“We can’t keep this up,” Gammon said. “Artham, can you light that torch tower? If we could see I think we could make it to the barricade.”
“If I leave you, you’ll never make it.”
“If we stay here, we’ll never make it.”
“If you two keep arguing, we’ll never make it,” Maraly said. “We can hold them off long enough for him to light a match. I can, anyway.” She elbowed Gammon, then hissed at the Fangs that scampered around the edges of the building.
“Well, the boss has spoken,” Gammon said. “Hurry back, Artham. There are matches on every tower. And the wood is oiled and ready to burn.”
Maraly couldn’t see the men’s faces and was glad they couldn’t see hers. She was much more afraid than she sounded. She was tired and knew it was sheer luck that a Fang sword hadn’t nicked her. Still, she was glad she had come. She loved Gammon, and fighting was one of the only things she really knew how to do—that and tackleball, which was basically the same thing.
In the darkness, she hadn’t noticed that Artham had already flown. The Grey Fangs, however, knew it at once and advanced. Their shadows crept up the incline of the roof like daggerfish skimming the river.
A faint orange glow sputtered overhead and quickly blossomed into a towering blaze. It was then that Maraly and Gammon saw how desperate their situation really was. The torch tower illuminated hundreds of Fangs milling about in the streets below, climbing the sides of the building, edging their way toward them like smoke. Yellow eyes gleamed. Teeth and tongues gleamed. Scales and dark fur glistened. The beasts didn’t speak a word; it was as if they had given themselves wholly to a mindless animal hunger.
“Loose!” someone shouted.
Arrows thunked into the nearest Fangs. Maraly spun around.
Errol and a company of archers crouched on top of a building on the opposite street. The nearest Fangs howled and hissed, then slid back down the roof and knocked more of their comrades to the street below. Errol waved his hand and another volley of arrows decimated the Fangs to Maraly’s right.
“Maker bless Errol,” Gammon said with a laugh. “Come on, Maraly.”
He took her hand and ran for the opening Errol had made. They made their way over flat rooftops, leaping narrow alleys, drawing nearer and nearer to the marketplace. Soon Maraly saw Artham gliding overhead, his red wings aglow in the torchlight.
Gammon lowered Maraly down to the waiting Dugtowners beyond the barricade. Upon seeing their leader, the multitude raised a cheer that even the Fangs across the River Blapp must have heard.
Gammon hopped down after Maraly, dropped to his knees, and the two of them hugged. Maraly rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes, giving thanks to the Maker with the best words she could think of. She thought about Claxton’s arms and fists, how he had used them to abuse her—and then rested in Gammon’s protective embrace, the feel of his hands gently patting her back. She was home at last.
They were still hugging in the middle of the crowd when Errol and his archers returned.
“Sir,” Errol said. “It’s good to have you back.”
Gammon released Maraly. He stood and wiped his eyes. “Errol, my friend, you saved our lives. As did you, Artham. Thank you.”
“It’s her you have to thank,” Artham said with a laugh.
“Aye,” said Gammon, bowing his head to Maraly. “Thankyou.”
She spat, wiped her mouth, and shrugged. “Don’t get all mushy on me. That hug was like an hour long.”
“I guess I should keep my hug short, then,” Sara Cobbler said. Maraly grinned and ran to her friend, squeezed her tight. “You made it,” Sara said. “Is Claxton . . . ?”
Maraly looked at the ground and nodded. “He won’t trouble me no more.”
Errol tossed the Florid Sword mask to Gammon. “You left this back at Snoot’s.”
“Left it behind I did, though ’twas not my purpose to so do. Verily, with gratitude I thank thee,” Gammon said as he tied on the mask. “’Tis a goodly mask for fighting foul Fangs. Fiends! Fie!”
“Hey, when do I get one of those?” Maraly asked.
“If we survive this night,” Artham said, “I’ll sew you one myself.”
“Sir,” said Errol. “We need to talk.”
