The Warden and the Wolf King

by Andrew Peterson

  Ortham was kind of heart and spoke often with odd little Bonifer even as they grew up and apart—Bonifer into bookish solitude and Ortham into great strength and fame among the warrior folk.

  ‘Ortham,’ said Bonifer that day as he stood at the front door to the Greensmith house on Apple Berry Way. ‘I need to speak with you.’

  Ortham, recognizing the seriousness in Bonifer’s manner, stepped outside. ‘Yes?’

  Bonifer fumbled with his words before blurting out the secret that would lead to his great wounding. ‘I’m in love with a girl named Madia.’

  Ortham burst into laughter. It was not laughter intended to belittle his friend, but belittle Bonifer it did. ‘My friend, all of Ban Rona is in love with Madia Wingfeather!’ And without realizing that his words cut to Bonifer’s heart, he continued. ‘In fact, Bonifer, I plan to marry her! Tomorrow, after I win the Finnick Durga, I shall declare my love. She’s to be the queen, you know.’

  Bonifer heard little else that Ortham said, so smitten was he with grief and shame. A queen! Bonifer had thought she was just a girl from Anniera. His cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

  Just then, Madia and her family passed by and the two young men turned and waved, Bonifer aching with jealous desire, Ortham oblivious to his friend’s torment. Madia smiled and waved in return, and both men believed her smile was aimed at him alone. Ortham bade farewell to Bonifer and shut the door, his heart full of affection; Bonifer stood alone on the stoop, his heart full of anger.

  —FromThe Annieriad

  14

  Another Hollow, Another Monster

  Janner’s lungs felt shallow and hot. He had been running for hours, first uphill through snow as deep as his waist, then downhill into the next valley, sometimes tumbling head over heels until he reached the bottom, where Baxter would be waiting. All he could think about was getting back to Ban Rona, to Chimney Hill.

  He was elated when at last he came upon a road, the first sign of civilization he had seen. But his heart quickly sank. The ruts were dusted with a couple of inches of fresh snow, and it hadn’t snowed in days, which meant it had been a long time since anyone had passed that way. He looked to his left and right, but there was nothing to see, just hills and more hills.

  “Should we take to the road, boy?” he asked Baxter as he bent over to catch his breath. “I think there’s a town somewhere west of here. Molcullen, or something.” His gut told him to keep following Baxter south, but the thought of leaving the first road he had come to worried him. Not only would he be thrust into the lonely wild again, he would have to keep trudging through all that snow. The snow on the road was only ankle deep. And the road would lead him tosomething, maybe a town, or even just a farmstead where he could borrow a horse or a houndrick.

  Janner kicked the snow. He couldn’t afford to waste any time, but he didn’t want to make the wrong choice. After a gulp of water from his canteen he decided that the road might lead him too far out of the way and cost him precious minutes. And if minutes mattered, then he couldn’t afford to rest any longer.

  Janner patted Baxter’s warm flank and left the road behind. He ran and ran, conscious of the falling light, his failing strength, and how cold the coming night would be.

  After the next rise, he saw a stone cottage on the valley floor. It was surrounded by a few outbuildings and fenced pastures. Just beyond the cottage a creek, spanned by a narrow bridge, threaded its way through the valley. Baxter bolted ahead, aiming for a goat pen where Janner could see several animals nosing about. He saw no one, but the presence of animals and the well-trod look of the snow around the homestead told him that this was no abandoned house.

  “Hello!” he called. This far from a village or city, the occupants would surely be wary of strangers. Baxter trotted along the fence line, barking happily at the goats. Janner headed down the hill, still calling and growing more disappointed with every step. There was no smoke rising from the chimney. No horses poked their heads out of the barn windows. Whoever lived here was gone, probably mustered to the Field of Finley with the rest of their clan. Well, at least he could refill his canteen in the creek, and one homestead likely meant there would be another, and maybe a town sooner rather than later.

