Janner spent several minutes collecting firewood and soon had a healthy blaze to warm his bones. When his body stopped trembling he set his attention to his supplies. He found beside his pallet and pack an unstrung bow and a quiver of exactly thirteen arrows. “Ha ha,” he grumbled. The bow was lashed to a sword and a dagger, comforting weapons for a boy alone in the woods.
The sword. Rudric! Janner unwrapped it and drew it from the scabbard. He admired the stout blade, nicked but sharp and gleaming in the early light. The leather of the hilt was dark and smooth with years of use, and it fit his hand perfectly. “Thank you, Rudric,” he said as he sheathed it.
His backpack, the same one his mother had made for him in Skree before they had escaped Uncle Artham’s treehouse, was bursting at the seams. He felt a familiar satisfaction at the way the worn leather had lost its stiffness. He and this pack had survived gargan rockroaches, the Stranders of the East Bend, and even a voyage across the Dark Sea of Darkness—and they both had scars to prove it. He unbuckled the flap and several little bundles of rations wrapped with paper and twine tumbled out, along with an envelope bearing his name. Janner tore open the envelope and unfolded a letter.
Janner,
Your mother tells me that you escaped a factory full of slaves, traveled alone across Fang territory, and found your family in a city built under the ice. You should have no problem with this little test of your Durgan abilities. Every guildling undergoes a similar trial of skill and strength, though it must be said: not every guildling’s birthday is in the dead of winter, and some aren’t ready for blindplopping until their fourteenth or fifteenth year. But you’re more than ready. Too bad for you. You’ve been taught sneakery, hunting, tracking, orienteering, and combat. There’s no reason you shouldn’t be able to figure out where you are, find food, and make your way home—unless of course you encounter a toothy cow, of which there are few in the Hollows. Also, keep an eye out for grobblins, especially in the winter. But you’ll be fine. Just be wary of skonks, because of course they attract the spike-eared vargax, which is only vulnerable in the middle paw—the MIDDLE paw, mind you.
I have full confidence that you’ll make it home without incident. Unless you see the ridgerunners. I forgot about them. They’re getting braver these days, coming into the Hollows in little bands—likely scouting for the Fangs. But don’t worry about them. They probably won’t kidnap you.
Now, you should probably know that when a guildling is blindplopped, as you have been, there is no guardian. No one is watching over you, ready to rescue you as soon as things get difficult. I’m not training flabbits here—I’m training Durgans. Defenders of the Hollows. That means you’re on your own. Of course, if you don’t show up at Ban Rona for a week or so, we’ll send out a search party to bring you home, though there probably won’t be much of you left. Your mother grew up here; she knows how it works, and she’s given me her full permission. I expected to have to talk her into the blindplop, but she agreed without hesitation. That should make you feel some pride, boy.
One last thing you should know. By the time you read this, you’ll be feeling hungry. That’s because you’ve been sleeping for two days. It may seem like your birthday party was last night, but it wasn’t. You’re farther from home than you know. A two-day ride could put you pretty much anywhere in the Green Hollows. Have fun!
Guildmaster Clout
P.S. I forgot about the cloven. Don’t let them eat you.
P.P.S. Also, I noticed a thork nest in the stand of trees near where I left you. They’re usually docile, except at sunrise. And don’t build the fire too high! That just makes them angry.
Janner slipped the letter back into his pack and held very still. He heard a snap, but couldn’t be sure whether it was the fire or a thork in the trees. Clout had taught him that ears work best when eyes are shut, so he closed them and held his breath, listening so hard that he could hear his own heart. Then he had the awful realization that there was something breathing in the trees. And it was behind him.
5
Thork Whacking
Janner gulped.Thorks.
What was a thork, anyway?
He sifted through the pages of memory, trying to picture the creature. He knew he had read about thorks in Pembrick’sCreaturepedia, but he couldn’t recall anything specific.You’re about to find out exactly what a thork is, right down to its eating habits, he thought.Just as soon as you turn around.
