Bookweird (24 page)

A shout from above snapped him out of his reverie.

“Where'd you learn to shoot like that?”

Norman grinned up at the little animal standing atop the gate tower. The young stoat looked bigger, stronger and if possible cockier than when Norman had last seen him.

“In England!” Norman shouted back, the grin wide on his face.

Malcolm laughed his gleeful stoat laugh. “England? Tell me another one. Every stoat-body knows that England is the stuff of fairy tales.”

 

Norman heard the full story of the stoat campaign that night. A fire roared in the great hall of Lochwarren and a grand feast was served. It was only the second room in Undergrowth that actually accommodated Norman, and it was certainly warmer than the ruined shell of Tintern Abbey. Norman sprawled down the length of the hall, warming his socked feet by the fire. Someone, most likely Malcolm, had lashed Norman's one sneaker to an iron peg high up on the wall beside the ancient armour and trophies of the stoat kings. Malcolm sat beside him at the banquet table, chatting away vigorously. Norman did his best to follow the story.

“I'm sorry we didn't stay and look for you when you disappeared like that, but Uncle Cuilean said we had to move on. There were too many wolf spies in Edgeweir to hang about looking for a great oaf like you. That old fox abbot at Tintern told us you were probably gone for good.

“We spent the spring gathering men to fight in the uprising. At first there were just a few of us. We hijacked the wolf mail convoys and set fire to their weapons stockpiles, little things that showed the people that we could fight back. Every time we struck out at them, we drew more stoats to the struggle. By midsummer we were an army of hundreds.”

Cuilean's old companion James turned to face them from his place on the feast bench. There was a look of grandfatherly pride on his face as he smiled and nodded at the young stoat. “This young scoundrel would have fought the war on his own, but the
new recruits kept coming. The hares came to deliver swords and crossbows, a gift from the Duke of Logorno, but stayed when they got their first taste of real fighting after so many quiet years in the Five Cities.” He amicably nudged the russet brown hare who shared his bench.

Malcolm bounded onto Norman's shoulder and made himself comfortable there—like old times—and continued breathlessly. “With reinforcements and the proper weapons, the wolves could nae handle us. They locked themselves up in their strongholds. They were afraid to stick their noses out without armed knights, but we ferreted them out of their towers one by one. It was almost too easy.”

“The boy's right,” the hare added. “The towers and fortified towns fell with minimal resistance. The cretins waited for reinforcements that never came, then tried to escape in the night.”

“Uncle Cuilean couldn't understand why the tower garrisons weren't reinforced, but I always knew. I knew that Dad was on the march, too. I knew he had drawn the wolf armies out. Soon we heard the news from the other side of the mountains. Another stoat army had massed in the west hills. I wanted to be the one who took the message to Dad, but Uncle Cuilean sent James instead.”

James placed a friendly hand on the young prince's shoulder. “The boy was already too valuable. He led two regiments of archers at that point. The lads shoot farther and with more accuracy when a Mustelid prince gives the orders,” the old stoat boasted. James had only just met Malcolm when Norman last left Undergrowth. In the interim he had clearly developed a soft spot for the boy.

Malcolm suppressed a proud smile. “James snuck through enemy territory to Dad's war camp at Castle Craigweel. Dad knew I was alive all along. He knew you and Simon would get me out of Scalded Rock.”

Norman thought back to that harrowing escape and that moment of confrontation in the forest. The last time Norman had seen Simon Whiteclaw, he was facing down a wolf assassin.

“I don't suppose Simon…,” he began.

James shook his silver head. “No sign of him. I never had much time for the man, but the scoundrel did right by the boy, and he went down fighting, like a true soldier.”

Norman felt a shiver go through the young stoat on his shoulder. “Like my dad,” Malcolm whispered.

It took a second for Malcolm's words to sink in. When they did, Norman didn't know what to say.

“Aye, lad,” James said, eyeing his young charge sympathetically. “He lived like a hero and died like one. They'll be telling his tale in this hall for generations to come.”

“But what happened?” Norman couldn't help worrying that it was something he'd done, some change he'd made in the book that had precipitated Duncan's death and orphaned his young friend.

“'Twas at the second battle of Tista Kirk, a masterful bit of warcraft by this lad's dad and uncle. Some might say that a stoat is no match for a wolf. Your wolf in fighting trim is often four times the weight of even the largest stoat. But a stoat's got speed, speed of hand and of brain. A well-trained sword-stoat is more than a match for a lumbering wolf in hand-to-hand combat. What you don't want to do with wolves is engage them in pitched battles. On open ground, a well-formed wolf army would smash through the strongest shield wall. That's what happened at the first Tista Kirk. Duncan dared the wolves to do it again. His army had fought its way up the mountains in a series of bloody battles. His war was tougher than ours. We stayed in the forests, harassing the supply lines, hiding our real strength. When Duncan formed up his battle lines on the fields of Tista Kirk, those wolves must have been licking their chops—a good old pitched battle, just their kettle of tea. Those Rivernesters are brave lads, I'll give you that. They stood firm behind their shields and taunted those wolves until they charged. There's not many a stoat who can stand firm in the face of an armed wolf charge, but those lads did. They knew we were hiding in the woods there, waiting for the wolves to break cover, but they wouldn't have kidded themselves. They must have known that many would die that day.”

