The Warden and the Wolf King

by Andrew Peterson

  It got colder and more difficult to breathe, reminding Janner of his journey through the Stony Mountains with Maraly Weaver. The wind stirred the treetops, causing the icy stars to flicker overhead.

  Their path led at last to the crest of a bald hill under a dome of stars. Janner would have called it a mountain had it not been dwarfed by snowy peaks towering ever higher above it. The brothers and Oood found themselves at the center of a great multitude of monsters, all of whom seemed to be waiting for—something.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this,” said a rich, familiar voice from among the animals. A tall figure stepped from the circle of cloven.

  “Elder Cadwick?” Janner asked, peering into the darkness. “I thought you went back.”

  “And disobey my queen?” he said kindly.

  “You disobeyed your king instead,” Kalmar said. “And I’m glad you did. I don’t know what’s about to happen, but we might need your help.” Kalmar looked around at the monsters in the starlight, snorting shadows with gleaming eyes and teeth.

  “I was certain you would have needed it before now,” Cadwick said. “I am surprised, this close to the Deeps, that I am . . . myself. But it’s you,” he said, turning to Janner.

  “Me? What do you mean?” Janner knew he was being watched, but he didn’t understand why.

  “You’re a boy,” Cadwick replied, as if that explained everything.

  “Why does everyone keep saying that?” Janner asked.

  Cadwick placed one of his bluish hands on Janner’s shoulder. “You remind us not just of what was lost, but of what may be found. For some, it is too much, but for these, you have kindled remembrance, and remembrance kindles hope. Queen Arundelle believed this might happen someday.”

  “I don’t understand,” Janner said. “What do they want me to do?”

  “I don’t know.” Cadwick raised his voice and addressed the cloven. “Brethren and sistren! A boy has come into the Blackwood. He seeks the Deeps of Throg. What do you want of him?”

  “We want him to heal us,” one of them answered. “The queen said it might be so.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Janner said, afraid of what they would do when they realized he couldn’t help them. “Kal, tell them. I can’t heal anybody.”

  “But you have already begun to,” Cadwick said. “Only days ago I was afraid to come this close to the Deeps. In truth, I loathed the queen’s command to accompany you. But the presence of a boy—anAnnieran boy, the son of Esben, untainted by Gnag—quiets the madness of memory. It awakens the hope that our story is not over.”

  The cloven chattered and cooed eagerly. It was the eagerness that worried Janner most, because it was like hunger. But what could he do?

  “We need to get to Gnag,” Kalmar called. “He has the ancient stones. If we can stop him, maybe we can find a way to help you.”

  “Sing the song of the ancient stones,” the creatures chanted, “and the blood of the beast imbues your bones.”

  Immediately the air changed, and the cloven snapped and pawed at the ground. Whatever tameness had prevailed only a moment ago was fading. Cadwick’s hooves scraped at the ground, too, and Janner sensed a change come over him. He paced and shook his head as if trying to wake from a nightmare.

  “Um,” Kalmar said. “This doesn’t look good.”

  Oood growled and assumed a battle stance as the cloven chanted.

  “SING THE SONG OF THE ANCIENT STONES, AND THE BLOOD OF THE BEAST IMBUES YOUR BONES.”

  The rhyme thundered on the bald mountaintop, and with each repetition the cloven grew wilder and edged closer to the boys, a clacking, snarling, snuffling mob. The mention of the stones had broken the peace, and Janner was the object of their anger. He was no “brother cloven” as Kalmar was. He was no formidable troll. He was an outsider, a threat perhaps, and a stirrer of bitter memories.

  “Go,” Elder Cadwick said between gritted teeth.

  “Go where?” Janner asked.

  “Go,” Cadwick repeated with a snarl. “You . . . must . . . hurry. The door to the Deeps lies in that valley. GO.”

  But they were surrounded.

  “Oood, now would be a good time to lead the way,” Kalmar said with a whine.

  The troll needed no encouraging. He growl-moaned and ran for the valley, lowering his shoulder at the wall of snarling cloven. Janner and Kalmar raced after him, praying that he would clear a path through their present danger, even if it only led to a greater one.