The creature behind him must have sensed the inner tension in Janner, because in the moments before he sprang, the breathing stopped and he heard some movement. With a prayer to the Maker, Janner spun around with a shout. Before him in the snow stood a hairy creature with a long tongue dangling out of the side of its toothy mouth, watching Janner calmly. Janner froze, the point of his sword only inches from the creature’s snout.
The thork looked strangely like a dog. One of Leeli’s dogs, in fact—a big, brown and white hillherder with droopy eyes.
“Baxter?” Janner said, lowering the sword and breathing a sigh of relief.
The dog barked and wagged its tail. Attached to Baxter’s collar was a small tube with a cap at one end. Janner scratched behind the dog’s ears as he removed the tube and slid a parchment from it.
Dear Janner,
Happy birthday! I asked Baxter to keep you company. I’d hate for you to be all alone in the cold hills without anyone to talk to. He’s not supposed to help you find your way home, but if anything really bad happens you can send him back for help. All you have to say is “Get Leeli,” and he’ll come straight to Chimney Hill and lead us to you. Hopefully you’re not reading this out loud, or he’ll already be gone.
Love,
Leeli
“Thanks, Leeli,” Janner said. At the sound of her name, Baxter cocked his head and looked at Janner expectantly. “Thanks! I said, ‘thanks.’” The dog relaxed and licked his hand.
Janner checked for thorks again, then sheathed Rudric’s sword and fastened the scabbard and dagger to his belt. Beneath the parcels of food and dried fruit (and one honeymuffin—the sight of which made him nauseous) were matches, a flask of oil and several strips of torch cloth, fishing line and a few hooks, some salt, a canteen, and his journal. He was glad Nia had thought to include it. It had only been a few minutes since he woke and already he felt less alone and more capable of finding his way back. Not only that, Leeli had given him the (somewhat unfair) advantage of Baxter’s tracks in the snow. All he had to do was follow them out of the woods and back to Ban Rona. He felt a little guilty until he remembered that he was still two days’ journey away, which was hard enough to do alone.
And then, as Clout had predicted, his stomach growled.
Janner tore the wrapping from one of the parcels and bit into a hunk of dried hogpig meat sandwiched between two pieces of crumbly bread. It was cold, but it was delicious—and at least it wasn’t the honeymuffin. He took a swig of water from the canteen and threw another stick on the fire. The sun was still below the horizon, but the sky was lightening rapidly, which gave the air an illusion of warmth.
Then Baxter barked. Janner turned around to look and almost spat out a mouthful of hogpig. Baxter was looking up into the trees at several whitish blobs squirming along the trunks. If the trees were candles, these things looked like cabbage-sized drops of wax running slowly down. Thorks? When Baxter barked again, one of the featureless blobs opened a mouth as wide as its body and hissed. Its teeth, of course, were long and needle-sharp. As far as Janner could tell, the things had no eyes, no feet, no fur—only mouths. Thorks were white, moist blobs with teeth. At least they didn’t look fast enough to be dangerous.
Janner drew his sword and waited at the base of one of the trees. When the thork was low enough, he whacked it so hard that bits of bark flew from the tree. He hit the thing square in the center, and the blow nearly split it in two. But the white mass reshaped itself, snapped its teeth, and continued its descent. Janner whacked it again, and this time the mass spli
t in half; some of its goo stuck to his sword when he pulled it away. But the thork squirmed itself back into one blob, clacked its teeth together, and crept on.
As Baxter growled and bounded from tree to tree, Janner saw a thork drip to the snow then ooze its way toward the dog’s rear leg. He jumped behind Baxter and struck the blob, slowing it but doing no damage.
A quick look overhead told him that there were hundreds of the blobs descending from the trees surrounding the fire. If he didn’t get out soon he’d be trapped. Janner shoved the food back into his pack, rolled up his blanket and pallet, and grabbed the bow and quiver.
“Come on, Baxter!”
The dog leapt over three of the thorks already squidging through the snow.
