North! Or Be Eaten

by Andrew Peterson

  Nugget. Poor, brave Nugget.

  The sea dragons! Janner smiled and felt a thrill in his belly. He described the metallic shine of the dragons’ skin, the sense of thunderous power behind their eyes, like dark clouds heavy with rain, and mingled with that power a kind of deep knowledge. But then there was also an odd feeling of—

  Janner couldn’t think of the right word. He looked up from his paper to see Tink hunkered over his sketchbook, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth.

  Fury.

  That was the word. Something more than just anger, something far beneath the surface that had lain silent for an age and waited for its moment to erupt. Even stranger, Janner wasn’t afraid of the fury, because it seemed directed elsewhere. He felt that if it were unleashed, he wouldn’t be safe, but he at least stood a chance of escaping it. He pitied the target of the dragons’ ancient wrath.

  He still heard the dragon’s voice in his mind and remembered every word: “He is near you, young ones. He is near you. Beware. He destroys what he touches and seeks the young ones to use them for his own ends. We have been watching, waiting for him. He sailed across the sea, and he is near you, child. We can smell him.”

  Janner shivered. He was sure now that either the dragon had lied, as Podo said, or it meant someone other than Gnag the Nameless. If Gnag were nearby and knew where the Igibys were, the Fangs would’ve captured them long ago.

  Hours passed, and even Nia knew the children couldn’t work on their schooling forever. She declared a recess and ordered the children to repack their supplies. Janner and Tink took great pleasure in inspecting their belongings. They laid out their bows, took inventory of the few arrows they had left, removed their swords from their scabbards and cleaned them as best as they could without water to spare. Leeli cleaned her little mirror, dusted off the whistleharp, and took stock of the remaining food, which she wrapped carefully in cloth, then tied with twine.

  When everything they owned was returned to the backpacks, cleaned, counted, and well packed, the children and Nia sat in a circle around the lantern and waited.

  And waited.

  They ate a meager lunch at what they estimated to be noon, chewing in silence and taking small sips from what remained of the water in the canteen. Then they waited.

  And waited.

  Finally, just when the boredom began to turn to worry for Oskar and Podo, they heard voices from the tunnel door.

  “Told you this was the right way, ye luggard!”

  “You and I both know you chose the other turn! As the impeccable cartographer Conrad Tottingtown declared, ‘Nobody listens to me!’”

  “Not true, Reteep. I can’t help but listen to ye. You’ve been squawkin’ like a goose for hours now!”

  “Oh dear.”

  When Oskar and Podo emerged from the darkness and straightened, the children rushed forward and assaulted them with hugs.

  “Ronchy’s going to make the necessary arrangements this evening,” Oskar said once he and Podo had eaten a few bites. “He said we should return at midnight and the guide would be waiting in the alley behind the Roundish Widow. He said if we had come three days sooner, Gammon himself could have smuggled us north. He was in Dugtown to meet with other members of his force.”

  “You’re sure you can trust him?” Nia asked.

  “My lady, I find it hard to believe that a man capable of making such delectable sailor’s pie would be of much danger. Oh, the pie!” Oskar patted his squishy belly.

  “I don’t see what choice we have, lass,” Podo said.

  “What do you think, young Wingfeathers?” Oskar asked.

  Janner and Tink were taken aback. Did Oskar really want to know what they thought? The way Nia, Oskar, and even Podo looked at the three of them told Janner they did.

  “Uh,” Tink said.

  “Well,” Janner said.

  “Yes,” Leeli said. “Whatever happens, even if Mr. McHiggins isn’t trustworthy, we can’t stay here, and we can’t go back.” She looked at the adults with her wide, innocent eyes.

  “The Song Maiden of Anniera has spoken,” Oskar said gravely.

  And the matter was settled.

  The day passed in a slog of boredom.

  After Oskar woke from a noisy nap, he and Janner set to translating more of the old book, occasionally asking Nia for whatever help she could give. She surprised herself at the amount of Old Hollish she remembered, and page after page of translation piled up beside Oskar on the burrow floor. At first Janner was fascinated by the narrator’s sad account of the fall of Anyara, the invading armies, the lists of numbers of fallen soldiers, and the positions of lines of battle and encampment. But after several pages the writer settled into an agonizing accounting of dates and numbers and the lineages of heroes who fell or conquered this enemy or that. It was all very confusing and seemed excessively unimportant, with the exception of occasional lines of great understatement.

