North! Or Be Eaten (15 page)

“Look!” Leeli pointed at a spear that hung from its right shoulder.

The cow gurgled. Its eyes fluttered, and with an ignoble shudder, it crumpled to the ground and died. After a moment of silence, the company climbed down the tree.

“I’m glad she was injured,” Podo said as he wrenched the spear from the cow’s side, “or we might not have had time to get clear.”

Tink squatted near the cow’s head and poked at it with a stick.

“So there are Fangs nearby,” Janner said, eying the bloody spear.

“No, lad,” Podo said. “This ain’t a Fang spear. Far too fine a weapon for that. This explains why we’ve not seen any critters before now.” He threw the spear aside and wiped his hand on his breeches. “Stranders.”

“
Now
will you tell us what a Strander is?” Tink asked.

“Aye,” Podo said darkly. “Thieves and killers. If they’re around, we need to move, and fast. The sooner we get clear of the forest, the better.”

T
hat evening as the sun set on Skree, the troll flung Peet to the floor of the great hall at Fort Lamendron. Torches flickered on the walls. The Fangs at the perimeter of the room hissed at the chained figure writhing on the floor in front of the throne.

Zouzab and the other ridgerunner slunk to the foot of the dais and bowed. “Greetings, General Khrak,” said Zouzab.

Just behind the ridgerunner, Peet lay on his back and stared at the high ceiling. For the moment, his mind worked properly, and he remembered everything. The troll had dragged him for a night and a day from the forest, through the Glipwood Township, and down the long road to Fort Lamendron. Peet ached from every jarring inch of the journey.

He found some satisfaction in the fear in the Fangs’ eyes when they looked at him. They had good reason to be afraid. If he were free of his chains, he could put an end to every beast in the room. Just to be sure, Peet flexed his muscles. The Fangs sank back, but the chains held fast.

“I see you’ve captured the Throne Warden,” said Khrak.

Zouzab nodded.

“Excellent. Gnag will be pleased. But I don’t sssee the children.”

“The jewels,” Zouzab said, then paused.

“Speak, creeper!” Khrak hissed.

“The jewels have…escaped. Again.”

Khrak’s face was unreadable. Peet grinned. Zouzab glanced at the rafters of the hall and the high windows, probably in case he needed to make a quick getaway. Khrak had a reputation for being more ruthless than the average Fang, which was saying something.

“I could tell you all the details about how your Commander Higgk’s incompetence led to their escape,” Zouzab continued, “but the important thing is not that they escaped.”

“And what
isss
the important thing?” asked the general in a menacing voice.

“The important thing, General Khrak, other than the capture of the Throne Warden, is that we listened as the mother and grandfather planned and discussed, and we know where they’re going.”

“Ah. And where isss that?”

“The Ice Prairies.”

“Kimera?” Khrak asked.

“Yes, my lord. They know of the force gathered there, and the leader, a man named Gammon. They know that the Fangs, mighty though you be, cannot endure the harsh cold, so they believe it is safe there.”

“Safe, eh?” said Khrak to a nearby Fang.

“Aye, General,” said the Fang with a snicker, “perfectly ssssafe.”

The Fangs in the hall burst into laughter.

Peet broke into a sweat. Had Gnag figured out a way to protect the Fangs from the cold? He had to find a way to tell the children!

He strained and twisted, sensing Khrak’s eyes on him, and then his mind grew muddy, and he forgot where he was, who he was, who the children were. He became little more than a chained animal.

When the laughter died away, the Fang on the throne stepped down from the dais and stood over Peet. Its tongue flitted out and tickled the air only inches from Peet’s face.

“I know exactly what to do with you, Artham Wingfeather,” said the Fang, and at his name, Peet’s mind cleared a little.

“D-don’t send me back,” Peet stammered. “P-please…”

“Back to Throg?” Khrak said with a wicked grin. “You don’t want to go back to the Deeps of Throg? Why, I’m sure Gnag the Nameless could find you a place in the dungeon. Your old cell, perhaps? The one with the excellent view, as I remember.”

Peet wept and shook his head.

Khrak straightened and looked at him with disgust. “Stop whimpering. It’s the Phoob Islands for you, Wingfeather. We’ll let the Grey Fangs try to…
make
something of you. Take him to the docks!”