  As Janner neared the rear of the house, Baxter lost interest in the goats and padded around to the front porch. Then Janner smelled something—something foul. It wasn’t a Fang, he was sure of that. But he had smelled it before, and it evoked a pang of fear in his chest. It brought to mind Glipwood Forest, the rockroach den, and their escape to Fingap Falls, though in the seconds before he turned the corner he couldn’t sort out why. Baxter darted around the house and growled. The growl reminded him of Nugget.

  Then Janner remembered.Trolls. The Fang hordes had marched through Glipwood Forest with trolls in their company, and the wind had carried the odor before them like an ocean wave. The Fangs smelled bad enough, but the trolls reeked of sour earth and flatulence.

  “Baxter, no!” Baxter’s growl was answered by a moan that shook the branches of the trees. Janner heard a meaty thud, then the dog flew through the air and crashed into the snow in the front yard.

  Janner drew his sword. He fully expected to see the troll leaping from the front porch to tear him to pieces—but he saw nothing. The door swayed on its hinges. Janner heard the troll huffing inside the house, moaning from time to time—and as strange as it seemed, the moaning had a note of sadness in it. Was the troll crying?

  “Want to go home,” it mumbled in a deep voice, then it sniffled and banged around inside the house, breaking things and moaning louder.

  Janner still couldn’t see the troll, but he had the feeling that it might emerge at any moment. “Wake up, boy,” he said, shaking Baxter. “We have to get out of here. Wake up!”

  The dog’s eyes fluttered open. He whined and struggled to his feet. Blood flowed from a wound in his shoulder, darkening the snow, and though no bone protruded from his fur, Janner could see that something was broken. When Janner tried to lift him, Baxter yelped with pain.

  “Can you walk? Come on, boy.” Janner patted his thighs. “Come with me.” Baxter took a careful step forward without touching the bad foot to the ground. Whining with every step, Baxter followed Janner across the yard to the footbridge. Heart pounding, Janner led him over the bridge and hid behind a tree. He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t leave Leeli’s dog behind, but at this pace he would never reach Ban Rona in time to warn the others.

  Then Janner heard voices, low and quiet, drifting toward him in the deep silence of the homestead. Several figures emerged from a bend in the creek upstream. Ridgerunners. Another company of them, at least thirty this time. They signaled to one another as they crept, quiet now that the house was in view. Their little spears and daggers were drawn as they inched along the creek bank. Janner felt some dark satisfaction that the sneaky little thieves were about to encounter more trouble than simple farmers defending their fruit. He lay quietly next to Baxter, waiting to see what would happen.

  The little men and women sneaked toward the house as silent as the snow, then they divided into two groups. One group skittered like thwaps to the roof of the house and unfolded a large net while the others huddled against the side of the cottage. One of the Ridgerunners dangled from the eaves and nodded to one on the ground. It coughed conspicuously and then stomped noisily through the front door.

  The silence was shattered by the troll’s terrible roar and Janner nearly jumped out of his cloak. The ridgerunner dashed out of the house with a shriek, and the troll emerged and stooped on the porch. The troll was smaller than the others Janner had seen. This one had a little tuft of black hair and was only as tall as the roofline, though its bare chest and shoulders were so massive they barely fit through the doorway.

  “Leave me ALONE,” the troll said, shaking its fist and stepping down from the porch.

  The moment it set foot in the front yard, the ridgerunners on the roof flung the net over it and leaped down. The t
roll struggled fiercely, but the net held. The ridgerunners jabbed it with spears and swords while one of them drew an arrow and dipped the tip in a small bottle. The little creature took aim, grinned, and shot the troll in the rump. As Janner watched, the troll staggered forward, dropped to one knee, moaned once more, and collapsed just a few feet from the bridge. The ridgerunners shouted with triumph and danced around the fallen beast.

  Suddenly Janner felt sorry for the young troll. Why in Aerwiar would ridgerunners want to capture it, especially if all they ever cared about was fruit? And why was the troll alone this far out in the wilderness? And why was one of the ridgerunners now raising his sword, ready to plunge it into the base of the troll’s skull? Janner had never known them to be this vicious and violent, especially to a helpless creature. Troll or not, he didn’t want the thing to die.