Janner didn’t think to follow the dog’s tracks, nor did he have time to be sure he had collected all his belongings, but he had to go. He squirmed around one tree where a blob crept by at chest level and backed into another where a thork snapped at his pack. He weaved through the trees, jumping over some thorks and ducking under others, looking back now and again to be sure Baxter was faring well. After a few minutes of hard running, Janner and Baxter burst from the line of the forest and tumbled into the snow.
When he had caught his breath, Janner stood and brushed himself off, making sure they had left the thorks behind. The sun had crested the horizon and it gilded the wintry hilltops stretching away for miles. It was beautiful country, and the vastness reminded Janner not only that he was far from home—but that he was lost. Whichever way Baxter had come into the woods to find him, it wasn’t here. And there was no way Janner was going back into those woods to find the trail. Part of him was glad, because it meant the test was fair again, and with a prayer of thanksgiving for Leeli he sat next to Baxter, relishing the sun’s warmth as he finished the breakfast the thorks had interrupted. He was surprised to realize that, alone in the bright snowy morning, he was happy.
This was different than his trek through the Stony Mountains with the Fangs lurking around every corner, not to mention the burden of shame he had felt for losing his brother in Dugtown. He was a year older now, he had trained for months with the Durgan guild, and he doubted he was in any real danger from Gnag the Nameless here. Otherwise Guildmaster Clout wouldn’t have blindplopped him, not with a war brewing; Nia wouldn’t have allowed it.
He had nothing to worry about. He was well provisioned and well equipped. He was healthy and warmly dressed—even warmer with Baxter leaning against him. Janner looked out at the vast landscape, quiet but for the twitter of a few birds in the branches and the whisper of the prairie wind, and was delighted by the solitude. The knowledge that many miles away he was watched for by his friends and family gave him a lonely sort of peace.
The sun warmed the left side of Janner’s face. That meant he was looking southeast. He closed his eyes and imagined the map of the Green Hollows hanging on the wall at the Great Library; he had seen it a hundred times, and it came to him easily. The line of forest (if he was where hethought he was) lay at the eastern edge of the Hollows, in the Outer Vales. The woods stretched away on either side, but on the left it hooked inwards again and followed a ridge into the distance.
“That’s southeast,” Janner said aloud. He squinted his eyes and thought he detected in the haze of horizon the hint of snowy peaks. He was pretty sure those were the Killridge Mountains. If that was true, then the forest at his back was the western sweep of the Blackwood.
The Blackwood? Surely Clout wouldn’t have left him there—unless he was far enough north that there was little danger of encountering a cloven. Or maybe there was plenty of danger, and that was part of the point of the blindplop. Either way, Janner was pleased that he had at least oriented himself. He knew more or less where he was.
So what now?
If he bore southward he would eventually run into a road that led to Ban Rugan, where he could get better directions and some warmth. That shouldn’t take more than a day, should it?
“I’m not getting any closer by sitting here,” he said, patting Baxter on the shoulder. “Let’s go, boy.”
Janner heard another snap of a twig in the trees but figured it was a thork, or a thwap, or even a diggle of some sort, so he didn’t bother to turn around. It didn’t occur to him that it might have been a ridgerunner.
Janner never made it back to Chimney Hill.
6
The Houndry Corps
On the morning Janner set out from the forest, Leeli harnessed her four fastest dogs to her sled for the short ride to the Guildling Hall where she was to meet the O’Sally boys for an orientation training session. A passel of puppies had just been weaned and they were ready to begin their journey into doghood under the guidance of what Leeli and the O’Sallys had named the Houndry Corps.
The moment war had been declared, the mood in the houndry had changed. Before, Leeli had delighted the O’Sallys with her quick mastery of dogspeak and she had spent most of her time teaching the pups the basic behaviors (“sit,” “lie down,” “come,” and “dance”), but now she and Thorn spent most of their days running drills with the sleds so that the dogs would be quick to understand and obey in the heat of battle. Biggin O’Sally had told her that war hounds were traditionally used to transport weapons, supplies, and information to the front, after which they would transport wounded and dead to the rear for either medical attention or burial.
