And the bird sensed Bolt.
Bolt thought: Save her! Obey me! I am one of you! He hammered the Penguin King with his thoughts. Orders. They were connected, Bolt and the Penguin King. Linked. Two birds of a feather.
The Fortune Teller released the lever. The penguin jumped. The floorboards swung open.
Penguins are tremendous leapers. The Penguin King sailed forward and its beak pierced the rope before it grew taut. The rope snapped, and Annika fell to the ground below the platform, free from the noose.
Then the Penguin King jumped into the crowd, biting and yelping a violent bark.
“The king! He’s gone mad!” yelled a man in the crowd, the penguin snapping at him, the people stampeding to escape, and Bolt watching in shock and horror.
29.
The Tunnels
Stop! Bolt’s mind shouted to the Penguin King. Bolt tried to force his voice into the bird’s brain as it ran around, snapping at terrified villagers.
But he couldn’t get through to the bird.
Something was blocking Bolt.
But Bolt could hear thoughts hammering themselves into the penguin’s clouded mind—thoughts that came from someone else.
Hurt people! Bite! No fish sticks for you!
The Baron. He stood on the opposite side of the platform, snarling and muttering to himself.
No, muttering to the Penguin King, ordering it to attack.
At the same moment that Bolt stared at the Baron, the Baron looked up and stared back at Bolt. Their eyes locked. Bolt could hear the Baron’s voice echo inside him.
We were meant to rule! We are one! We are BFFs!
Bolt turned to run, to escape, clearing the Baron’s mad thoughts from his head as best he could. But there were so many people running and panicking that it was hard to move anywhere. Bolt stumbled through the rioting, frightened mob. People shoved and scrambled in random directions. Bolt was knocked and bumped. He spun and reeled.
Bolt felt a warm hand grabbing his shoulder, halting his spinning and reeling. He flinched, expecting the worst.
It was Annika.
“Are you kidnapping me?” asked Bolt, as a man ran into them both, screamed, and then kept running. “Because I’m sort of busy trying not to get trampled.”
“No, I’m not kidnapping you. Not now. But if you want to get out of here, follow me.”
Annika was quick, ducking between the legs of a man wearing a cumbersome penguin costume and leaping around a woman on crutches. She sidestepped a man holding a heavy tuba and rolled past another man carrying a stack of bricks.
She seemed to find every small crevice between villagers, every hole that was wide enough to wiggle through or squeeze past. More than once she stopped to wait for Bolt, who was slower and clumsier than she. His wingtip shoes didn’t help his speed or nimbleness. The soles were still slippery.
Annika jumped around three men and then rolled around another. Bolt jumped and rolled, too, but he was stopped mid-somersault by someone’s foot. A hand grabbed his arm and yanked him to his feet.
“I’ve got you now, whale hater!” yelled Günter. He still wore his fuzzy Brotherhood robe. “Franz! I have him!” The crowd rushed around them, but no one stopped. The mob was in an uncontrollable panic, too frenzied to pay them attention.
“Let me go! And I don’t hate whales,” yelped Bolt. He tried to tear his arm loose, but the man’s grip was strong, and Bolt was not.
“He is in league with the devil!” yelled Günter, waving his bread. A few people turned to look at Bolt and screamed, but everyone was already screaming, so it was hard to say what exactly they were screaming about: Bolt, the French bread, or just from the general chaos.
Günter raised his loaf. It looked crustier and harder this close, so near Bolt’s head. “I should have fed you to the alligators, if only we had some alligators. But you’ll be sorry you dared mess with the Brotherhood.”
“Or maybe the Sisterhood, or something else,” said a passing stranger in the crowd.
Bolt again tried to free himself, but could not. Had Bolt escaped the Baron’s manor only to meet his end here, in a panicked crowd, beaten by overbaked bread?
Someone pushed Günter from behind. “Hey!” he cried, stumbling forward and releasing his grip on Bolt, his arms flailing.
The crowd swallowed him as Annika grabbed Bolt’s hand. “Come on!”
