Sara sighed. She wasn’t doing Maraly any good just sitting around, and it would be nice to have something to do. Gammon’s guards were stationed in the livery and cupcakery, and they were better equipped to help if help was needed. Besides, if Artham and the Florid Sword couldn’t find Maraly, no one could.
“All right. Do you know the man who brought all these children?”
“Of course I know him,” Borley said with a smile. “He’s Armulyn the Bard.”
28
Groaches in the Sewer
“Come on, girl,” the Strander growled. “Stop kicking or I’ll teach you what boots are for.”
Maraly had been in the livery, watching Gammon from behind, proud that he was her guardian—then a hand had clamped over her mouth and dragged her into darkness.
It happened so fast and so silently that she was too shocked to scream or struggle. Then this Strander, a man she didn’t know, had thrust his shadowy face into hers and whispered, “Make a sound and you’ll rue it.” Maraly knew that Stranders didn’t make empty threats.
He had jerked her to her feet, put an arm around her neck, and dragged her through the tunnel for ten minutes before he let go. As soon as he did she had sprung. She punched him in the neck, then ran back the way they had come.
But the Strander was quick. He was vicious, too. He tackled her to the ground, produced a rope, and moments later she was bound like a ratbadger and gagged. He took her knives, too. Well, he took all but the ones hidden in her boots and the folds of her clothing. Still, those would do her no good if her hands were tied.
The Strander had thrown her over his shoulder and was now trotting through the burrow, grunting with effort and whacking Maraly from time to time to keep her from squirming. Her ankles were tied, too—but she could kick.
“I said stop kicking!” the Strander shouted. He heaved her off his shoulder and she slammed onto the cold, wet ground. It knocked the wind out of her and tears leaked from her eyes. She bit down on the gag and curled into a ball, waiting for the boot he had promised. The ropes around her wrists were so tight she had little hope of getting to one of her knives.
“Easy, Wonkin,” said a voice Maraly knew well. “You wouldn’t want to be guilty of hurting the Strander King’s daughter, would you?”
“Eh? No, my lord,” said Wonkin. “But she’s feisty, she is.”
“Of course she is. She’s me daughter.”
Maraly opened her eyes and saw her father by the light of a lantern. He stepped forward, as big as a troll, and shoved Wonkin against the wall. Then Claxton leaned over and pushed Maraly onto her back. He pinned her to the ground with one of his massive hands and looked at her. She saw his muddy eyes glistening in his muddy face, his matted beard dangling over her like moss.
“Maraly. How I’ve missed you.” He stared at her for a sickening moment, then pried the gag out of her mouth. “There. Now you can tell me how much you’ve missed me too.”
“I hate you,” Maraly said. She didn’t care what he did to her. Her time with Gammon and the Wingfeathers had taught her what family was supposed to look like, and this wasn’t it. She didn’t want to be a Strander any more than she wanted to be a toothy cow.
Claxton smiled at her words, his rotten teeth made all the more hideous by the shadows. “I hated my father too,” he said. “You’re upholding the finest of Strander traditions. Well done. Wouldn’t you say, my friends?”
From nooks and clefts in the tunnel more Stranders slinked forth, hissing and chuckling. Poggy, the one who had been outside Snoot’s Livery and Cupcakery, cackled and clapped her hands.
“What do you want with me?” Maraly scooted back against the wall and sat up. “I’ll never fight for you.”
“I know that, my sweet girl,” said Claxton. “I came to protect you.”
“Protect me from what? I was fine with Gammon.”
“Is that what you think?” Claxton sneered. “Could Gammon protect you from the Fangs of Dang?”
“He’s not afraid of them. Or of you.”
“Well he should be. They’re coming.” Claxton folded his arms. “Tonight, in fact.”
“What do you mean?” Maraly said.
“They’re crossing the Blapp. We’ve got troops of them already smuggled into the city. And when they crush Dugtown, they’ve promised to make me the king. Not just the king of the Strand, mind you.” Claxton raised a fist into the air. “The king of Dugtown!”
