The Boy, the Wolf, and the Stars

by Shivaun Plozza

  The man—the Un-King?—startled, surprised to see he was not alone. He blinked at Bo.

  “Is it Tuesday?” he asked.

  The soldiers shared a look. “Er, no, sir,” said the green-eyed soldier.

  “Ah well, you are out of luck. I only see to Un-King business on Tuesdays. Between eleven and seven minutes past. And oh dear, look.” He glanced up at the sky through the tangle of branches. “It’s much, much past that time now, and besides, it’s Thursday. So. Toodle-oo!”

  “But they’re prisoners, sir. One is a suspected witch and the other is rumored to be in league with Shadow Creatures. It might explain why the city has been under attack.”

  The Un-King grumbled, shuffling to the armchair. Another slimy thing had appeared, crawling across the back of the chair. He sat, index finger stroking the spine of the creature cradled in his arms, its trumpet mouth opening and closing: pop, pop, pop . . .

  From somewhere overhead, an owl hooted; the Un-King glowered at the branches.

  “This job is such a chore,” he moaned, and turned his look to Bo. “The Queen sends for me constantly. She expects monthly meetings in the capital for all the province leaders, but I can’t leave my slugs, you see? They’re colossal spit-mouth slugs—fascinating creatures, don’t you think? Very rare and very temperamental. So, I can’t leave them, not even for a second. Too many owls flapping about. And Patrice gets lonely.” He cooed gently at the slug cradled in his arms. “And now I’m expected to deal with prisoners and it’s not even Tuesday!” Patrice shot out a long slick of steaming white sludge from her trumpet mouth all over his leather apron. “See? Patrice agrees.” He cleaned the sludge with a cloth, hissing when a spot landed on his trousers and burned through the fabric. Bo tugged his cloak tightly around him as Nix edged closer, whimpering softly.

  A door on the west side of the room slammed open and five more soldiers burst in, panting and faces red.

  “Shadow Creature sighting at the eastern wall,” wheezed one, hands on knees.

  “And more skirmishes at the west gate,” said another. “Too many people trying to leave at once. More still fighting to come into the city.”

  A young soldier—lanky and freckled and wide-eyed—gripped his own hair and pulled. “We should be leaving too,” he cried. “Why aren’t we leaving?”

  “It’s him,” sneered the baker’s cousin, jabbing a finger at Bo. His teeth were bared. “He leads the Shadow Creatures.”

  The soldiers murmured, turning to Bo with distrustful eyes.

  Bo shrank back, the warm press of Nix beside him like a tether. “I’m not—”

  “Lies!” spat the baker’s cousin, face twisted. “It wasn’t even my magic—it was him! I’m innocent.”

  Bo bit his lip, sneaking a glance at the Un-King. With one hand he stroked Patrice, and with the other he tapped an impatient beat against the armrest. Did he think Bo was guilty? Would he sentence him to the Fuglebur? Bo jerked back as his foolishness hit him hard—I should never have left Tam. I failed before I even started. I am cursed.

  The soldiers’ worried murmurs grew louder, a buzz of nervous energy sparking all around them.

  The Un-King sighed loudly. “Oh, all right, then. Bring the boy here,” he said. “Not even Tuesday . . .” he muttered under his breath.

  A boot to his behind sent Bo flying forward; he landed in a crumpled pile at the Un-King’s feet.

  “Stand up, boy,” said the Un-King.

  Bo stood, straightening his tattered clothes. The Un-King leaned forward, peering into Bo’s face.

  “He doesn’t look evil,” he muttered. The slug in his arms turned her trumpet to pop, pop, pop at Bo. “Looks like an ordinary boy to me.”

  “I am,” Bo said. “I’m just here to look for a—”

  A sudden gust of wind chased through the room, and the chime in the tree tinkled loudly. Bo glanced up and saw it was made out of a strange assortment of items: a bejeweled scepter, necklaces and bracelets and . . .

  “A key!”

  “I’ve no need for any of that old royal junk,” explained the Un-King, following Bo’s eye line. “Far more useful as a wind chime. Patrice has a nervous disposition, you see, and the sound calms her. She’s less likely to shoot poisonous mucus everywhere if she’s happy.”