Gammon took Maraly’s hand and followed Errol through the crowd, nodding sagely at the men and women looking to him for their courage. As they walked, Errol explained how he had rationed the weapons among the people, counted arrows and food stores, and given jobs to those unable to fight. They reached the riverfront and walked out to the end of the dock, where a single torch burned.
Gammon looked over his shoulder at the mass of Skreeans who had fallen silent as they watched. Their little barricaded stronghold looked small and helpless, trapped between the heavy night, the dark river, and the Fangs that surrounded them.
“They’re out there,” said Errol pointing at the other shore. “Thousands of them. Trolls, too.”
All Gammon saw beyond the torchlight was blackness. The river was a brooding mass that reeked of garp and daggerfish. Somewhere out there, an army waited to attack—an army that hopelessly outnumbered the Skreeans and was better armed. Gammon saw Dugtowners staring fearfully into the dark, equipped only with shovels and hoes. Numbered among them were Sara’s orphans, armed with forks.
Gammon had little doubt that when the Fangs attacked they would crush his little army. And he had no idea what to do.
It was then that a figure in a black robe floated toward them out of the darkness. Gammon knew at once that it was the woman who melded the Fangs.
The Stone Keeper.
40
Parley
The boat emerged from the inky blackness with four snakish Fangs rowing. The robed figure seemed to hover in the prow like a ghost. The hood of her black robe hung low over her face, the fingers of her thin, white hands interlocked at her waist. The swish and plunk of the oars carried across the water and echoed off the riverfront buildings. When she was a stone’s throw away from the end of the dock, Gammon stepped forward and raised his sword.
“That’s far enough!” he shouted.
The Stone Keeper raised one hand and the Fangs pointed the nose of the boat upstream and worked to keep it in one place. The hooded woman surveyed the Skreeans in silence. Then she slowly reached up and pulled back her cowl. In the orange glow of the torch, her face, framed by her raven hair, shone as white as a moon floating just over the water. She smiled.
“Gammon,” she said in a voice that floated across the surface of the river like a tendril of smoke. “I have come to ask for your surrender. You know you cannot win. Why doom your people to their deaths?”
Gammon drew his sword and pointed it at the sky. “We would rather fight you to the death than live another day under Gnag’s dominion.” A flock of crows cawed in the distance, as if in mockery of his words.
The woman smiled again. “Is your mind made up, then?”
“It is,” he answered. Maraly felt Gammon’s hand tighten around hers and she didn’t think he knew he was squeezing it.
“And what of your people?” she asked, raising her voice and waving a pale hand at the Dugtowners behind him. “Are they as foolish as you? Do you all wish to die? Here? Now? On this night? It is not too late. We can give you all new names—and new power. Gnag extends his hand to you in mercy. Join us, and you too can sing the song of the ancient stone. You will know great power, as do all my children! Is this rotten land worth dying for?”
The men and women in the marketplace murmured and shifted their feet. Maraly knew that Claxton had sent prisoners to the Fangs to be changed, and she had heard of this woman with a magic rock and a soothing voice. She noticed that Artham Wingfeather was trembling and looking everywhere but at the woman.
Something splashed into the water to Maraly’s right. She looked back and saw a little boy standing beside Sara Cobbler. “Go away, lady!” he shouted. He grabbed a fork from a girl beside him and t
hrew it as far as he could. “We fight for Queen Sara, not you.”
“Dear boy,” the Stone Keeper said in a soothing voice. “Surely the queen you speak of would rather you saw the sunrise than die under the blade of a Grey Fang.”
“Quiet your tongue!” Gammon shouted. “I’ll not suffer your charms and neither will these brave Skreeans. The power you speak of belongs to the Maker alone. We would rather face your wrath than his. Now be gone, or Errol’s arrow will deliver you to the Mighty Blapp.”
Errol nocked an arrow and aimed it.
The Stone Keeper’s smile faded. She replaced her hood, gestured to the Fangs in her boat, and said, “As you wish.”
The boat veered away and faded into the darkness. The crows in the distance cawed again, and Maraly—along with many of the Dugtowners—couldn’t help but imagine the birds feasting on carcasses.
