom. Angry warnings. Which is a little annoying. I’m fending off a warakin with a dagger, an arrowhead and fancy footwork. He should be impressed. Instead he’s yelling at me like I’m a village child, frozen in terror, about to be gored by the beast’s tusks.

  “Get out of the way!” he shouts as I dive away from the warakin.

  The warakin snorts, growing winded. It’s bleeding from a half dozen cuts. When it charges again, it’s more of a lurch. I lift the arrowhead, and the beast stops short. It looks from me to the arrow, as if considering the odds of goring me versus the odds of adding to its patchwork of shallow cuts.

  The beast paws the ground. I brandish the arrowhead in one hand and my dagger in the other.

  The warakin looks to the side, ready to bolt, needing only a little incentive. I lunge, yelling, “Hie!”

  The warakin takes off…just as the boy fires another arrow. While the warakin crashes through the forest, I straighten and prepare to receive at least a grudging show of admiration.

  The poor boy can’t even seem to form words. Shocked and overwhelmed. I don’t blame him. A warakin encounter is a frightening thing.

  “What was that?” he finally sputters.

  “A warakin. It’s—”

  “I know what a warakin is. You drove it off.”

  “Yes. The thing to remember about warakins is that they have a low pain tolerance—”

  “I was trying to kill it, and you drove it off.”

  “Killing it was unnecessary,” I say, channeling Jannah. “Most monsters can be frightened away, and that is always the preferred outcome.”

  His face goes bright red. With embarrassment, I think, and I’m about to tell him there’s no need for that. But when he speaks, it’s through teeth clenched in anger. “I saved your life, and this is how you repay me? Driving off my prey?”

  “Saved my life?” I say. “I wasn’t in any danger until you showed up. I was escaping across the stream.”

  “It looks like you already fell in it.”

  “I went swimming.”

  “In your clothing?” Before I can answer, he stiffens, pulling another arrow from his quiver. “Step away from the stream.”

  “What—?”

  Something crashes through the water behind me. I turn, and this time it is, undoubtedly, Malric.

  “Finally,” I say. “How long did it take you to realize—”

  “That is a warg,” the boy says, enunciating each word.

  “Well, of course it is. Wolves don’t grow that big.”

  “Step away—”

  “It’s fine. He�
��s my companion. Just don’t make any sudden moves. And don’t pet him. If you value all your fingers, do not even try to pet—”

  The boy lunges between me and the warg, bow strung. Malric leaps onto the shore and lowers his head, growling.

  “Stop,” I say. “Both of you. That’s my warg. He’s—”

  The boy pulls back his bowstring. I race between them and throw myself onto Malric, knocking him to the ground and shielding him with my body. Then I twist to ward off the boy, but he’s stopped there, staring at me lying on the warg. He blinks.

  Then he says, his voice low, “Move slowly. You’ve caught him off guard, and if you move slowly—”

  “He’s with me.”

  “You’ve eaten something in the forest, haven’t you? It’s clouded your mind.”

  “His name is Malric.” I steel myself, reach out and carefully pat the warg’s head. I’m ready to yank my hand away, but the beast tolerates it, eyes only narrowing. I keep patting him. “Good warg. What a good warg.”

  I rise and motion for Malric to rise with me. To my surprise, he does. Then he stands beside me, pressed up against my hip. I rest my hand on his head, which is kind of awkward when it nearly reaches my shoulder.

  As the boy stares at us, I get my first good look at him. He’s about my age. Rhydd’s height. A slighter build. Hair that looks nearly black, straighter than ours and longer than Rhydd’s. Dark eyes, too. His skin is a deeper shade of brown. He’s dressed like a woodsman, in trousers and a tunic and tall boots, with his hair drawn back at the nape of his neck. He carries a bow on his back and a dagger at his hip. Clearly a boy ready to face whatever dangers the Dunnian Woods might offer.

  He opens his mouth to speak again, but he’s cut short by a frantic squeaking from the other side of the stream. It’s the jackalope, racing back and forth along the shore.

  The boy squints at the tiny beast. “What is that?”

  “Jackalope.”

  He shakes his head. “Jackalopes have antlers, and they’re much bigger.”

  I walk to the stream and hop onto the first lily-pad rock.

  “Wait!” the boy says. “Don’t get so close. I think it’s a diseased rabbit.” His footsteps thump behind me. “See those growths on its head?”

  “It’s a baby jackalope.”

  The jackalope leaps onto the first rock…and starts to slip off it. I hurry across and put out my arms, and he leaps into them.

  I turn to the boy and hold it out. “My jackalope.”

  As I hop back to shore, the boy’s eyes narrow, like Malric’s did earlier. “Your jackalope.”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s his name then?”

  “Jacka—” I stop and struggle for an idea.

  “Jacko?”

  “Uh…yes,” I say. “His name is Jacko.”

  “You named your jackalope Jacko? That might be the dumbest thing I have ever heard.”

  I lift my chin. “I like it. So does he. Don’t you, ja…Jacko?”

  The jackalope climbs onto my shoulder and does his head-perch thing. The boy looks from the jackalope to me to Malric. Then he takes a slow step back.

  “You’re a witch,” he says.

  I sigh. “There is no such thing as witches. They’re the product of overactive imaginations and limited educations.”

  His face turns a weird shade of red as he sputters, “Excuse me?”

  “My mother says that when people lack a firm understanding of sciences, they find alternate explanations for unusual occurrences. That is the basis of superstition.” I pause. “I hope that isn’t why you were pursuing the warakin. Its tusks don’t actually cure indigestion.”

  “I know that,” he snaps.

  “Well, when you accuse me of being a witch, I have to wonder. There is no such thing as witches. Monsters are made by nature, not magic.”

  His face darkens. “I am well versed in the science of monsters.”