A
s the sky grew dark and the forest grew darker, Podo called a halt. There had been no sign of Stranders and no more toothy cows in the six hours since lunch.

“Can we have another fire?” Leeli asked her grandfather sweetly.

Podo sighed. “No lass, I’m afraid not. Not at night. If we want light, it’ll have to be of the greenish sort.”

After a cold, silent meal by the light of the snotwax candle, Podo set up the tent near a good climbing tree and stood watch while Tink and Janner huddled over the ancient book in Oskar’s lap. Now and then the old bookseller beckoned Nia over and held the candle so that she could see the page. She gave him her best guess about the sound or meaning of a letter, then returned to her spot next to Leeli.

Janner was sore and tired, but his mind whirled with questions long after Nia blew out the candle and the others fell asleep. He wanted to know why Podo, who had seemed so happy during the weeks at Peet’s castle, was now so irritable and distant. He wanted to know what about the Dark Sea gave the old pirate pause. He wanted to know what had happened to Peet the Sock Man. He wanted to know why his father had left him this giant, timeworn book written in a language nobody remembered. He wanted to know who the Stranders were. He wanted to know what Gnag the Nameless could possibly want with him and his brother and sister. Janner’s mind was as tired from thinking as his legs were from walking, and he finally felt himself drifting to sleep, floating into the dream realm like a boy on a boat.

“I’m sorry,” said a voice.

Janner sat up, not sure if he was dreaming. After a moment the fog in his brain thinned, and he remembered where he was. He heard the snores and deep breathing of the others, crickets outside the tent, and an owl somewhere in the distance.

“I’m so, so sorry,” came the voice again. It was Podo.

“Grandpa?” Janner whispered. There was no answer. He crept to where Podo lay. By the faint light in the tent, he could see that his grandfather’s eyes were closed, his mouth slightly open. “Grandpa, you’re dreaming,” Janner whispered.

“No excuse, lords…I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Ye must believe me,” mumbled Podo, on the verge of tears. Whatever he was dreaming about was awful. The owl hooted again, and Janner thought about lying back down and leaving Podo to his dream, but then the old man’s mouth drew down and he moaned.

“Grandpa!”
Janner whispered again, this time with a hand on Podo’s shoulder.

Podo’s eyes opened. One of his stony hands shot up and caught Janner by the throat, but Podo came to himself and released him just as quickly.

“You were dreaming,” Janner gasped. The two looked at each other in silence while Podo’s breathing slowed.

“Outside,” the old man whispered.

They crept out of the tent and stood in the living silence of the forest. The stars were so bright that the leaves cast shadows. Podo removed his pipe from his pocket, packed it with tobacco, and lit it without saying a word. The chill in the air seeped through Janner’s clothes and set him shivering, but the smell of the pipe smoke was warm and comforting and conjured memories of the Igiby cottage and the hearth.

“Dreaming, eh?” said Podo.

“Yes sir.”

“What did I say?”

“You said there was no excuse, that you didn’t know. And that you were sorry.”

Podo drew long on his pipe and blew the smoke out slowly. “Aye,” he said to himself. “That I am.”

“What for?” Janner asked timidly.

“For things I done a long time ago. Things that ain’t been paid for yet.”

“But you won’t tell me what.”

“I reckon not. Not yet, at any rate.”

Janner wanted to press him but could tell from the tone of his grandfather’s voice that it would be better to leave it alone.

“Back to bed, lad. I’ve a feelin’ in me bones that tomorrow our little holiday walk through the forest is comin’ to an end.”

“How do you know?” Janner asked with a yawn.

“The trees are sparser. Can’t hear the river anymore, which means it’s leveled out. And that means we’ll run into the Stranders that put the spear to that toothy cow. If they can kill one of those critters, you can bet your boots they’ll make quick work of us.”

“Have you ever seen them before?”