  Janner leapt to his feet, shouting for them to stop. And then he was trudging through the snow to confront a gang of enemies who had just proven themselves capable of killing something much more dangerous than Janner Wingfeather—even if he was thirteen years old.

  15

  Janner Gets Carried Away

  “Wait! Stop!” Janner waved his arms and ran towards the creek, coming to a halt before he crossed the bridge. It wasn’t much, but he felt safer with the creek between them. “What are you doing?”

  The ridgerunner standing on the troll’s back cocked its head and narrowed its eyes. The others circled the troll and brandished their weapons as if they were protecting a treasure. They sneered, their little legs bent and ready to spring.

  “That should be obvious, boy.” The leader lowered its sword, but only by a little. “Isn’t it obvious, my sneaks?”

  “Quite,” answered another. “The boy is a fool, Grouzab. Probably dislikes fruit, too.”

  The ridgerunners hissed at this suggestion as Janner stepped to the middle of the bridge and held up his hands. “No! I love apples. And sugarberries and plumyums.” The ridgerunners relaxed a little.

  “It should be clear that I’m about to execute this troll,” said Grouzab.

  “But why? Aren’t you on the same side?”

  “Side?” said Grouzab. “We are on no side but the fruity one. Gnag the Nameless has offered us fruit by the wagonload for the head of every troll who tries to escape his army.”

  “Fruit!” cried a ridgerunner, and the others shook their weapons.

  “But you can’t just kill him.” Janner couldn’t believe what he was saying. The thing stank, it was from a race of brutes, and it would happily squeeze them all to death if it were awake. Then it would roast them over a fire, if the stories were true. But it wasn’t awake. It was helpless, and it just wanted to go home. Janner remembered the way Kalmar had cared for the cloven—the cloven which had turned out to be their father. Janner almost laughed at the thought of this young troll turning out to be a distant cousin. “Take him back to Gnag if you want. But don’t kill it.”

  “Too much trouble. Much easier to carry a head than a whole troll.”

  Grouzab raised his sword again, and before Janner could stop himself he dashed the rest of the way across the bridge, meaning to shove the ridgerunner from the troll’s back. The other ridgerunners leapt forward to protect their leader. Janner dodged them but tripped over the troll’s arm and landed face-first in the snow.

  When he looked up, spitting snow from his mouth, the ridgerunners had the point of every spear, sword, and arrow trained on his face. He glanced at the troll, which was only inches away, and saw its eyes barely open but looking directly at him. They were small and close together, hidden in the shadow of a heavy brow, and Janner was surprised to see the light of intelligence there. That glint of understanding told him the troll was aware of what Janner had done—which was a relief—and that the troll was no longer unconscious—which was terrifying.

  The troll leapt to its feet, toppling Grouzab from its back. One of its arms pulled free of the net and swung around like a living hammer. Ridgerunners flew through the air, crashed into the cottage, sailed over the roof to land in the goat pen, splashed into the creek, and lay prone.

  The troll, still groggy from the poison, panted and spun in the snow to be sure it had dispatched all of the ridgerunners. Then it turned its tiny eyes on Janner, and Janner waited for that hammer hand to smash him flat into the snow. He heard little groans of pain and saw the ridgerunners picking themselves up from the snowy ground, stunned and blinking. They were tougher than their size implied. One of them was already hefting a spear.

  The troll growled at the ridgerunners. It took a step forward, but its foot was caught in the net and the troll slammed into the snow again. Janner drew his sword and scrambled over to the fallen troll. It looked at Janner with a question in its bright eyes.

  “It’s all right,” Janner said, struck by how pitiful the beast seemed.

  The troll’s bony features softened and it nodded. Janner hewed at the net as the ridgerunners collected their wits and began to hiss. By the time the little creatures had them surrounded, the troll was free of the ropes and standing unhindered.

  The leader drew an arrow with one hand and discreetly uncapped the bottle of poison with the other.

  “That’s a bad idea, Grouzab,” Janner said. “I won’t let you kill this troll.”

  “Have you any fruit?” Grouzab asked.

  “Not for you, I don’t.”

  “Then Gnag’s offer is better than yours. Go, boy. Leave us to our mischief.”

