“Hello!” he said, moving toward them. “Who are you?”
They stood silent. Doon stared, trying to get a look at their faces. Why weren’t they answering? Then one of them muttered something to the other, and they dropped their bags and sprang at him. Doon backed away, stumbling, trying to turn, but he didn’t move quickly enough. His right arm was grabbed, then his left, and though he twisted and pulled, he found himself caught fast. He shouted, “No! No!” His candle fell to the pavement and went out.
He still could see nothing of the people who’d grabbed him—they were just shaggy dark hulks with a bad smell and lights that seemed to be growing out of their foreheads. Their hands circled his upper arms like bands of steel. The person on his left spoke. “The question is,” he said, “not who are we, but who are you? You’re the trespasser.”
Doon tried again to pull away. “Let go of me!” he cried. But the two men were strong, though they were hardly taller than he was.
“Don’t struggle,” said the one on his right, “or we’ll twist your arms off.”
“Yorick, you muttonhead, shut your mouth,” said the one on the left. “We’re not twisting off any arms. Just march him this way and be quiet.”
Doon knew at once that these were not people of Ember. Though he hadn’t known every single citizen of his old city, he knew there was no one who sounded like these two. Or had lights like theirs, either. Now that they were right next to him, he saw that each of them wore a kind of lantern—a cap with a tube attached at the front, and in the tube a candle, like a glowing horn. The candles cast weird, downward-pointing shadows on their faces, but Doon could tell that the shorter man was older and hairier than the taller one, and the taller one had either a small mustache or a shadow beneath his nose.
Doon’s mind went in crazy zigzags as they dragged him along. He opened his mouth to call for help from Lina, and then snapped it closed again. No, he couldn’t let them know she was here. She could help him only if she wasn’t a prisoner, too.
“This is our place, boy,” said the man on his left, the older one. “We run it. No intruders allowed, and no sightseers. You’re going to have to explain yourself.”
“Somebody musta come with him, Pa,” said the one on his right, who had a high, whiny voice. “A kid wouldn’t come down in such a place alone.” He gave Doon’s arm a vicious squeeze.
Doon yelped.
“Don’t hurt him, Yorick, you brainless bucket,” said the one called Pa. “We can use him. Don’t want him crippled.” He tugged Doon’s other arm. “So who came with you, boy? We know you didn’t come alone.”
“I did come alone! I’m by myself!” Doon shouted it at the top of his voice, hoping Lina could hear him and wouldn’t come flying to his rescue. Stay hidden, he thought at her. Help me, but don’t let them see you.
“No need to yell,” said the older man. “We’re not deaf.”
But Doon was desperate to let Lina know that she mustn’t come after him. She wouldn’t be strong enough to get him free; they’d only capture her, too. She needed to go back to Sparks for help. He had to tell her that somehow. He could think of only one way to do it.
They turned down Otterwill Street. Doon threw himself into a frenzy of yanking and pulling and wrenching, at the same time yelling up a storm. “GET AWAY from me,” he cried out, making the first two words much louder than the second two. “I want to GO HOME! GET your hands off me. HELP!” What Lina would hear—he hoped—was “GET AWAY! GO HOME! GET HELP!” It was the best he could do.
He stopped struggling. The two men gripped him more tightly than ever. “No use throwing a fit,” said the older one. “You’ll just get yourself all worn out and banged up.”
They turned into Harken Square. Doon gaped. Here he was in one of the places most familiar to him in the world, and it was utterly, horribly changed.
The light they’d seen from above clearly had nothing to do with the eight-page book. It was simply a fire, burning right in the middle of the square, sending out a haze of smoke. In one place a sort of living room had been set up, with a table and some armchairs and a few carpets. There was a washtub full of water, and empty cans and jars cluttered the ground. Around this living area were heaps of bags and stacks of boxes, in some of which Doon could see familiar-looking jars—he recognized pickled beets, powdered potatoes, and dried purple beans. So there was at least some food left here, maybe even more than he’d thought. Three people moved around the fire’s edges.