Gammon sheathed his sword and strode back to the shore with a fierce smile that all his army could see. He jumped onto a barrel near the water’s edge. “We shall live to see the sunrise, Skreeans! And if we do not, then we go to our graves with the Maker’s good pleasure and the blood of freedom staining the ground! Our descendants will sing of this night!”
The people answered with a half-hearted cheer. Armulyn the Bard played a soulful Annieran tune called “Hill and Valley, Horse and Hand,” and when it was over he shouted, “Fangs are ugly!” Nervous laughter rippled through the crowd.
Gammon gave a good speech, Maraly thought, and Armulyn’s song was nice, but they did little to remove the fear from the faces she saw. “What do we do now?” she asked.
Gammon tied on his Florid Sword mask. “First, we light every torch tower we can get to. The better we see, the better off we’ll be.” He nodded at Maraly. “Then we sharpen our blades and wait.”
41
Storytime with Artham
Sara sat on the cobbles with Artham and Armulyn the Bard. The orphans, most of whom were asleep, were gathered around as if it were storytime. And storytime it was. Armulyn the Bard seemed to have grown ten years younger in Artham P. Wingfeather’s presence, and was sitting cross-legged in front of him, asking every question he could think of about the Shining Isle. Artham indulged him, laughing at the bard’s delight over the tiniest details.
Sara widened her eyes at Maraly and pointed secretly at Artham as if to say, “Can you believe it?”
After all this time,this was the Artham Sara had been looking for. When he had arrived at the Fork Factory, he spoke with a strong, clear voice and his eyes were brave and kind. Even with his wings and reddish skin, he was somehow handsome. But ever since that day, Artham had lost himself. Sara was glad he was back.
She scooted over to make room for Maraly. They sat under the steady glow of the torch towers and listened.
“Yes, yes,” Artham said. “There are mountains—but mostly in the center of the island. As the land slopes down to the sea, the hills roll out like a floor of green pillows.”
“Are the mountains snowy in the winter, like it says inThe Legend of Eremund the Brave?”
“Snowy, yes. And when they catch the light at sunrise, they blush like maidens.”
“Tell me about the towns. Are there many? Most of the stories are about Rysen.”
“The towns are perfect.”
“What do you mean?”
“Let me put it like this. Imagine you’re walking one of the footpaths that cut through the countryside. You have a staff and rucksack, and after a brisk few hours you think to yourself, ‘I could use a hearty bowl of limpiny stew right about now.’ The villages in Anniera are so perfectly spaced that as soon as you have that thought you crest a hill and see a village in the valley below, with smoke in the chimneys and the smell of hay on the wind. You stroll into town, and after some bibes from the village fount—every village has a fount for travelers—you turn around and see a little inn or tavern, likely next to an apparelry or a bookstore.”
“There are bookstores?”
“In every town. It’s a requirement, you see.”
Armulyn sighed.
“You stride into that inn and lean your walking stick by the door, and no sooner than you’ve sat down and sipped a pint of something warm, the proprietor brings you a bowl of limpiny stew.”
“But how does he know?”
“They always have what you want in Anniera.” Armulyn looked skeptical, but Artham continued. “It’s not that the cooks are magic. It’s theland, you see? When you’re walking through that part of the island, the shape of the hills, the color of the leaves, the way the light hits the tree trunks, the cool of the morning, and the smell of crops—probably limpiny sprouts—all contrive to make you want exactly the right thing at the right time.”
“I’ve never heard of limpiny stew,” said Armulyn, “but I want some. And the same is true of the cooks, I suppose? I mean, they would wake up that morning with limpiny stew on the brain?”
“Yes. Of course, they make a variety of things. Not every traveler wants the same thing at the same time, but when they walk through the door the proprietor can usually tell by the look of them what they’ll need. The people of the Shining Isle are attentive to the way the Maker shaped the world—but it’s not just that. They’re also attentive to the way the Maker made the heart. And they’re just trying to be good subjects—trying to give each other what they were made to give.”
“So in Anniera, what you want and what you need,” Armulyn said, “are one and the same.”