  Their dash into the valley was worse than a nightmare. Janner had never been so afraid, not even in the coffin at the Fork Factory. He huffed down the hill in the dark, aware of Oood’s swinging fists and the cries of pain when the cloven were struck and sent sailing backwards. Janner drew his sword but he was running too fast and too blindly to use it. He heard Kalmar growling and knew the growl was that of a yellow-eyed Grey Fang. Whatever had caused the cloven to change had changed his brother too. Janner could only hope that when they reached the entrance to the Deeps he could call his brother back.

  Suddenly they were in the trees again, speeding downhill with the cloven in pursuit. The darkness deepened, and Janner half-ran, half-tumbled down the slope, following Oood’s odor as much as his bellow.

  “Your name is Kalmar, son of Esben, King of the Shining Isle!” Janner screamed into the darkness. He repeated it again and again. The forest around them took on an eerie stillness, and Janner realized they were alone. The cloven had turned back. Their howls filled the Blackwood and drifted through the forest from every direction like ghosts. Oood stopped running.

  “Are you hurt?” Janner asked in between ragged breaths.

  “Hurt,” Oood said softly.

  “Kalmar,” Janner called into the shadows. He could see Oood’s hulking form in the darkness, but wasn’t certain where his brother was. “Are you here? Do you know who you are?” Janner closed his eyes and listened for his brother.

  Kal’s voice came from somewhere to the right. “Yes. I think so.” He sounded frightened. “Janner, it’s getting harder to come back.”

  Oood’s legs buckled and he crashed to the ground.

  “Oood, how bad is it?” Janner asked, running over to where the troll sat.

  “Not bad,” he said. Then after a pause, “Bad.”

  Janner placed his hand on Oood’s shoulder. “Where are you hurt?”

  “All over,” Oood said.

  Janner rummaged in his pack and retrieved his matches, then struck one, afraid of what he would find. Oood was bleeding—everywhere. Cuts and scrapes covered him from his head to his feet. Some were puncture wounds from bites, others were slashes as if he had been attacked by a sword. The cloven had loosed their full fury on the troll.

  “Friends safe?” Sweat and blood trickled down his face and dripped from his enormous chin.

  “Yes,” Janner said, unable to hold back his tears. Kalmar approached with a whine and rested a hand on Oood’s forehead as Janner’s match burned out.

  “Thirsty,” Oood said. Janner struck another match. Oood’s eyes drooped and he lay back in the cold leaves and closed his eyes.

  “Kal, get him some water.”

  Kalmar checked the canteens. “We’re out.” He sniffed. “But I smell some not far away. I’ll get it.”

  “Kal, no. The cloven—”

  “I don’t care. I’m getting him water.”

  The second match burned out as Kal slipped away in his Durgan cloak, silent as a shadow. Janner listened to the distant howls of cloven and Oood’s shallow breathing. Helplessly, he waited in the dark for what seemed like a long time, before he heard the slightest rustle of leaves nearby.

  Janner struggled to lift Oood’s head as Kal poured the water into his sagging mouth. The boys sat in the dark without speaking. Oood’s breaths grew shorter and feebler, and the slow rhythm of his dying heart lulled the boys to sleep.

  When rumors floated to Anniera that strange, dangerous beasts were seen lurching about
in the Blackwood, Bonifer suspected that there was a connection between the monsters and the animals he smuggled. He often wondered what dark purpose the Lord of Throg had for the animals, but his greed compelled him. And so his stores of gold increased even as the cloven, as they came to be called, increased.

  One night in the deep winter, a messenger arrived at Bonifer’s door. The man was dressed in black and though a cloth masked his face, Bonifer saw the red flecks of bloodrock paint around his eyes—a Wanderer of the Woes, fierce folk who would as soon murder you as offer you wine. Bonifer accepted the message warily. He knew the animals he sold went by way of the Woes, but he never dreamed a Wanderer would appear at his doorstep.

  The note was written in a shaky hand and was difficult to read, but he knew it came directly from the strange man in the Castle Throg. It thanked him for his help acquiring the animals, and offered an unbelievable sum for—what?—a human child.

  A human child! Bonifer recoiled. It was one thing to sell animals in secret. It was another to kidnap a baby for some unforeseen and wretched purpose.