“I shoulda been there with 'em,” Malcolm muttered through gritted teeth. “I ought to 'ave been at my father's side.”

“Ah, lad, but then who would have won the battle for us?” James asked the young prince gently. He turned back to Norman. “It was Malcolm's archers that made the difference. They'd been lying low in the woods just behind the wolves all day. Once the wolves moved out into the open, we brought our archers up at the tree line. Just before the wolves reached the shield wall, Malcolm's lads unleashed their fury, used those slobbering bags of fur like pincushions. They didn't know what hit them. They ran about like madbeasts scrambling to get out of range. When they finally formed up again, we rained more arrows down on them and made ready for another charge. By the time they reached Duncan's lines, their force was half what it had been. It was enough to do some damage, though. Duncan's men fought them every step of the way. Thankfully, the archers had done enough, chopped the wolf regiments up into little bite-sized chunks that Duncan's men could digest.

“By noon only the fiercest wolf lairds remained, those that knew the battle was lost but fought on anyway, hoping just to take a few stoats with them to the grave. It was one of them that did it, Nighthowler, a fierce old warrior, strong and sly. He was there at the first Tista Kirk. He boasted of knocking the banner out of old Malcolm's hand and of dealing the last blow.

“Duncan called him out there on the battlefield, challenged him to single combat. It didn't matter that Duncan was wounded already and had fought all morning while the old wolf prowled and hid behind his bodyguards. Within minutes Duncan had him at swordpoint. It was a done deal, but the treacherous beast wasn't having it. Nighthowler knew he'd lost the duel, but he couldn't allow it, couldn't end it with dignity. Before any stoat could do anything, three wolf bodyguards jumped Prince Duncan from behind. He took two of them with him to the grave as well as old Nighthowler, but between them, they did him in.”

The whole table was quiet now. Hares and stoats alike had put down their tankards and lowered their eyes. Perhaps, like Norman,
they could not bear to look at Malcolm. James lowered his voice as he continued.

“Cuilean is as able a healer as you'll find in these hills, but nothing he'd learned back in Logorno could have saved his brother. They said their farewells at Tista Kirk.”

James motioned with his head to where Cuilean was lifting a cup in toast. The campaign had changed him, too. He looked older, more solemn than when Norman had met him in the Borders. While his soldiers celebrated, he moved from table to table shaking hands and patting backs. When he smiled it was a slow, sad smile that showed he remembered too much of the battle's carnage to celebrate wholeheartedly. He noticed Norman watching him and made his way across the hall.

“You lived up to your name today, Norman Strong Arm. My brother's faith was not misplaced. I owe you a debt of gratitude, both for today's intervention and for your earlier help.” He seemed to paused, and looked meaningfully at the stoat upon Norman's shoulder. “For bringing the boy out of Scalded Rock.”

When Norman had first started reading this book, he had longed to join the brothers to help them figure out the riddle of the gifts and determine the rightful king. Now that Cuilean stood in front of him, they were both equally speechless. When the silence could not be borne any longer, the stoat prince nodded, smiled that same wise smile and saluted him before turning away.

 

The Writing of Wrongs

N
orman slept that night in the granary of Lochwarren castle. It was the most comfortable night he ever spent in Undergrowth. But if he'd slept less soundly and been less groggy, he might have been alarmed to see the fox abbot's silhouette hanging above his head. The Abbot had already drawn back his cowl and was well into his lecture by the time Norman was fully awake. Norman rubbed the sleep from his eyes and squinted. He was certain he recognized him now.

Norman greeted him grumpily. “You're a little late, aren't you? I was waiting for you in the library.”

Bemused, the fox licked his chops and scratched his ear distractedly. A sharp fox claw poked momentarily through the round hole at the top of his ear.

“Surely not, son. Castle Lochwarren has a fine library, but it could not accommodate a creature of your size.”

“Come on,” Norman protested. “I left a message for you on your answering machine.”

The abbot fox squinted at him as if he might possibly be mad. “A machine for answering, you say? A mechanical oracle? I've never…You must tell me about it sometime. Tonight, though, we have work to do.”

Norman rolled his eyes. “Whatever,” he said. Rolling over to face the stone wall of his chamber, he pretended to go back to sleep.

The Abbot coughed a sharp barklike cough. “You do want to get home, I suppose?”

Norman replied without moving, “I don't need your help. I know how it works now.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” The fox snickered. “You have it all figured out? You are able to arrive exactly where you like? I'd never have thought it. You will have to teach me, O great lumbering adept of the bookweird.”