As Günter shoved his way back through the crowd, Annika and Bolt dashed the opposite way, tumbling and ducking through the panicking villagers. “I’ll get you, whale hater!” the prince cried, his voice already distant.
“The boy really doesn’t look like he hates whales,” said someone racing by them.
Soon the mob thinned, and Bolt and Annika sprinted out of the village square and down a narrow stone path that ran along the side of a small building. From the disrepair of the path, and the weeds sprouting up between the stones, it was clear this was not a path used often. The trail wound past the building’s lawn and twisted into a clump of trees. Annika pointed at a circular reddish iron door in the ground covered by a thin layer of dirt. She knelt down, wiped away the dirt, and raised the cover, which lifted with a rusty squeak. “In here!”
“What’s down there?” asked Bolt. Although he had often bolted under beds, he did not enjoy the thought of bolting underground.
Annika jabbed him. “Quick! Go!”
Bolt peered down into the dark, unlit hole. “Maybe we can hide somewhere sunnier?” Annika frowned, jabbed again, and Bolt sighed. He scampered down a small ladder leading into blackness. Annika followed, but not before pushing the cover back in place, smothering any light.
After only descending a few steps, the ladder ended. “Drop,” Annika ordered.
“But I don’t see anything.”
“You’ll be fine, I promise you. And bandits always keep their word, or at least usually. It’s part of the Code of the Bandit, which I’ve read twice.”
Bolt knew nothing of bandit codes but took a leap of faith, literally, and dropped down. After only a few feet, Bolt landed on soft, spongy dirt. He scampered out of the way so Annika could drop down without landing on top of him.
The place smelled of earthen clay and rot. It was quiet, the sounds from above completely silenced. Bolt stood, rigid, as a feeling of panic rose inside him. He wondered if these dark spaces were filled with moles and moths, like the dark spaces back at the orphanage.
He waited for a mole to bite his feet.
A light blazed to the side. Annika stood, holding a torch and blowing out a match. With the flame she lit a series of gas lamps that hung on the wall. Their flames crackled and lit the cavernous space in a fiery glow, casting moving, distorted shadows upon the walls. “We’re fine. For now,” said Annika.
“Where are we?” asked Bolt. His voice echoed. Three paths led from the recess where they stood, each plunging into darkness. Bolt felt like he was in another world, a dark and dirty world, but at least a world where he wouldn’t be trampled by frenzied mobs.
“These tunnels were built during the Great Bird Battle,” explained Annika. The lantern flames flickered against her deep-green eyes. “They come in handy for making quick bandit getaways.”
“So you come down here a lot?”
“No, my papa says I’m too young to rob and kidnap— and he’s so wrong about that, by the way—but I’ve studied the maps. There are many secret tunnels throughout the village and in lots of buildings and houses, if you know where to look for them.” Annika pointed to the three passageways. “I think that tunnel leads to the forest. I’m pretty sure that one leads out of Brugaria. And that one must lead to the Fish Stick Stand—running around tunnels all day can make you hungry.” She jabbed her finger toward the middle tunnel. “I’m taking that tunnel, the one out of Brugaria. There aren’t enough carriages driving around here for me to kidnap s
omeone, and I need to prove I’m the greatest bandit who ever lived.”
Bolt stared at the tunnels. He stepped toward one, shook his head and stopped, and stepped toward another, then shook his head and stopped and stepped toward another, and then repeated doing this over and over again, unsure which path to take.
“Stop doing that,” said Annika. “It’s annoying.”
“But what should I do?” wailed Bolt. “Run? Eat fish sticks? Or just continue taking small steps toward various tunnel entrances?”
“One of the first two, please.”
Bolt took a deep breath. If he went with Annika, maybe he could escape the Baron. He would turn into a penguin, of course, but there were worse things, maybe? He couldn’t think of any, but maybe life wouldn’t be so bad, as long as he was free of the Baron’s diabolical clutches.
But his legs didn’t move toward the middle tunnel. For the first time Bolt could remember, he was hesitant to bolt from real danger.