  As if to prove the Un-King wrong, Patrice shot a spear of white mucus from her trumpet; it landed on the armrest and dribbled down the side, burning holes in the fabric as it went. But Bo was mesmerized by the key.

  It was large and gold, one end shaped like a teardrop. This has to be it, he thought. The first key! I was right. I was actually right!

  His fingers itched to reach out and grab it.

  “Well?” shouted the baker’s cousin. Bo jerked at the sound, quickly lowering his head again. “Aren’t you going to lock him in the Fuglebur and set me free?”

  With a scowl, the Un-King stood. “I do hope you’re not telling me what to do,” he said, bearing down on the baker’s cousin. “It’s not even Tuesday! Do you know how distressing this is for my slugs? Honestly!” He turned to the soldiers. “Why would you bring me such nonsense? I have enough to worry about as it is. Don’t you know there’s another owl infestation?”

  “Owls?” spluttered the green-eyed soldier. She threw her hands up. “Who cares about blasted owls? There are Shadow Creatures attacking the city. In the Light! You’re the Un-King—what are you going to do about it?”

  Everyone started shouting at once: Witch! Shadow Creatures! Leave! Attack! Tuesday! Arrest! Slugs! The young freckled soldier pulled at his hair, crying.

  The baker’s cousin shouted louder than all of them, the air electric around him. Suddenly, above the din was an almighty crack! A flash of white Light shot through the room, severing half the tree branches above Bo and sending them—and the wind chime—to the ground. Bo barely jumped out of the way in time, and Nix barked once at the fallen branches, then hid behind Bo’s legs. The room was silent save for the quiet whimpering of the freckled soldier. The baker’s cousin stared open-mouthed at his hands, once again the source of the strange Light.

  And then the shouting started up anew, louder this time, urgent. Some soldiers threw their weapons down and fled from the room; others ran for the baker’s cousin and pinned him to the ground.

  “Witch!”

  “Get out of here! Save yourselves!”

  “Protect the Un-King!”

  “Leave the city at once!”

  “Don’t hurt Patrice!”

  In the chaos, Bo crawled to the fallen branches and sifted through the teetering pile. The splintered wood cut into his hands, but he ignored the pain. Where is it? Where? A glimmer of gold at the bottom of the pile set his heart racing. He tossed branches aside and finally clasped the buried wind chime. Bo reached past the scepter and the other glittery objects, then unhooked the key and slipped it into his pocket. “Come on, Nix,” he whispered. “Let’s get out of here.”

  They edged along the wall as soldiers dashed around the room—the baker’s cousin was dragged along the floor, wailing and cursing and screaming at the sparks still firing from his hands.

  Bo made a dash for the door. “Now, Nix! Now.”

  But a firm hand gripped his cloak and yanked him back. He gasped for air as his collar dug into his throat.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” said the green-eyed soldier, a cruel grin twisting her mouth. In her other hand she had Nix by the scruff. The fox twisted around, trying to snap at her. “The Un-King might not have plans for you, but I do,” she said. “You and your witch dog.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Bo peered through the cage bars—it was a long way down.

  He had been strung up in the city’s elaborate Fuglebur: ten iron cages hanging from the branches of a tree whose blossoms made Bo’s nostrils itch. His rucksack had been confiscated, and although the key and Tam’s blood bind were safely tucked away in his trouser pocket, all his supplies—candles, matches, water, food—were gone.


  Nix was in the cage beside him; if Bo poked his arm through the bars and strained until his shoulder burned, then he could just press the back of his hand to Nix’s snout and reassure the whimpering fox. On his other side, the baker’s cousin was cursing and rattling the bars so hard the whole tree shook.

  “This is your fault, Devil-child,” he growled.

  Bo ground his teeth and ignored him, scouring the market square for a way out, an idea, a friendly face. Anything.

  But no one looked up; villagers pushed their overflowing carts and threw fearful glances over their shoulders at the homes they were leaving behind. Soldiers stalked the cobblestones, shouting orders and breaking up fights. But Bo saw plenty of them pushing carts too, tearing the yellow insignia of the Irin Army from their breast pockets and tossing them to the ground.

  He was stuck.

  And when the Dark came . . .

  All those times walking through the village market square and Mads had said: For prisoners. Not little boys who live in forests.

  How wrong he had been.