“Exactly. That’s what the Maker intended from the beginning,” Artham said. “It’s not always so, but on the best days that’s how it feels. If the kingdom hadn’t fallen apart in the First Epoch, thanks to Ouster Will, I think it would still be that way the world over. As they say, ‘If the weather is bad, it’s Ouster Will.’”
“Ouster Will, Ouster Will, he breathes on your ankles beneath your bed,” Armulyn chanted. “Waits till you’re sleeping and sneaks in your head.”
Borley shivered and scooted closer to Sara.
“I haven’t heard that in a while,” Artham said.
“So, Ouster Will—he was real, too,” Armulyn said with a shake of his head. “The world is more terrible and more wonderful than I imagined. I’ve had that song stuck in my head since I first learned it at the whistleharp academy.Darkens your dreams till you wish you were dead, under the ground on the graveyard hill with Ouster Will, Ouster Will.” Borley shivered again, and this time the bard shivered too.
“I’m surprised that you know it,” Artham said.
“Oh, I know everything about Anniera.” Armulyn’s eyes twinkled and he suddenly looked like a little boy. “Well, everything you can know without actuallygoing there. I’ve dreamed of it since I was young. My parents told me about it, fed me a steady supply of books, and once I learned about the Annieran songs I dedicated my life to keeping them alive here in Skree. Especially after the Great War, the songs seemed to wake up something hopeful in the Skreeans. And the Fangs absolutely hate them.” Armulyn thought for a moment, then asked, “After my limpiny stew at the village tavern, would I stay the night?”
“No! It’s only midday, remember? You’d pay the owner and strike out over green fields of totato and fotraw in bloom. You wouldn’t need a map, for there are signposts exactly when you need them, and as soon as you were hungry for supper you’d come upon another village, another fount, another bookstore, and another tavern. You might even be invited in to stay with a farmer for the night.”
“I want to go there, Queen Sara,” Borley said with a yawn. “Can we?”
Sara squeezed Borley. “Anniera is on the other side of the ocean, dear. Our home is here in Skree.”
“We don’t really have a home anywhere.” Borley pointed at the orphans spread across the cobbles of the marketplace like a garden of sleeping children.
“Don’t worry,” Sara said. “When this is over, we’ll make a home here.”
“Anniera does sound nice,” said another voice. Grettal
yn was awake, a few feet away. “My ma used to tell me stories about it when I was a baby.”
“What kind of stories?” said another voice, as small as a mouse. A girl Sara didn’t know sat up and propped herself on her elbows.
“The same as I told you on our way here, Lola,” Armulyn said gently. “Remember?”
“Yes, I remember. But I still like to hear them.”
“Me too,” Artham said. He stared up at the flames roiling on the torch tower and sighed. “It’s a lovely place for a traveler, for the whole land feels like home. Why, if you brought your whistleharp, Armulyn, you’d never want for a meal or a bed. Annierans treasure music like no one else.”
“And what of the castle?” Armulyn asked.
Sara and Maraly glanced at one another, then at Artham, who was still staring at the fire.
“The castle?” Artham closed his eyes. “It’s beautiful. It looks like it grew straight out of the stone itself. Spires, flags flapping in the east wind, smoke rising from chimneys, and children laughing in the courts. It’s a peautiful blace. How I song to lee it again.”
Armulyn gave Sara a confused look.
“Maybe we should change the subject,” Sara suggested.
Artham bobbed his head to and fro and clapped his reddish hands. The claws clacked together oddly.
“The king-king-king would dimply be selighted to have you, patoo-too-too!” He grinned and wiped a tear from his cheek. “He’s my brother, you know. The Shing of the Kining Isle. Shing, shing, SHING!”
“What’s happening?” Armulyn said. A few of the children sat up and looked afraid.
“Shh,” said Maraly, scooting over to Artham and stroking his arm. “It’s all right, sir.”
“But I left him,” Artham whimpered. He laid his head in Maraly’s lap. “And now he’s dead. I was the Throne Warden, you know.”
The Warden and the Wolf King Page 19