  Bonifer slammed the door in the messenger’s face and cowered in his quarters. That night as he lay in bed, his thoughts returned again and again to the wealth that could be his. But in the morning, he was ashamed to have even considered the offer.

  Soon, Madia gave birth to a daughter, Illia. She was raised a fair warrior, to be the Throne Warden. She was three when word spread through the fields, vales, and villages of Anniera that the High Queen was expecting another child—the future king or queen of the land.

  Bonifer loved Illia, for in his twisted mind he liked to imagine that Madia’s children were his own. The joy with which Ortham raised his daughter and loved Madia was poison to Bonifer Squoon, and so he endeared himself to young Illia, as he knew he would also do to Madia’s second child when it was born.

  One night late in Madia’s pregnancy, Ortham invited Bonifer, his old friend, to feast at the castle. Bonifer usually refused, so painful was it to see the king and queen together, but the king insisted. Bonifer arrived and discovered he was the object of a playful ruse. A maiden from the village of Bernhold, a few miles away, sat at the table in a fine dress, looking at Bonifer bashfully.

  After an uncomfortable dinner during which time Bonifer’s anger at Ortham increased tenfold, the king said privately to Bonifer, “Old friend, are you grown cold to love? The queen and I wish happiness for you.”

  With great effort, Bonifer held back the flood of bitter and biting remarks he might have made, for he was convinced that his only hope of happiness was for Ortham to die and Madia to accept his love. “I am happiest, King, at the service of Illia, Madia, and yourself, and would die alone before dividing that allegiance with a woman for whom I hold no affection.”

  So near did he come to losing control of his tongue, expressing his hatred of Ortham and thereby damning himself from Madia’s presence, that Bonifer fled, and Ortham was left greatly vexed.

  —FromThe Annieriad

  55

  Oskar Suggests a Song

  As spring came to the Green Hollows and white blossoms shone on the trees, red blood stained the ground of Ban Rona.

  For days, the Hollowsfolk had fought the Fangs—Bat Fangs swooping in from the cliffs beyond the Watercraw, Grey Fangs creeping into the city under cover of night. Rudric brought word that ships had been spotted in the distance, an armada of Gnag’s forces mustered on the horizon, creeping closer by the hour, and it was to these ships that the Fangs retreated after each assault was beaten back.

  At night the Hollish warriors slept in shifts while the air above them screamed with swooping Bat Fangs. The beasts were nocturnal so they increased their attacks at dusk and lagged at dawn. The Hollowsfolk suffered through their nights and looked to morning as their only hope of rest.

  But as soon as day was upon them there was work to be done—the dead and wounded had to be tended, supplies inventoried, strategies discussed, redoubts repaired. It was a war unlike any before it, and Rudric and his commanders struggled to adapt.

  Leeli collapsed onto a bed in one of the study rooms of the Great Library. It had been placed there after Nia decided it was time to abandon Chimney Hill. The outlying homes of Ban Rona had been perilously vulnerable, no matter how many forces stood guard. Even with dogs and Durgans patrolling the hills around the city, the possibility that the Fangs might cut them off from Ban Rona had been an ever-present concern.

  Three days earlier, Nia, Oskar, Podo, Freva, Bonnie, and Leeli loaded their most precious and necessary belongings onto the wagon and bade farewell to their home. They had arrived at the Great Library amid a throng of hounds escorting them to safety.

  Now, lying in her makeshift bedroom, surrounded by shelves of old books, Leeli heard her army of dogs barking outside.

  She licked her sore lips, then reached for a little jar on a shelf beside the bed. Nia had acquired it from the apothecary and insisted that Leeli apply it as often as she could. It helped with the pain—but it smelled like a donkey’s legpit. She held her breath while she uncapped the jar, then dipped in her finger and scooped out a dab of yellowish goo. She had asked Nia what it was made of, but she only said, “You don’t want to know.”