“Aye. I grew up here, remember. Long before Skree was such a dangerous place. Ma and Pa traveled often to Torrboro to buy seeds for farmin’ or sell hogpiglets if we
had any extra. ‘Course the inns in Torrboro were a pocketful too expensive for the likes of a Helmer, so we’d take the ferry across the Blapp to Dugtown, where my folks could afford a room. In Dugtown things weren’t near as pretty, but they were a lot more fun to a stinker like me.” He laughed to himself and blew out another puff of smoke. “More than once I tore off from me parents and found myself in all manner of trouble with the seedy types in Dugtown. More than once those seedy types turned out to be Stranders.

“See, lad, Dugtown is a city of criminals, mercenaries, vagabonds, and adventurers. If it’s trouble you’re lookin’ for, that’s where you’ll find it. But there are some types that even Dugtowners can’t abide. Some criminals can steal yer underwear right out from under your clothes, but they wouldn’t think to hurt ye. But others steal more than just yer possessions; they’d pick yer pocket
and
cut yer throat, just for fun. Dugtown is a rowdy place, but the folk that live there have a sense of what’s right and proper, even if it’s as slippery as a daggerfish. If the Dugtowners call you unfit for society, then you’re a bad one indeed.” Podo chuckled. “You get banished from the city, and you scrounge yer livin’ along the river, scrapin’ to survive among a whole society of murderous curs. The worse you are, the farther along the strand of the Blapp ye end up.”

Janner was wide awake now. “So tomorrow we’re going to run into them? The Stranders?”

“I’m afraid so. This far out, they’ll be the worst of ‘em.”

“They sound as bad as Fangs.”

“Aye.” Podo hugged Janner and sent him back to bed. “Worse, even.”

Janner sneaked back into the tent and lay awake until dawn. He watched his grandfather through the crack in the tent flap, pacing and puffing his pipe as the sky outside went from black to dark blue to chilly white. Leeli lay curled up next to Nia, still hugging her pack. Her thin blanket had slipped off, so Janner pulled it up to her chin.

Oskar choked on one of his monstrous snores, and Tink’s eyes fluttered awake. “Janner?” he said in a sleepy voice.

“Yeah?”

“I don’t want to be a king.”

Janner almost asked Tink what he meant but stopped himself. He knew exactly how his little brother felt. “It’s okay. I don’t much want to be a Throne Warden either.”

“You don’t? But you’re so good at it. You don’t hesitate. You always seem to know what to do.”

“That isn’t how it feels,” Janner said. “Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll—”
You’ll what? Would Tink really make a good king?

“What?” Tink asked, propping himself up on an elbow.

“I’m sure you’ll do fine. I don’t think either of us is cut out to be a king or a Throne Warden yet. I think we’re supposed to be studying our T.H.A.G.S. and playing handyball and reading books. But if that’s true, then it’s also true the Fangs aren’t supposed to be in Skree, our father’s supposed to be alive, and Leeli’s supposed to have two good legs.”

“But it is what it is,” Tink said.

“It is what it is.”

“What are we going to do?” Tink asked.

“Today? We’re going to leave the forest. Podo says we’ll probably run into the Stranders.”

“No, I mean after that.”

“Well…Dugtown. Then the Ice Prairies, hopefully.”

“After that?”

“I don’t know.” Janner felt a snap of irritation in his chest. Usually he asked the questions and worried over the future. For once, at least this morning, Janner was content to let things happen as they would. “Anniera, maybe?”

“But it seems so…impossible, doesn’t it? I mean, do you really think Gnag the Nameless and the Fangs and the trolls will just let us have it? Or am I supposed to be the king who leads—what, an army of rebels against these monsters? Janner,” Tink said quietly, “I don’t think I can do it. I just want to be left alone, like it was in Glipwood, before everything happened.”

“It’s too late for that, Tink. Besides, remember what Oskar told us about the Skreeans? He said they were miserable deep-down, that their lives weren’t really lives at all anymore.”

“It felt like a life to me. I was happy in Glipwood, as long as we stayed clear of the Fangs. I mean, we had the cottage, the Dragon Day Festival, zibzy with the Blaggus boys, stories by the fire—hot meals! And now look at us!” Nia stirred and mumbled something in her sleep, and Tink lowered his voice. “We’re sleeping in a tent, Nugget’s dead, Peet’s—who knows what happened to him. My back hurts! I don’t like carrying this pack around.” Tink sat up and hugged his knees. “I just don’t want to be a king.”