In the light of the fire, Doon could finally get a better look at his captors. The older one, on his left, was built like a stack of bricks—wide in the shoulders, stout in the chest, a thick neck, and a head that looked too big for his body. He had an immense amount of rust-colored hair—it sprang wildly from beneath the candle-cap on his head, it covered the entire lower half of his face in a tangled thicket of mustache and beard, and it poked out of his ears and his nostrils. His eye brows were like the eaves of a thatched roof overhanging his eyes.
The younger one was taller and thinner, with little anxious-looking eyes that darted this way and that. He did have a small mustache, and on his chin was a brownish scruff of hairs, a feeble attempt at a beard. From both these people came a strong smell, a smell of clothes unwashed for a long time, a grubby, sweaty smell.
“Look what we found!” cried the younger one as the others came running up to them. “A trespasser!”
“I’m not a trespasser,” Doon said. He tried again to wrench himself free, but the men’s grip on him only tightened.
The other people came up close to him and stared. They all wore the candle-caps. One was a woman in dark clothes with black hair pulled tight against her head. She peered at him with small, mournful eyes. “Oh, trouble,” she said. “Woe and alas. Daughter, come close.”
A girl who looked about Doon’s age came and stood beside her mother. She was wide-shouldered and rusty-haired like the older man. She squinted at Doon, grinning. In her hand was a long fork, with which she gave Doon a poke in the leg.
“Now, boy,” said the man on Doon’s left. “You have blundered into the domain of the Trogg family, which you see before you. Myself, Washton Trogg, known as Trogg to the world and Pa to the family. My wife, Minny. My son, Yorick, and my daughter, Kanza.”
Someone else lurked behind them—a boy, Doon thought, though he couldn’t tell for sure. He didn’t look like a member of the Trogg family; his hair was frizzy and pale, like a handful of soap suds, and he was small and flimsy-looking and had an oddly lopsided way of standing.
“What about that one?” Doon asked, tipping his head toward the boy.
“Oh, him,” said Trogg. “He’s not one of ours. We brought him with us out of pity.”
“Why?”
“Bandits killed his parents,” Trogg said. “So we took him in. Extra hands always welcome, I say.” He pointed a finger at the pale-haired boy. “You,” he said. “Bring us that wooden chair!”
The boy went over to a straight chair and dragged it up to them. Doon saw that he bent awkwardly sideways, down and up, down and up, when he walked. One of his feet was twisted at an odd angle.
Trogg turned to Doon. “Now,” he said. “What is your name?”
Doon didn’t want to tell him. But Yorick pinched his arm when he didn’t speak, so he said, “Doon.”
“Doom!” said Trogg. He grinned, revealing square yellow teeth. “What a name! Your parents must have known you were headed for trouble.”
“Not Doom,” said Doon. “Doon, with an n.”
“Oh,” said Trogg. “All right, Doon. We’re going to have to tie you up for now. Sit him here, Yorick.” The son pushed Doon into the chair and held him there while Trogg rooted around in the heaps of stuff and came up with a long rope. A black rage filled Doon as they wound it around him, and he kicked and thrashed and tried his best to butt them with his head—but their strength was too much for him, and in minutes he was bound up like a package, tied to the chair, hands and feet complet
ely helpless.
The wife and daughter dragged a couple of boxes up close and sat on them to stare at the curious captured creature. The son stood next to Doon, looking eager to reach out and twist an arm if necessary. The father pulled a pair of glasses from the pocket of the loose, grubby shirt he wore. He put the glasses on and squinted through them. They had heavy dark rims and made his wide face look like a brick wall with two windows in it. His hands grasped his knees, his elbows sticking out. Behind him, the fire smoked and smoldered.
“So,” he said. “What I want to know is, who are you? How did you get here? And why did you come?”