The Stranders cheered and Claxton growled like a wild animal. He punched Wonkin in the gut, seemingly for the fun of it. Wonkin fell to the ground, gasping for breath, and to Maraly’s disgust lay there cheering for Claxton all the louder, along with all the other Stranders.
Tears burned in her eyes as she thought of her months in Gammon’s care, her friend Sara, and the few moments of peace she had experienced in her short life. She wanted to go home—and the word “home” conjured up not a place but the smiling faces of the Wingfeathers, of Gammon, and of Sara Cobbler and Artham.
There were times in Kimera and Dugtown when Maraly had pined for the freedom and wildness of the Strand, when the clothes they made her wear chafed and the thrill of thievery called to her. But she had slowly come to cherish the safety of Gammon’s fatherly affections. She had never really understood until now how wicked her life among the Stranders had been, and the thought of going back made her ill. She wished she could peel off her skin, rid her blood and bones of any relation she had to Claxton, and clothe herself forever with Gammon’s name and nobility.
Maybe Claxton was telling the truth. Maybe the Fangs would invade and kill every Skreean in Dugtown. Maybe Claxton would be the king. But she would rather die fighting with her friends than sit in victory with the Stranders.
Before the tears reached her eyes she pushed them back down. They would do her no good if she spent them here.
“Gammon will come for me,” Maraly said.
“I hope he does,” Claxton replied with a shrug. “Not only will I get to kill him, but he’ll leave Dugtown without a leader. That will make it even easier for the Fangs.”
“Claxton,” Poggy said, “we should make feet for Torrboro while there’s time.”
“I know that,” Claxton snapped. He towered over Maraly with his fists on his hips. “Keep her tied. She thinks she ain’t one of us, but she’ll learn. Get her, Wonkin.”
Wonkin picked himself up from the floor, then heaved Maraly over his shoulder again. This time she didn’t struggle. With this many Stranders about, she knew there was no hope of escape. She had to wait. She had to keep still until the right moment. Then she’d find a way to warn Gammon that the Fangs were coming.
The Stranders followed Claxton, creeping through the twists and turns of the burrow like groaches in a sewer.
29
A Moon in the Dark
Sara hurried through Dugtown with Borley at her side, feeling less safe than she had in months. It was as if everyone she saw was a Strander in disguise, as if every wall or trashbox or alleyway was in fact the entrance to a burrow into which anyone could be abducted at any moment. As if the Fangs on the other side of the Blapp weren’t dangerous enough, now Gammon said there were spies and treachers right here in Dugtown.
Sara and Borley passed the Flabbit’sPaw, then made their way up Grimppity Avenue to the barracks where Sara’s orphans stayed.
The building had once been a linen factory called Thimble Thumb’s Threads. Fangs had made a wreck of the place in the years after the invasion, but the orphans had made quick work of cleaning it out and cutting sheets and blankets from the piles of discarded linen in the basement. The children were well used to hard work in the Fork Factory, and had been so desperate for a place to call their own that in a week’s time Thimble Thumb’s had been transformed into the coziest spot in Dugtown.
As Sara climbed the front steps she heard singing inside—this wasn’t unusual, except that the children’s voices were now accompanied by the soaring melody of a whistleharp skil
lfully played. Borley smiled at Sara and opened the door.
There were dirty faced children everywhere, sitting on the floor, lying in their bunks, perched in the rafters like thwaps, all entranced by a scruffy looking character with long dark hair and bare feet. He stood in the center of the crowd with his back to Sara, swaying with the song and bobbing his head.
Sara’s orphans, scattered among the others, exclaimed, “Queen Sara!” They rushed forward, all of them talking at once. She hushed them, smiling at their joy, and turned her attention to the man now bowing to her.
“So this is your queen,” he said with a smile. “It’s an honor to meet you, Your Highness.”
“Armulyn the Bard. It’s really you,” she said with a curtsy. “I heard you sing at the Dragon Day festival in Glipwood. When I was little.”
“Ah, Glipwood,” he said. His voice was a bit raspy, but kind and quick. “The people there were more blessed than they knew. Not everyone in Skree gets to hear the dragons sing, you know. It could wake the Annieran in all of us, couldn’t it?”