Norman wasn't nearly as confident as he pretended. Eating a page from a book certainly seemed to be the trick, but it wasn't an exact science. He had never eaten a page from Dora's horse book or his mom's novel or his dad's poem, but he'd been transported into them. And when he ate the cycling brochure to get out of Maldon, he'd expected to arrive home. Why did he arrive in Undergrowth again? Why not in the land of cycling safety?

He threw the covers off and sat up. “Okay, then, you explain it to me. I only ate the page from the one Undergrowth book. What happened to get me into the horse place and the murder mystery? What made a page from Dad's poem disappear? That's really bad, you know. I need to get that back.”

The Abbot raised a foxy eyebrow. “Ah, the gangly warrior would be a scholar now?”

Norman made an impatient face. A “ha ha, very funny” sort of squint.

“Bookweird is a powerful force, and a complicated one. It can't be explained in a few minutes, nor understood, likely, in a single lifetime,” the fox continued. “Suffice it to say that you have found one of the ways in—a previously unknown way in, I should add, or perhaps just long forgotten. Few things are unknown in the lore of bookweird, but many things are forgotten.

“As a destructive
ingresso,
your consumption method was bound to disturb the structure of the weird, but you are lucky. Imagine if you had burned or erased those pages. Those are calami
tous methods, and I'll warn you now, don't even consider them. Your consumption
ingresso
seems to have a more local effect, spreading to the books of your household. I'm considering calling it the Norman Domino Effect.”

He regarded Norman expectantly, as if he was supposed to be flattered by this name.

“So can I fix it?” Norman demanded impatiently.

“Fix it? Why, no, of course not. Nothing in bookweird is ever
fixed
,” the abbot replied, as if astounded by Norman's ignorance. “Repaired, perhaps, if I'm right—patched.” He paused a moment to think over his plan. “You can write as well as read, can't you?”

The Abbot must have had the book under his tunic the whole time, but he removed it only once they'd reached the little chapel in the woods behind Lochwarren castle. It was a tiny structure, about the size of Norman's garden shed back home. The only doorway was both low and narrow. Norman might have been able to crawl through it, but that would only manage to put him in position to crush the miniature wooden pews within. The fox abbot unbolted the door and went ahead. Norman stuck his head and arms through the arched doorway.

“Why can't you just give me the page?” Norman complained. “I can eat it outside.”

“
This,
” admonished the abbot, clutching the book to his chest, “is not for eating.”

“Well, let me read it out here, if that's what we're doing. Reading out loud worked last time. Is it your goofy bestiary again, the one that says that humans are hatched from eggs?”

“It is not a
goofy
bestiary,” the Abbot responded haughtily. “It is a well-respected reference book, long maintained by my abbey. You'd do well to study it.” In the moonlit interior of the chapel, it was impossible to tell if his outrage was genuine. “Tonight, though, we have other matters. This is not the bestiary. It is the Great Chronicle of the Mustelid Kings. Tonight, you must restore the page of history that you so greedily consumed. This cannot be done outside or in the castle. It must be done here in the Chapel
of St. Sleekyn, as this is the place where the Mustelid Kings are crowned.”

Norman furrowed his brows, not quite getting it. “And you want me to…”

“Rewrite the legacy of King Malcolm, declaring which of the two gifts is the gift of the successor.”

“But I don't know what either of the gifts is, never mind which was meant for the future king,” Norman protested. “I didn't read that far before I ate the page.”

“Well, that wasn't the smartest thing you've done.” Norman was growing to really dislike this fox. “It's not like you burned the page or cast it to the wind. It is…” The Abbot paused. “It is inside you, after all. You must imitate the style.” He handed Norman the book solemnly and busied himself with the preparation of the ink and pen.

“I don't know,” Norman whispered as he glanced through the Chronicle. “It's pretty fancy writing.”

“Normally the king dictates to a trained scribe. How's your penmanship?” He handed Norman a tiny pen. “This should fit those monster hands of yours. I had it fashioned from a rake handle.”

Norman found the blank page in the book and stared at it for a very long time. What exactly was he supposed to write here? How could he decide who would be King?

“I can't do this,” he protested. “It's not my decision. I can't guess what King Malcolm wanted. I don't know what gifts he put in those boxes. How am I supposed to know what to write?”

The Abbot just shrugged and held out what to him was a giant pot of ink. “Whatever you write, you had better do it quickly. The sun will be rising within the hour.”

Norman bit the end of his pen nervously for a while and considered his options. This was his chance to change history, or at least to change the outcome of the book. When he'd begun reading
The Brothers of Lochwarren,
hadn't he thought that Cuilean would make a better king? Didn't Duncan's death make the choice easy?

“Come on, get on with it. This ink pot isn't exactly light, you know,” the Abbot growled.