  “Are you? Because I just caught you trying to slaughter a warakin who could easily be scared back to the mountains.”

  “That warakin has been slaughtering livestock since the last snowfall. I was hired to kill it.”

  “You took a bounty on a warakin?” I look around. “Be careful. There’s a master hunter who lives in these woods, and he would not appreciate a boy taking his business.”

  “I—” He shuts his mouth and glares at me. “That is not your concern. Your concern is that you robbed me of that bounty. I’ve been tracking that warakin for three days. You owe me two silver.”

  I pluck at my wet clothes. “Does it look like I’m hiding two silver?”

  His gaze drops to my side. “That dagger is worth at least as much.”

  “Would you like it?” I ask.

  His gaze is fixed on the dagger, eyes glittering like a raven spotting a shiny coin. I turn it over in my hands, showing off the fine workmanship. He doesn’t exactly drool, but he looks close to it.

  I wrap my fingers around the handle and brandish the blade. “Then come get it.”

  Jacko plunges between us, chattering and gnashing his teeth.

  The boy looks at the jackalope. Then at me. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Don’t fight my jackalope.”

  “I’m not going to hurt—”

  “That was a warning, not a request. He’s been trained in eye-gouging.”

  The boy starts to snort a laugh. Then he looks at Jacko, who is waving his antler prongs. He stops laughing.

  “If you want the dagger, you must take it from me. I will ask my beasts to stand down.”

  “I’m not going to hurt a girl.”

  “Oh, please. Just try to hurt me. And before you do, remember which of us wounded that warakin and sent it running, while soaking wet and armed only with a dagger and an arrow—an arrow you misfired.”

  “I didn’t misfire—”

  “So you were aiming at me?”

  He scowls. “Maybe. And I won’t take your dagger. I’m not a thief. I am an honest hunter.”

  “Excellent. Then you will honestly admit that you lost your prey. Now, I have a journey to resume, and I’m sure you have things to do. Like explaining to your client that you have successfully driven off the warakin and, if it does not return in a fortnight, you would like your two silver.”

  With Malric following, I step onto the first stream rock. I turn and put my arms out for the jackalope. He runs and leaps into them.

  As I step to the next rock, the boy calls, “Well, I’m glad to see you don’t let it ride on your head. That looked completely ridiculous.”

  I face him. Then I lift Jacko to my shoulders. He settles onto my head. I lift my chin, step onto the other bank, and walk away.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ’ll need to speak to Wilmot about the boy in the woods. Monster hunting is a dangerous sport, not a way to make a few extra coins. I’m still a royal princess, and I must look after my subjects.

  I find the cave where we slept and retrieve my sword and pack. Then I set out along the stream. When the sun is straight overhead, I begin to see landmarks that’ll lead me to Wilmot’s cabin.

  Past a bend in the stream, I spot a wooden cottage, a little smaller than a village home. Outside, a man tends chickens. When I draw nearer, I realize they’re young basans, already the size of regular fowl. The birds are red and black, with bright red combs. The legends say they spit cold fire. That’s not true, of course. Instead, they spit a mist-like venom that causes mild burns. They also lay eggs. Big, red, delicious eggs.

  The man tending them must be Wilmot. My grandparents figured his family came from over the mountains because his skin was so much lighter than ours. His hair is light, too—the color of hay, as Berinon had described it.

  I ask Malric to wait at the forest edge. Then I place Jacko on the ground a few feet from the warg. When the jackalope hops after me, I bend and firmly whisper for him to stay. I take another step…and he hops to catch up. So does Malric.

  Well, the
warg doesn’t hop, though that’d be funny. Malric walks over and plunks one giant paw on the jackalope, who squeaks. Then the warg grunts, as if saying to me, “Well, go on.”

  I approach Wilmot, who is still bent over the basan coop with his back to me. As I walk, I brace myself. Berinon has warned that Wilmot is neither warm nor friendly.

  I swear the only time I ever saw him smile was for Jannah.

  I stop a few feet back, take a deep breath and say, “Wilmot.”

  He turns. There’s a bandage on his left temple, his hair flopping over it. The bandage droops over his eye, but the other one peers at me, bright blue. I steel myself for him to snap and demand to know who I am.

  Instead, he peers at me. He tucks the bandage away from his eye. Then his face lights in a smile as he rises.

  “Jannah.”

  I blink. People say I resemble my aunt when she was a girl, but it’s impossible to mistake me for a grown woman.

  “You’re late,” he says. “The sun will set soon, and the master archer is waiting.”

  “I’m…not Jannah.”

  He rolls his eyes. “I know you hate archery, Jani, but you aren’t ducking a lesson that easily. The master won’t mistake you for Mari again. Not dressed like…” He studies me. “You’re filthy. Have you been in the forest all day? Avoiding your studies?”

  I open my mouth.

  He waves off my reply. “No matter. I’m supposed to bring you to the master and join your archery lesson. Not that I need the practice.”

  He smiles when he says that, his blue eyes dancing. Then he waits, and his brow begins to furrow.

  “Are you all right, Jani?” he asks. “Since you missed the opportunity to insult my archery, then you must be unwell.”

  He’s mistaking me for Jannah. Not the adult Jannah, but the child he knew.

  I know when people age, they can get confused. Elderly villagers have mistaken me for my aunt. But Wilmot isn’t elderly. Berinon said he’s a year older than Jannah, which makes him thirty-three.

  My gaze goes to that bandage on his temple. Last year, when a blow knocked Rhydd out, he’d woken asking for Dad, and he’d been confused all day.

  Wilmot is smiling, relaxed and pleased to see me. I expected a fight. An argument. Instead, the best monster hunter in Tamarel is waiting for me to come train with him. If he thinks I’m Jannah, is it wrong to take advantage?