“’Tis a noble calling on these hounds, lass,” Biggin had said, the pup in his arms wagging its little tail. “Many will die, but not without meaning. They die for their friends, and that’s the next finest thing to life itself.”
The thought didn’t calm the trouble in Leeli’s heart. Winter was ending.
Every morning for weeks now she had taken her crutch under her arm and made her way through the snow to the kennel at Chimney Hill. Podo had made her a new crutch that had at its foot a sort of snowboot, which kept it from stabbing through to the frozen earth every time she leaned on it. Instead of “Lizardkicker,” Podo had merely carved Leeli’s name along the shaft, and she had noticed with a pang of sadness that the letters were sloppy and uneven—a big difference between that and the bold, sure hand that had carved her nickname back in Skree.
Today, when she stood on the front stoop and breathed the cold air, looking out on the view of the Green Hollows from Chimney Hill, she didn’t bother bidding her grandfather goodbye because he had fallen back to sleep as soon as breakfast was finished. Podo seemed to be aging suddenly, just as winter seemed to be turning to spring all at once. Only a week ago the drifts had been pristine and thick as cotton, and now mud seeped through the ruts where her sled passed. The snow-packed road down from Chimney Hill was darkening, and she knew it would soon be a sloppy mess, impassable by her sled.
Leeli fastened her crutch to the sled and eased herself into the kneeler. She made a series of clicking sounds with her tongue that set the dogs heaving. When she got to the base of the hill and crossed the stone bridge to the main road to Ban Rona, she reined in the dogs and looked to her right. Every day for three days she had watched the snowy lane, praying to the Maker that she would see Janner and Baxter strolling home, but there had been no sign of them. Nia assured her that though it might take a few days, Janner was more than capable of finding his way home, but Leeli detected the worry in her mother’s eyes. That was why she had sent Baxter.
Leeli steered the dogs left and let them run. She sped up the road to the first hard turn, then veered the sled away from the road and into an irresistible slope of untouched snow. The dogs yipped as if to thank her for the gift, and the Song Maiden of Anniera laughed in answer. They sped together, the girl and her dogs, faster than any horse and sled could have gone, and arrived at the houndry only minutes later in a spray of snow.
As Leeli climbed out of the sled, she felt a welling anxiety in her heart and knew its source. It wasn’t just that Podo’s time was coming—it was because spring meant war. And war meant death, and pain, and terror. She
had seen enough in her nine years to know that even if the Hollowsfolk were victorious against Gnag the Nameless, victory would come at a terrible price. She had heard Janner’s and Kal’s friends in the Durgan Guild talk about the coming war with a sort of relish, as if they looked forward to the fighting. Nia had explained that it was only their way of mocking their fear, of establishing their defiance of it. It wasn’t that they would prefer war to peace, she had said, but that they knew they must fight, and if they must, then they would rather face it sooner than later.
But Leeli had come to cherish each day at Chimney Hill, each meal with her family, each visit to the houndry, each hiss of sled on snow, each speeding trip through the streets of Ban Rona, each kind face that greeted her. The mud beneath the snowmelt and the scrape of stone on her sled’s runners was as sad to her as the deepening wrinkles on her dear Podo’s face. How terrible was the truth that it was unstoppable, no matter how earnest her prayers.
When she had unharnessed her dogs and sent them to the houndry (there was a dog-sized entrance at the rear of the building), Leeli pushed through the front door and discovered Thorn O’Sally on his hands and knees trying to coax a puppy from beneath a bench. Several adult dogs were nosing their way between his arms, trying to get the puppy themselves.
“Back, girls!” Thorn said, shooing the dogs away. He changed his voice to a pleading falsetto. “Here, puppy! Come to Thorn, lad. That’s it. Ow!” He jerked his hand out and sucked on it. “Leeli, this stubborn pup won’t come out fer nothing. Took a whole haunch of hogpig from the table when I wasn’t looking, and now it won’t come out.”
The Warden and the Wolf King Page 3