  “On the fourth day of Secondmoon, in the year 1235 of the First Epoch, Boron son of Nam descended from Mount Flimkhar and fought a giant kamril for seven days, defeating the monster with the knuckles of his right fist.”

  “What’s a kamril?” Janner asked.

  Oskar shrugged. “Nia?”

  “I don’t remember. Kamril…it sounds like kamaral, the Hollish word for “bird.” A giant bird, maybe?”

  Leeli and Oskar did their best to decipher the music notes but had little luck. Though she played softly, when she fingered the notes the way she thought it was written, the song was so terrible that they all covered their ears.

  On and on Oskar worked by the light of the oil lamp while Tink returned to his sketchbook and Leeli and Podo conversed, until Janner fell asleep with his head on the old man’s shoulder.

  “It’s time,” Podo whispered.

  Janner had been dreaming about the sea, a fine dream about wide blue skies and a skiff cutting through the water. He was sad to wake. The burrow was just as dark and drab as ever. The promise that they would soon emerge from the tunnels into Dugtown beneath a starry sky gave Janner a tingle of excitement, however, and he quickly stretched and shouldered his backpack.

  “It’s about time you lot woke up,” Oskar said, donning his spectacles and leaning against the wall in an attempt to look spry and rugged. He was becoming quite the adventurer, Janner thought. The old man adjusted his lock of muddy hair and clapped Podo on the back.

  Podo rolled his eyes. “Ready?”

  “Yes sir,” Janner said.

  “Shut the door behind ye, lad,” Podo said.

  They ducked into the tunnel.

  30

  Sneem’s Last Words

  The door clicked shut, and Janner turned to see Podo’s lantern bobbing around a bend in the tunnel. The ground was no longer dirt but smooth stone. The walls of the tunnel were far enough apart that Janner could barely touch them with the tips of his fingers. The passageway descended gently, and now and then Janner sensed other tunnels on his left and right. Podo took so many turns that Janner wasn’t sure he could find his way back to their burrow if he had to.

  After a long, musty hour of walking, Podo stopped, face to face with a bearded rag of a man. The man gripped a dagger in his fist and pointed it at Podo’s chest. Podo had a dagger of his own trained on the Strander’s belly. The man carried a sack over his shoulder, probably spoils from a thieving run.

  “Where from?” the man growled.

  “The East Bend,” Podo growled back.

  “Claxton Weaver’s clan?” the man asked.

  Podo pulled Claxton’s pone medallion from his shirt and waved it in the man’s face. “It ain’t Weaver’s clan no more.”

  “Ah,” the man said with a nervous smile. His eyes flicked to the children. “Then which one of these lads is Kalmar? I’d like to meet ‘im.”

  With a nod of permission from Podo, Tink stepped forward timidly. “I’m Kalmar.”

  The man winked. “Heard ye ran circles around Claxton, whackin’ h
im with a switch till his pockets was empty and his bootstrings was tied in knots. Well done.”

  “Well,” Tink began.

  “Traipse on, then,” Podo interrupted. The man gave Tink a quick nod, then slipped away into the darkness. “Everyone all right?” Podo asked with a tender eye on Nia and Leeli. “Good. We’re almost there.”

  He led them into the next passageway on the left. After a few steps, they climbed a stone stairway until they came to what looked like a dead end. But in Strander tunnels it seemed there was no such thing as a dead end. Another hidden door slid open, and the company emerged into another round burrow with a dirt floor and a ladder that disappeared into a chimneylike opening. For a moment it felt as though they had traveled in a great circle.

  “Now listen,” Podo said, “and listen close. This ladder empties into the cellar of another house, but with one big difference. Dugtowners still live in this one. We’re just below the heart of the city, and the folk what live in this house likely haven’t a pinch of an idea there’s a burrow in their cellar. We’ve got to creep like snails through this house lest we wake the tenants and they scream bloody terror. Earlier today we were lucky they weren’t home, but more likely than not they’ll be here, and they’ll be sleepin’ lightly. No Dugtowner can afford to sleep too deep, or they’re like to wake up in an empty house.”