What sort of life would he live, if he bolted now? He would never have a family, not a real family, anyway. That was all he had ever wanted. Was he truly prepared to bolt from that? Wouldn’t he risk everything for that chance, even if the chance was but a thin whisper of one?
He was so lost in thought and indecision and taking small steps toward the tunnels that he didn’t notice Annika stepping toward him. “You look different, more penguin-like, and I saw you last night running with the penguins. I want to know what’s going on.”
Bolt shook his head. “I can’t tell you. It’s all too horrible.”
“As we ran through the crowd I grabbed a book of matches, three used tissues”—she paused, scowled, and wiped her fingers on her pants—“and this.” She removed a knife from her belt and inched it toward Bolt’s neck, so the metal touched his skin. “Maybe I should slit your throat.”
“I guess I can tell you,” said Bolt, with a gulp. “And sorry about the loud gulping. I know you don’t like that.”
30.
Decisions, Decisions, and Indecisions
Annika leaned against the tunnel wall, the back of her tattered penguin clothing clinging to the moisture in the dirt, her knife held loosely in her hand. She straightened and brushed off some mud on her shoulder. She thought about everything Bolt had just told her.
As she had suspected, the penguins were growing bolder, nastier.
As she had feared, the Baron was planning on using them to start a war.
And as she had believed possible, even though it seemed impossible, Bolt was turning into a werepenguin. He could talk to the penguins, too. He had even saved Annika’s life.
It was a lot to take in. Annika rubbed her finger on the underside of her knife’s blade. It calmed her. Unlike a werepenguin, a knife didn’t turn into something else at night, such as a fork or a spoon. It just was. The knife didn’t just make her feel grounded. It made her feel strong. Powerful.
She might not be the greatest bandit who ever lived, at least not yet. But she had escaped a frenzied mob. She had picked pockets and stolen a knife and matches. She hadn’t even cried during the hanging even though many bandits cried before hanging, and it was explicitly allowed by the Code of the Bandit.
Let the penguins attack—she was armed and ready for them!
Or not.
Who was she kidding?
She stomped her foot. She couldn’t even escape from a simple hanging by herself. She had to be saved by some skinny non-bandit boy. She was grateful—how could she not be?—but also embarrassed. The greatest bandit who ever lived would never need help from anyone, even if that someone could speak to penguins.
But even more than the frustration she felt from needing Bolt’s assistance to escape the villagers, even more than the yearning that burned inside her head to prove her bandit mettle, one dreadful question plagued her:
What will happen to the Brugarian bandits if the Baron wages war?
No, when he wages war?
A moment ago, Annika had not doubted what she should do next. She would run away and practice banditry. Kidnapping! Robbery!
But now? How could she abandon her family now?
The bandits had a bargain with the Baron. He left them alone as long as they paid a kidnapping tax. Annika doubted the Baron would keep that truce.
She had to warn the bandits, but she also knew her father was stubborn. If she went home to warn them, would her father even believe her? He was as hard and untransformable as the knife in her hand.
A sound interrupted her thoughts. The cover above them slid open with a loud metallic scrape. Bolt stood, seemingly frozen, staring up as sunlight poured into the dim, hand-dug tunnel.
Annika ran down the nearest tunnel, then stopped, plastered herself against the wall, and let the darkness swallow her. She controlled her breathing, like an experienced bandit spy.
“There you are, Bolt,” said the Baron, dropping down into the tunnel, landing on his feet and grinning. “I know about these tunnels, of course. I’ve studied them for many years.” Bolt stood, his legs shaking, his knees clacking loudly against each other. “It’s a shame you made the Penguin King snap that noose. A good hanging is hard to find these days. But still, it was impressive. You haven’t even fully transformed into a werepenguin and you’re already ordering birds around. You are a natural commander. We will make a fine team.”
“I will never lead the penguins into war,” said Bolt. Although his legs quaked, his voice was steady. It sounded almost firm and cruel. Annika watched, impressed.