The whole family leaned forward to hear Doon’s answer. Even the light-haired person lurking in the background came a few steps closer. But Doon was still so flabbergasted by the astonishing presence of these strange people in his city that his mind was a whirl of confusion. He couldn’t think of an answer. He stared at the faces confronting him and at the flames just behind them. It was like being in a bad dream, the kind where you’re in some familiar place—your own bedroom, or your school room—that has been strangely changed so it doesn’t look like itself. Worse, it doesn’t feel like itself. That was how Harken Square felt now. Where there used to be glowing streetlamps and people crossing the wide space on their errands, there was this savage fire and this strange and terrible family.
“Speak up!” cried Trogg. “Explain yourself!”
Doon stumbled over his words. “I just . . . I just happened to . . . I’m just here by accident. I’ll leave right away.”
“No,” said Trogg, “you will not.”
“Just try it,” said the son, yanking on Doon’s arm. “You’ll get your bones broken.”
“No breaking bones!” Trogg punched the air in his son’s direction. “I’m doing the talking here. Be quiet. And get me a different pair of glasses. I can’t see right through these.” He yanked them off.
Yorick hurried over to a box that seemed to be full of glasses. Doon heard them rattling as Yorick shuffled through them.
“Here,” Yorick said, handing his father a wire-rimmed pair. Trogg put them on. They made his eyes look huge.
“Really,” said Doon. “If you let go of me, I’ll leave right this minute. I was planning to anyway. Why do you think I only brought one candle?” He thought with gratitude of his pack, lying in the dark back on Grey-stone Street where he had set it down. “I just wanted to take a look,” he went on. “Sorry to intrude. I didn’t know you were here. I didn’t know any of this was here.” He made a rolling motion with his head, indicating the city. “I found a crack in the mountain, and then I . . . and then there was a path, and so . . .” He trailed off. “So if you’ll just untie me, I’ll get out right away.”
“Not possible,” said Trogg. “You don’t understand. Now that you’re here, you have to stay.”
Crouched behind the trash bin, with the stink of old garbage in her nose, gazing in horror at the transformed Harken Square, Lina had seen Doon’s captors drag him out into the square. She had watched as they tied him up and showed him off to the other people. She could see—she could feel—Doon’s fury as the bearded man scolded him and jabbed him with questions. She, too, felt angry. Who were these people who thought they owned the city? But her fear was stronger than her anger.
The words Doon had called out repeated themselves in her mind. Get away! Go home, get help. Get away! Go home, get help. She was so stunned by what had happened, she could hardly make sense of them. Go home? What could he have meant? Her thoughts went first to the home she’d had here in Ember, over on Quillium Square, with her grandmother and Poppy. But of course that was her home no more. Her home was in Sparks now, a long day’s walk across the hills. Could Doon really mean she should go back there? Back out through the Unknown Regions, back across the planks that bridged the pit, back up that long, long path?
She hid behind the trash bin until her legs began to ache from holding so still. She heard everything—or almost everything. Sometimes the voices were too low or were drowned out by a burst of crackling from the fire. But she heard enough to know that these people had taken over her city and had captured Doon and did not intend to let him go.
There must be some way to rescue him without going back to Sparks for help. Ideas sped through her mind:
Could she make a noise and get the Troggs to run after her, giving Doon time to untie himself and escape? No, because surely they wouldn’t all run after her. Someone would be left behind to guard the captive. Besides, how could Doon untie himself? His hands were bound.
Could she dash out there, taking them all by surprise, and untie Doon and run off with him? No, because the untying would take too long, and they’d just capture her, too.
Could she wait and watch and hope for a chance to free him some other time? But when would that be? It might take days and days. She might never get the chance.
There was no other way: to get help for Doon, she’d have to go back to Sparks. All that distance, and fast, and by herself.
CHAPTER 9
________________________
Perfectly Safe and Comfortable
Doon stared up at Trogg’s smug smile. “Stay?” he said. “What do you mean, stay?”
“I mean live here with us, of course,” said Trogg. “Otherwise, you’d go out there and tell the world, right? Underground city! Room for hundreds! Pioneer family already living there, done the hard work; all we have to do is move in!”
“I wouldn’t say that,” said Doon.