  “But if there’s a way into their cellar, why don’t the Stranders just steal everything anyway?” Janner asked.

  “Some of the folk in these houses know about the tunnels and let the Stranders come and go as long as they get a share of the loot. Other folk don’t know, and the Stranders like it that way. If they stole too much from a tunnel house, the owner might get suspicious, find the door, and seal it off. It’s happened plenty. I don’t know if these people know about the tunnel or not, but we’re not gonna find out. We’re gonna creep. Understand? Good.” Podo extinguished the lantern. “Stay close.”

  Janner came last again, feeling his way out of the trapdoor and onto the sandy floor of the cellar. All he could hear was the careful breathing of the rest of the company. Podo eased the trapdoor closed with a thump, and Janner heard a scraping sound as Podo concealed the door with loose dirt.

  “Come on,” Podo whispered. “Like snails.”

  Janner tiptoed behind Tink, grimacing in the darkness at every tap of Leeli’s crutch, every scrape of every foot on the stairs that led out of the cellar and into the house. Podo eased the door open and waved them on through a kitchen not much different from that of the Igiby cottage: four chairs and a table sat in the center of the room, a black iron stove squatted against one wall, and a shelf held stacks of plates, bowls, and canisters of spices and oils. Someone lived here, had dinner here, laughed over their meals here. Did they know Stranders slipped through the shadows while they slept?

  When the family and Oskar clustered at the front door, so still and silent that Janner believed he could hear his own heartbeat, Podo put a hand on the doorknob and turned it slowly. The door creaked open, and he bustled everyone outside, then eased the door shut behind them.

  Only when Podo breathed a deep sigh of relief did Janner and the others relax.

  They stood in front of a nondescript wooden house, if it could be called that. It was a wooden, two-story structure, not filthy but far from clean. As far as Janner could see in both directions, the houses on either side of the road were similar. Narrow walkways were all that stood between each dwelling. No plants hung from the eaves, no paint adorned the walls; just gray building after gray building. The road was rutted and muddy. Rats and hackerels skittered in the shadows, trying in vain to avoid patches of orange torchlight.

  Janner looked up at the nearest of the torch towers. Far above, a figure squatted on the platform beside the iron bowl where the bonfire raged. He hunkered like a vulture at the edge of the stand, peering down at the streets, a black shade against the whirl of flame. Not far away stood another tower with another fire and another figure, this one pacing.

  The figure on the nearer tower straightened and turned, and Janner’s heart leapt into his throat. The silhouette on the tower had a tail and the unmistakable stooped posture of a Fang of Dang.

  “Aye, lad. I see ‘im,” Podo whispered. “Everyone stay here until he turns the corner. Then follow me.”

  They stood with their backs to the house, where the shadow of the roof’s overhang hid all but the outermost tip of Oskar’s belly. When the Fang made his way to the far side of the blaze, Podo burst into a run. He kept close to the houses, careful to stay under the cover of the overhangs while the others did their best to follow. Podo skidded to a halt at a wide cross street.

  At the corner of the cobbled street stood a sign that read GREEN BLOSSOM AVENUE. The buildings here were brick and stone, three and four stories tall, with wide windows displaying meats and cheeses and tools for sale.

  Oskar wiped his brow and looked up and down Green Blossom Avenue. “We turn left here. Toward the river.”

  But before Podo took his first step, a company of Fangs marched around a corner two streets away. “Back! Back!” he rasped.

  In the bustle of seven people—one of them quite large—trying to reverse direction, Leeli lost her footing and fell. Janner tugged her to her feet and dragged her back.

  “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” Leeli whispered.

  “Shh, honey! It’s not yer fault!” Podo said.

  “But—” Leeli said.

  “Leeli, it’s okay,” Janner said.

  “But—” she repeated, and Podo shushed her again.