  Bo gripped the bars and pulled but they would not budge. He gritted his teeth and kept pulling, a growl fighting its way through his gut and into his throat before exploding from his mouth as a wail.

  Why had he left Tam’s side? Why? Hadn’t the villagers told him for years how useless he was? He panted heavily, dropping his hands from the bars.

  “Got you, too, did they?” said a voice somewhere behind him.

  Bo jerked around all the way until he saw a familiar face with a gold-toothed smile peeking from behind the tree’s thick trunk from a cage on the other side.

  “Galvin? What are you doing here?”

  “Darn soldiers,” said the wish-seller. “Made up some gippitty-gunk about my goods being stolen and locked me in here.” He sniffed sourly.

  “Who is it? Who’s there?” snapped the baker’s cousin, twisting until he could settle his distrustful glare on the wish-seller. “Oh. Is this a friend of yours, Devil-child?”

  “He’s only a . . .” started Bo before he remembered the mist and the ghost-children and the mushrooming green smoke that stank of old socks and rotted meat but did not fight off spirits. “. . . a cheater!” he said. “You cheated me! That spirit charm was a load of old trolldung!”

  Galvin huffed. “Never! I’m the most honest salesman in the whole of Ulv.”

  “You charged me twelve Raha for that charm and it didn’t work. I almost got eaten by ghosts! And I bet that wasn’t a real wish you had either.”

  “Tsk!” said Galvin. “Of course the charm didn’t work on ghosts! You need a special ghost charm for them. I have one I can sell you for twelve . . . eh, fifteen Raha. Well, I did have one. The soldiers took all my things.”

  Bo turned around again, folding his arms across his chest. “I don’t believe you,” he said. “And I’m not talking to you anymore.”

  Galvin snorted. “Fine. I’ll talk to your friend here instead.”

  “I’m not his friend,” said the baker’s cousin. Bo could hear the revulsion in his voice. “This child is a curse!”

  “Well, in that case you’ll need a honkypokey charm—stops curses from taking hold. I can sell you one for twenty-five Raha. When we’re free, that is, and I get my goods back.”

  It was Bo’s turn to snort. When we’re free . . .

  “Fifteen and you’ve got a deal.”

  “Twenty.”

  “Sold!”

  A swirl of wind plucked a handful of blossoms from the tree and tossed them at Bo. He shook them off, sneezing once, twice, three times.

  Nix whimpered again; Bo shot him a reassuring smile. He longed to reach out and run his fingers through the little fox’s fur.

  I’m sorry, he wanted to say. I’m sorry I led you here. I’m sorry I wasn’t smart enough, quick enough, brave enough to keep us out of trouble. And as he looked down at the scattered villagers—only a handful now—he felt sorry for them, too. He was certain it was the Shadow Witch who had caused all this chaos, and it had been within his means to stop it. Not from behind the bars of a Fuglebur, though.

  He reached into his pocket and fingered the key, cool against his skin.

  “Squall’s End is abandoned now,” the baker’s cousin was saying to Galvin. “Won’t be a single soul left in Irin soon. Anyone who remains might as well start carving their headstone.” He shook his head. “There’s no hope. None at all.”

  “You could use your magic to free us,” said Bo.

  The baker’s cousin whipped his head around so fast the bones cracked in his neck. “I haven’t got magic!” he sneered. “There’s no such thing!”

  “There is,” said Bo. “Why do you think the Shadow Creatures are getting stronger? It wasn’t me—it was because the Shadow Witch released magic and now the only way to stop her is to free the Stars. Tell him, Galvin. You agree with me.”

  “Stars?” said Galvin. His eyes danced. “Real Stars?”

  The wish-seller pressed himself against the bars; the cage swayed in the breeze.

  Bo rolled his eyes. “Yes, real Stars. Not like the fake ones you sell.” He frowned at Galvin’s growing smirk. “I thought you knew about this,” he said. “You were the one who told me about the Shadow Witch.”

  Another handful of blossoms landed in Bo’s lap. He supposed they were quite pretty—tight blue buds with wispy white hairs that fluttered away on the wind when Bo sneezed.

  The baker’s cousin threw back his head and laughed. “Stars? Only babies believe in Stars!”

  Bo shook his head. “The Stars were stolen by a wolf a long time ago. He’s still got them.”