“I suppose so.” Sara realized she was only agreeing because she was nervous. “Actually I don’t really know what you mean.”
“Tell me, Queen Sara,” Armulyn said, “what do you remember about the Dragon Day festival?”
The orphans pressed in closer and sat on the floor as quiet as a field of totatoes.
Sara forced her mind back to the Dragon Day festival when she had first heard Armulyn sing of the Shining Isle. “I rememberyou,” she said with a nervous laugh. “I remember the Fangs slinking around like they always did. I remember the summer moon coming up as the sun went down.” Sara shrugged, suddenly feeling foolish. “I don’t know.”
“What do you rememberfeeling?” he asked. “How did the Fangs make you feel?”
“Frightened.” Sara closed her eyes. “Very frightened. I was little.”
“And what about my songs?”
“Well, they made me feel sad. But a good kind of sad—the kind you feel when you’re happiest. They made my heart . . . hungry.”
“And the sea dragons?” Armulyn asked. “What about their songs?”
“I don’t know how to put it,” Sara said. “But they made me feel like I could see better—farther, for a thousand miles. And closer, too, like I could count the veins in a butterfly’s wing.”
“Did the music make you brave?”
“Yes sir,” Sara said. “Brave and—homesick.”
“Exactly,” said Armulyn, smiling at the children. “That’s just how an Annieran would feel if she were in exile, on the wrong side of the Dark Sea of Darkness.That’s what I mean when I say the dragons could make anyone feel like an Annieran.”
Sara held up her hand, as if she were in school and the bard was the teacher. “But does that meanyou’re Annieran? Everybody used to wonder about it.”
“Maybe.” Armulyn winked.
Sara looked around at all the new faces. “Where did all these children come from?”
“All over,” Armulyn answered.
Why did his answers all have to be so vague? “All overwhere?”
“All over everywhere. I’ve been traveling, you see. Last summer I saw something—someone—and I’ve spent the last year out beyond the edges of the maps, spreading the news.”
“What news?”
Armulyn the Bard’s face beamed. “That the Jewels of Anniera are alive. That Gnag, hard as he tried, could not quench the light. The news that the dawn is coming.”
“Are you talking about Janner?” Sara asked, unable to conceal a smile. Artham had told her that Janner was the Throne Warden of Anniera. She even believed him, though all this talk about the Shining Isle still struck her as wishful thinking.
“Janner Wingfeather, yes,” said Armulyn with surprise. “The firstborn. Then you’ve heard? The Skreeans know about the rising hope?”
“I don’t know about all that,” Sara said. “The Skreeans don’t care much about Annieran legends—except whenyou sing about them, I guess. They’re more worried about the Fangs than anything. And to be honest, I feel the same. The Stranders took my friend Maraly this morning, the Fangs will attack someday, and there aren’t enough weapons in Dugtown to go around. I’m sorry, but the Shining Isle is a long way from here.” Sara looked down. “So is Janner.”
“That doesn’t mean it isn’t true. The Shining Isle exists as surely as the floor you’re standing on. It may be hard to believe, but it’sreal, I tell you. Sometimes in the middle of the night, the sun can seem like it was only ever a dream. We need something to remind us that it still exists, even if we can’t see it. We need something beautiful hanging in the dark sky to remind us there is such a thing as daylight. Sometimes, Queen Sara”—Armulyn strummed his whistleharp— “music is the moon.”
Something in his voice, some light behind his weary eyes, worked a kind of magic on Sara’s heart. “You never told me where the children came from,” she said.
“You wouldn’t believe how beautiful the country is, out beyond the maps.” Armulyn’s eyes gleamed with wonder. “Plains and mountains and lakes and deserts—everything. And the animals! So many creatures!”
“Do people live there, too?” Sara asked.
Armulyn lowered his voice so the orphans wouldn’t hear. “Not anymore. The Fangs had ravaged every settlement I found. These are the ones who escaped. I drew them out of hiding with my music and had no choice but to take care of them. As we wandered the land we found more and more. From Farrowmark to Dunwarg the poor souls had been scrounging for food since their families had been taken. Blast those Fangs.”