“Of course you would. Anyone would. Then we’d have the hordes down here, ruining everything. We can’t have that. This is our domain, our stronghold, our place of safety. So you’ll have to stay. Don’t worry, we can use you. There’s plenty of work. Count yourself lucky to have found us.” He scratched at his neck, digging with a grimy fingernail through the thick tangle of beard. “What were you doing, anyhow, wandering around in the mountains? Lost? Got left behind by your parents?”
Doon ignored this question. “Why do you think hordes of people would come here?” he said. “This place is—not fit to live in.”
Trogg thrust his face toward Doon and narrowed his eyes. “Up above,” he said, “life is tough. There’s rain, wind, and snow, in case you haven’t noticed. Food is scarce. Rats eat your grain; wolves steal your flocks. Worst of all, people are always getting in your way, bossing you around. Up there, it’s work and trouble all the time.”
“Oh,” said Doon. He realized he’d had a similar thought himself, earlier this same day.
“Bandits, too,” said Trogg. “Mustn’t forget to mention bandits.”
“I don’t know much about bandits,” Doon said.
“Well, let me tell you,” said Trogg. “My family knows about them. We know a lot more than we want to know. Bandits came to our village.”
The whole family pressed closer to Doon, staring down at him, their backs to the fire, their faces lit only dimly by the candles they wore in their strange caps. They were a circle of fire-horned monsters, looming over him, closing in. He stifled the urge to scream at them and struggle. It wouldn’t help. He would have to use his wits to get out of this. Pay attention, pay attention, he reminded himself. It was what his father had told him when he first started working in the Pipeworks, the vast system of tunnels beneath Ember’s streets, down by the river that supplied the city’s water. It had helped him then. Maybe it would help him now, too. So he listened hard to what Trogg was saying.
“They came out of the forest,” Trogg said, “roaring at the top of their lungs.”
“They had torches,” said Kanza, stretching one hand up over her head. “Three-foot-high flames.”
“Oh, the terror, the terror,” wailed the mother, as if she were seeing it all happening again. She clasped her head in her hands and pulled down, making her eyes droop at the sides and turning her mouth into an upside-down U. “Woe and alas! I thought our house would burn. I thought my children would die.”
�
�And our house did burn!” cried Trogg. “They rampaged through the village. They set fire to our roofs; they stole the stores from our barns; they drove off our animals.”
“And even worse,” said Yorick, bending over to speak into Doon’s ear, “they had knives and they—”
“Silence!” shouted Trogg. “I’m telling this story! They had knives as long as your arm, boy. Torch in one hand, knife in the other. Anyone stupid enough to step out of the house got sliced up like a piece of cheese.”
“And not only that,” said Kanza, “anyone stupid enough to stay inside the house got burned up like a stick of wood!”
“Not us, though,” said Yorick.
“Not us,” said Trogg, “because I know trouble when I see it coming, and I hustled my family out the back just in time.”
“We hid in the mud,” said Kanza.
“Behind the pigsty,” said Yorick.
“Oh, it was dreadful.” Minny rocked from side to side, still holding her head. “The foul odors. The shrieking from beyond. But my husband is so brave, so clever, so—”
“So when those barbarian bandits had gone,” Trogg interrupted, “we got busy, the few of us left in the village, treating wounds, building houses, fixing our fences and our wagons and starting all over.”
“It was three years ago,” said Kanza.
“No, four,” said Yorick.
“Quiet!” shouted Trogg. “Your sister’s right, you ignorant pup. It was three years ago. And then just a few weeks ago, I heard that more were on the way.” He shook his finger in Doon’s face. “Do you think I was going to sit still and wait for them to show up?”
“I don’t know,” said Doon, who was trying hard to pay attention to this horrible story coming at him from all directions.
“You don’t know? You don’t know?” screamed Trogg. His glasses slid down his nose, and he ripped them off. “Maybe you’re the kind of person who would leave his family in danger, but not me! I take action! I packed up my wagon, loaded in my family, and headed out to look for a place of safety.”
The Diamond of Darkhold Page 7