  “Where?” said Galvin. His eyes glinted with barely concealed hunger. “You know, don’t you?”

  Bo shrank back against the bars. A prickle of unease danced up his spine as he shook his head. “No, I don’t—”

  A single blossom landed on the back of Bo’s hand in his lap; it was black. When he gasped, the movement of air was enough to cause the blossom to crumble; the resulting ash blew away on the wind, leaving behind a Dark residue on Bo’s skin. He rubbed it clean against his trouser leg and looked up.

  Bo watched in horror as, slowly, every blossom on the tree turned black and rained down on them, coating their skin and their clothes in ash.

  “What witchcraft is this?” cried the baker’s cousin. He slapped at his arms, his legs, his face, trying to wipe himself clean of the black dust.

  The sickness spread to the branches, too—the wood shriveled and blackened. The branch above Bo splintered with a shrill crack and his cage jerked.

  “Oh no,” he whispered.

  Nix barked and Bo looked down—so far to fall.

  There was another shrill crack and then a split second where nothing happened—just Bo suspended in the air, ash raining down around him. But then the branch broke clean and tumbled to the ground, Bo’s cage with it.

  Pain shot through him as he landed. He hit his head, his elbow, his knee. More crashes and cries for help echoed around him. Nix barking, metal clanging. Bang, bang, BANG!

  When his ears stopped ringing and his vision cleared he was on his back, tangled in his cloak, and broken iron bars littered the ground around him. He sat up and got a face full of excited fox, the fur tickling his cheeks.

  “I’m glad you’re okay too, Nix.”

  The baker’s cousin groaned and Bo looked around: all the cages had fallen and the tree was nothing more than a charred stump, clumps of ash wafting away on the wind.

  “Quickly,” said Galvin, suddenly at Bo’s side, grabbing his arm and hauling him to standing. “Noise like that is bound to attract the attention of—”

  “Halt!” The soldier’s cry shot through the market square. “Prisoners escaping!” she yelled, waving her sword at them, more soldiers rushing toward her calls.

  “Run!” shouted Galvin.

  They all ran, weaving through the crooked city streets, the soldiers hot on their tails, boots stomping
and cries of Halt! Stop them! Traitors!

  “Sacrifice the boy,” panted the baker’s cousin. “He can lure the soldiers away while we escape.”

  “What an excellent idea,” said Galvin, but it was the baker’s cousin he pushed, sending him flying. He tumbled before coming to a halt against the wall of an inn. The baker’s cousin sat up with a snarl and a red face. Bo felt the telltale sparks zapping through the air before the explosion of Light.

  “Duck!” he called, and dived down an alley, Nix and Galvin close behind. There was a crash as the magic connected with something—a wall or a window. A chorus of voices rang through the air as the soldiers caught up; the baker’s cousin was howling: “It wasn’t me! I’m not a witch! Take the boy—he’s down there!”

  Galvin grabbed Bo’s sleeve. “This way!” he hissed. “I know a secret exit—I’ll see us free.” He swerved a sharp left, herding them toward a narrow gate in the city wall, half-hidden by a creeping vine. Despite Nix’s urgent barks, Bo had no choice but to follow—he could still hear the other man’s screams as the soldiers hauled him back to the Un-Royal Palace.

  They ran through the gate and out onto a flat, marshy wasteland that stretched as far as Bo could see—mud and patchy grass and a handful of spindly trees, their meager branches bare of leaves. Galvin led the way, weaving a path that Bo tried to follow.

  They were well away from the city wall when Bo’s foot became stuck in the mud and he was flung forward, landing on all fours. His hands sank into the sludge.

  What on Ulv?

  Bo pushed himself to standing; there was a loud, slurping pop has he yanked his hands free of the gooey mud. He looked down at his feet; they were sinking too! “What is this?” he cried. He tried to lift his feet but they were stuck.

  “The quagmires,” announced Galvin, voice smug. He was standing on a large green island to Bo’s left, one of many bursts of green scattered about the quagmires. Bo looked around wildly. Nix was safe on a grassy tuft, barking at Bo’s sinking feet.

  Galvin’s smile stretched wide as he rocked onto his heels. “You need to grow up around here to know which bits to stand on and which will suck you down forever,” he said.