“When your transformation is complete, I will make sure you want nothing else,” said the Baron with a chuckle. “But now you’re coming back with me.”
Annika stepped forward.
She knew fighting the Baron alone wasn’t the smartest idea. He was powerful and cunning, and she would never become the greatest bandit who ever lived by foolishly fighting enemies that were powerful and cunning.
But she owed Bolt for saving her life, and bandits always paid their debts. Even more than that, she needed him. Just one look at the were-monster that Bolt was becoming, one glimpse at his face, revealed the terrible truth of the war to come. With Bolt, maybe she could convince her father of the threat they were up against. Even a knife can bend with enough heat.
Better still, she could defeat the Baron right now. What better way to show her father how fierce a fighter she could be?
Annika inched out of the tunnel. “Hold it right there. Bolt isn’t going anywhere with you.”
The Baron turned, surprised. But when he saw Annika, he didn’t shake. He didn’t even seem worried. Instead, he laughed and then yawned. “And what do you think you can do?”
Annika held the knife in front of her. “Plenty. I’m the greatest bandit who ever lived.”
She only wished those words were true.
31.
You Don’t Want to See Me Very Angry
Although Bolt wanted to bolt as far away as possible, he somehow kept himself standing in place. But staying put was not the same as being brave and mighty enough to fight. So he stood rooted to the spot, watching Annika advance.
The tunnel lights glimmered on Annika’s knife as she approached the Baron. The Baron smiled. “You’re the bandit girl, aren’t you? The one Bolt freed.”
Annika stiffened. “I didn’t need the help, you know.” The Baron giggled and rolled his eyes. “Well, not mostly.” The Baron giggled again, and Annika wiggled her knife. “Giggle all you want. I’m not afraid of you.” The Baron arched his eyebrows and giggled even louder. “OK, maybe I’m a little afraid of you,” Annika admitted. “But I’m going to stop you anyway.” She held her head up. “I am the greatest bandit who ever lived. Or I will be. Surrender, or fight!”
The Baron did not move. He did not run. He twisted the hair on his head, so that the hairs pointed up into taller hair horns. “Surrender or
fight? How about if I pick a third option—let someone else do my bidding.”
Bolt felt something slam against his head. No, it was inside his head. It felt like tentacles wrapping themselves around his brain, as if an octopus had crawled inside his ear.
We are BFFs!
The Baron whispered the words, but they felt like a siren screaming across Bolt’s brain. His mind grew cloudy, and the words echoed as he stepped toward Annika, his arms outstretched to grab her.
Penguins are meant to rule! We must stop anyone in our way!
“What are you doing?” Annika shrieked, staring at Bolt while he grew nearer, his mouth open as if baring fangs, although he had no fangs to bare. She waved her knife toward him, and then toward the Baron and then toward Bolt, back and forth. “No one move.”
Bolt gritted his teeth, pushing the evil Baron thoughts from his head. Back and forth, back and forth. It was like a terrible tug-of-war. Bolt’s brain swarmed with urges to commit violence and then urges to push out the violence. He put his hands to his head and reeled back. Then he reeled forward toward Annika. And then he reeled back. And then he reeled forward toward Annika again.
“I’m getting dizzy,” complained the Baron.
Bolt clenched his teeth and jammed the Baron’s thoughts from his head, through his ear, and out into the dark tunnel. He stood, panting, sweat dripping from his head and onto his tuxedo jacket. His mind was clear.
“Impressive,” said the Baron. “But your ability to fight against my control will not come as easily once the transformation is complete.”
“I guess it’s just you and me now,” grunted Annika, her knife still held in her hand.
“Hardly,” said the Baron with a yawn.
There was a low shuffling noise from above, metal against stone. The Penguin King, still wearing his golden crown, dropped down from the now-opened tunnel hole and landed next to Annika. The bird, its eyes staring blankly, swatted her hand with a wing. The knife thudded against the tunnel’s earth floor.
The Curse of the Werepenguin Page 12