  When Leeli dabbed the salve on her lips, the stench leapt into her nose and made her gag.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Hello, Leeli girl!” said Oskar as he peeked in, wrinkling his nose at the odor. “You were splendid last night.” Oskar sat at the edge of her bed, which made the boards creak and the mattress pitch like a ship in heavy wind. Leeli had to pretend she wasn’t about to roll onto the floor. “The warriors are tired. We’re all tired. But when you play,” Oskar closed his eyes and smiled, “they seem to remember all the beauty in the world and they fight the harder. And it gives us such great pleasure to see how much the Fangs hate it.” He tilted his head and eyed her through his spectacles. “But you need more songs, dear.”

  “I know,” she said with a sigh. “Did you bring more?”

  Oskar pulled a small book from his satchel and adjusted his spectacles. “It’s calledCousin Joe Bob’s Slappy Swine and Other Tunes Equally Desirable.” He flipped through the first few pages. “Alas, there’s no author’s name, so I shan’t be able to properly quote from it.” He turned his twinkling eyes to Leeli again. “But the songs are Hollish and Annieran, and I recognize very few of the titles.”

  “That’s good.” Leeli pushed herself up and pulled out her whistleharp. “We need ammunition.”

  “Aye, lass. That we do,” Oskar said with a sad smile. “Shall I help you or leave you to it?”

  “I’ll be fine. I think I can follow it.”

  Leeli turned her attention to the book, intending to memorize at least a few of the melodies before she dozed. If the Fangs attacked before dusk, and they probably would, it would be best if she had a fresh song to sing—for her own sanity as well as its power against the Fangs.

  Oskar, however, stood in the doorway, staring at the floor.

  “What is it?” Leeli asked.

  “Your Highness,” he said, “thereis one song you haven’t played yet.”

  Leeli looked away.

  “And you know the older the songs are, the more the Fangs seem to hate them.”

  Have I not done enough? she wondered. Her lips were blistered, she was exhausted, and she had put herself in danger on the roof every night, but Oskar wanted more. Everyone wanted more.

  “And this song, Highness, isvery old. And you know it by heart.”

  “No.”

  Oskar continued to stare at the floor, one hand on the doorknob and the other nervously scratching his belly. He sighed. “May I ask why?”

  “Because I don’t trust them. Especially Yurgen.”

  “But the dragons once aided Anniera. They might do so again if only you’ll—”

  “I need to practice. Please let me be.” Leeli hated to speak to her old friend that way, but her heart was steam
ing with emotion and she didn’t know where to put it. “I’m sorry, Mister Reteep, but I’m very tired.”

  Oskar nodded and shut the door.

  Leeli held her whistleharp to her lips but didn’t blow. She pretended to pluck strings with one hand and fingered the whistle with the other, imagining the melody without playing it. That was how she had always practiced in the bedroom at the Igiby cottage when she didn’t want to bother the boys. Just thinking of the song, however, turned the hot emotion in her chest from anger into what it really was all along, from the moment Oskar had mentioned it: fear. Her fingers trembled at the thought of “Yurgen’s Tune.”

  She remembered the great old dragon thundering out of the icy sea, its huge, glistening head swooping over the deck of theEnramere like a demon on the hunt. Yurgen the Dragon King, sniffing out Podo, wanting to kill them all to avenge the death of his young dragons. Leeli’s heart broke to think of Podo, that sweet bear of a man who had loved her and her family so well, trembling with shame and terror before the dragon. Even now, the sight of the sea brought such pain to Podo that he could scarcely look to the west without a shadow passing over his face.

  No, Leeli would not play that tune again. She didn’t want to remember that day in the Ice Prairies, or the sea dragons, or her grandfather’s many sins against them—and playing “Yurgen’s Tune” would bring the bitter slap of those memories like nothing else.

  But there was something worse—something more troubling than that memory.

  Leeli knew that there was something stronger than Fangs haunting the Dark Sea of Darkness. The sea dragons, at least some of them, were still there in the harbor, watching and watching and watching for the moment when Podo Helmer might set foot on a ship again. She had felt Yurgen’s great anger that day, and though he had given Podo one last passage across the sea, she had glimpsed in the dragon’s ancient soul a troubling darkness.

  Oskar had learned from the First Book that there had been an alliance between Anniera and the dragons, but she had no wish to restore that alliance—not with Yurgen. There was evil in him. She didn’t trust the old dragon any more than she trusted the Fangs of Dang.