  He pushed them into the narrow corridor between two buildings. All Janner could see was Podo’s sweaty shirt and the old planks of the houses on either side. Louder grew the sound of marching Fangs. Janner closed his eyes, praying they would march on and the sound would fade to silence.

  But the Fang company halted. Janner held his breath.

  “My crutch,” Leeli breathed. “I tried to tell you.”

  Podo hung his head.

  One of the Fangs barked an order, and a set of footsteps came nearer. Janner waited for the moment when the scaly face would appear. Podo would kill it before it even knew what it had seen, but then the other Fangs would be after them. With so many Fangs on the torch towers and marching through the streets, Janner knew they wouldn’t escape for long.

  “A ssstick or something,” the Fang said. It stood just around the corner from where they hid, so close that Janner could smell it. The Fang in the street growled something unintelligible, and the nearer Fang answered, “A crutch? Not sure what a crutch is, sir. Ssseems like I used to know…. Yes sir. Sorry, sir. I’ll bring it.”

  The Fangs resumed their march. The family waited a long time before they eased from the corridor.

  “I’m sorry, Grandpa,” Leeli said with tears in her eyes.

  “Hush, lass.” He stroked her hair with his gnarled hand. “It’s me who’s sorry. If a Song Maiden of Anniera tells ye somethin’, you listen.” Then he added in a quieter voice, “No matter if she’s a Song Maiden—if your sweet granddaughter tells ye some-thin’, you listen then too. Come here.” Podo handed his backpack to Oskar, then boosted Leeli onto his back.

  When he was sure the Fangs were gone, Podo led the company south on Green Blossom Avenue. The cobbled road was littered with horse droppings but otherwise clean. Tall buildings loomed over the street, their windows dark and covered in a layer of dust and grime. In the windows were various wares and merchandise for sale: sacks of grain, crude statues bearing dresses and coats with stiff dignity, bird cages, and forks and spoons.1 Janner spotted a storefront that boasted one simple, beautiful word—BOOKS—and pointed it out to Oskar.

  The old man shook his head and scowled, “Peddlers and crooks,” he said. “Wouldn’t know a good book from a bad tooth.”

  The family kept close to the buildings, careful to stay out of the glare of the torchlight. At each cross street, Podo checked the towers, and then they sprinted out of the
shadows from one side to the other. It seemed that any moment another regiment of Fangs would leap from behind a building.

  But finally Oskar whispered, “This is it.”

  They stood at the intersection of Green Blossom Avenue and another wide street called Riverside Road. Green Blossom crossed Riverside and sloped down into the black expanse of the Mighty Blapp. More tall brick storefronts lined the north side of Riverside Road, but on the south along the riverbank stood wooden boathouses bordered by docks and bridges. The wind changed, and a sharp odor filled Janner’s nose.

  “Ah, the sweet smell of jarp and redgill from the riverboats,” Podo said with a sigh. “Been too long since I filled me belly with fish.”

  Tink moaned with longing and put a hand on his stomach while Janner fought the urge to gag.

  Far across the river, Torrboro lay in darkness. All that could be seen of the Palace Torr or any of its surrounding structures was a wink of torchlight reflected on the surface of the river.

  “Look,” Oskar said, pointing down the street to the right. A series of wooden signs hung from the row of buildings and creaked in the waterfront wind: BILLY BUTTON’S APPARELLRY, TOBACCO FOR PIPES (YOUR WIFE WILL LOVE IT!), LUCKY ROCKS. Another shingle depicted an impossibly fat woman in a black dress, weeping, a handkerchief over her mouth and nose. THE ROUNDISH WIDOW, the sign read. ALE, COMFORT, AND SAILOR’S PIE. The Igibys huddled in the doorway of a shoe repair shop, and the sign above their heads read A PLACE FOR FOOTS.

  Just across the street, a torch tower rose from behind the boathouses, and Janner didn’t need to look to know a Fang stood at the top, watching the street for movement.

  “Well,” Podo whispered.

  “Well,” Oskar echoed, donning his spectacles with a flourish. “In the words of the great warrior Triliban Plubius the Bruised, ‘Whether crushed or sheltered by the Maker’s hand, ‘tis beneath it we go, from breath to death.’”