Sara noticed a few of Armulyn’s orphans had tears in their eyes. “Children,” she said loudly so all could hear. “Welcome to our little kingdom in Thimble Thumb’s Threads! My name is Sara.”
“Queen Sara!” one of her orphans cried, pumping a fist in the air.
“Our home is your home, and your home is here. We have food, beds, and friendship to offer. Borley, will you and Chug show our new friends around and help them find bunks?” Once the children were busy, Sara turned to Armulyn. “Let’s talk outside.”
They stood near the front steps of the threadery, watching the Dugtowners on the street bustle by. More than once, one of them recognized Armulyn and shouted a greeting.
“Do you know where the Fangs come from?” she asked.
“I have my suspicions.”
“They come from people. That’s why the Fangs have always kidnapped Skreeans—they’re turning us into Fangs. There’s this lady the Fangs call the Stone Keeper, and she uses some creepy old rock to change you. I don’t understand it all, but Artham said they torture you until youwant it, or it won’t work.”
Armulyn stared at Sara with his mouth hanging open.
Sara giggled. “What?”
“Did you say Artham? As in, ArthamWingfeather?”
Sara laughed again. “Yes. He’s in the burrows under the city looking for Maraly now.”
“First Janner, now Artham Wingfeather, the Throne Warden of Anniera! A legend running around under Dugtown.” The bard seemed like a little boy. “You’re a moon in the dark, Sara Cobbler.”
30
Into the Burrows
Gammon and Artham sped through the tunnel. Gammon had heard about Strander burrows, but he had never before been in one. He was shocked by how expansive they were, how many dead ends, how many forks—and not just forks to the left and right, but also tunnels that went either up or down. He had imagined such tunnels formed a grid that followed the streets, more or less, but now he realized they were more like an ant’s nest, an intricate maze.
It was dark, too, but luckily, they had come upon a stash of lanterns, matches, and oil near the foot of a ladder. While Gammon lit a lantern, Artham climbed the ladder and felt the trapdoor at the top for a latch.
Gammon was amazed at the change that had come over Artham. Gone was the stuttering, blubbering talk, the childlike look on his face. Now his eyes were steady
and his aspect fierce. “What are you doing?” Gammon asked.
“I want to see where we are. It’ll help to get our bearings.” There was a quiet click, then the trapdoor fell open. Artham poked his head through and Gammon heard a scream. “Sorry,” Artham said. “Sorry to interrupt.” He flinched as a frying pan flew over his head and crashed into something.
Gammon heard a woman shouting, “Out! Out with you! How did you get into my floor? Get away!”
Artham slammed the trapdoor shut and hurried down the ladder. “They were having lunch,” he said.
“Well, at least we know they didn’t go up that way,” Gammon said.
They hurried through the tunnels, Gammon swinging the lantern at the floor to inspect every possible sign of Maraly’s passing. They followed a set of tracks for a while before several sets footprints split and led in three different directions. “This is no good,” Gammon said, banging a fist into the wall. “We’ll never find her in here.”
Artham dropped to a crouch and looked down each tunnel in turn. “Hold on. Let me listen.” He shut his eyes and held still. His ears seemed to move at every drip of water, every slight sound that echoed in the burrow. His nostrils flared, and his head twitched like a hawk’s surveying the ground for its prey. The tips of his wings draped lightly across the ground behind him. Artham Wingfeather might be crazy, thought Gammon, but he was a magnificent creature.
Artham’s eyes snapped open. “This way.” He said, and darted down the tunnel on the left.
“Is it them?” Gammon said from behind.
“Maybe,” Artham said. “It’s someone, at least.”
Gammon raced after Artham, turning left and right, up inclines, down ramps, through tunnels large as a house or so small they had to crawl in the mud, until finally Artham drew up short and stopped so abruptly that Gammon bumped into him. Gammon tried his best to control his breathing so he could detect whatever it was Artham heard.
The Warden and the Wolf King Page 14