  Grouzab dipped the arrowhead into the bottle. Janner felt panic rising in his chest. He should be running for Ban Rona. He should be busy making a shelter in the falling light, or tending to Baxter. Instead he was surrounded by ridgerunners, in defense of a troll. A troll! This was what he got for acting without thinking first—like Kal always did.

  Then again, Kal, who always managed to get himself into trouble, also managed to get himself out of it. So what would Kalmar do next? One thing was sure. Kalmar wouldn’t stop and consider all his options. He would simplydo. Kalmar followed his instincts, and somehow it worked out.

  But Janner didn’t trust his instincts. As soon as he felt one, he questioned it. So what was his heart telling him to do? Not his fear, not his brain, but his heart.

  No, that wasn’t right either. It wasn’t his heart he needed to listen to—it was thelove in which his heart rested. That was what he needed—the love of Nia, Kal, Leeli, Podo, and the love of the Maker who had kept him safe thus far. He rested in that—and he acted.

  Grouzab smiled and drew the arrow, and Janner muttered, “Kal, I hope this is right.” Then he jumped forward and struck the bow with his sword, shoving Grouzab aside. But he was too late. The bow twanged and the arrow flew—not at the troll, but at Janner.

  It only grazed his shoulder, but it stung, and Janner immediately felt drowsy. He blinked slowly, staggered, and fell to his knees. He had only been thirteen for a few days, and already he had been drugged twice.

  Janner was dimly aware of the troll behind him, of ridgerunners soaring through the air again, then he felt himself lifted by a strong arm. He was nearly asleep, and he imagined it was Esben’s great arm bearing him up, carrying him to safety. “Papa,” he slurred, and forced his eyes open one last time before falling unconscious. He saw the strangely kind eyes of a smelly troll. Janner was too astonished to be afraid, then he was too sleepy to be astonished.

  As he drifted toward sleep he thought of poor Baxter bleeding in the snow. Poor Leeli, too. She would be heartbroken to learn that her dog had been hurt, maybe even killed.

  Janner’s eyes were barely open, but he caught a glimpse of the dog, still lying beside a tree. With great effort he formed two words with a mouth that didn’t want to move. “Find . . . Leeli.”

  Baxter heard. As the troll trudged out of the valley with Janner dangling over its shoulder like slab of meat, the dog staggered to his feet, sniffed at the air, and knew in a flash which direction would take him to Leeli and Ban Rona and th
e houndry.

  As the sun set on the cottage, tracks led in three directions: one set was left by a gang of ridgerunners limping back to the Killridge Mountains, having decided that some things were simply too much trouble, even for fruit; another set was left by a troll stomping through the hills, looking for a place to hide; and the last was the bloodstained trail of a dog running toward home.

  16

  The Wounded and the Woeful

  Leeli and Nia stood in the dusty mess of the Great Hall beneath the mighty tree, tending to the wounded. The dead were wept for and laid in rows under their own cloaks until their families were found. The Fang armor and weapons were collected into a pile outside the keep, while a group of boys scoured the dust and clutter for undamaged arrows.

  Leeli had seen terrible things in her short life, but never anything to match the carnage around her. So many familiar faces were either dead or dying or wincing with pain while healers stitched up wounds and wrapped them with bandages. Since she knew nothing of medicine, Leeli followed Nia around the hall, comforting the wounded or fetching supplies for the healers. She wondered about Thorn and the dogs at the houndry but she dreaded news of what had happened there, so she focused on the tasks at hand.

  At first she had been unsettled by the sight of blood and the cries of pain, but she quickly grew numb to it out of necessity, like everyone else. This wasn’t the time for tears, but for work—though as soon as she stopped moving, the horror of it threatened to overcome her.

  Oskar bustled about with a ledger on which he wrote the names of the wounded and dead. Whenever a page was full he tore it from the book and sent it outside so that messengers could announce the names and send word to the bereaved families. When Leeli had last seen Rudric, he was surrounded by Durgans, shouting orders as he hurried from the Keep. She felt safer knowing he was in charge, but his urgency implied that more attacks were imminent.