The Warden and the Wolf King Read online

  Leeli stared around the table at the Hollowsfolk as if daring them to speak against her brother. After a pause, the clan chiefs and chieftesses grunted their approval and banged on the table with heavy fists so long and loud that Janner thought the table would break.

  Rudric quieted the assembly and explained the order of the day, which, as it turned out, would be unbearably boring for all three of the children. Beneath the twelve clans of the chieftains and chieftesses there were many separate tribes, and the heads of each tribe, each in their turns, were to come before Kalmar and pledge allegiance to the Shining Isle and its boy king. One clan leader at a time, they marched before the platform on the field. They gave accounts of their clan histories, including tales of greatness in various battles over the centuries, going all the way back to the Second Epoch, each leader taking care to describe his or her clan’s particular strengths and weaknesses. After an hour or so of what amounted to boasts, tall tales, and bravado, the clan leader would bow, parade his flag first before his chief, then before Kalmar, then mount it beside the Annieran flag.

  Oskar took copious notes. Leeli had brought her songbook and practiced whistleharp fingerings, Janner struggled valiantly to pay attention, and Kalmar did his best to stay awake.

  The ceremony droned on for what seemed like an eternity until the head tribesman of Ban Soran swaggered before the platform. He was a wiry fellow who wore no shirt despite the bitter cold. His chest and face were painted with crimson stripes, and he all but snarled when he spoke.

  “My name is Carnack, and I pledge nothing to a Fang of Dang.”

  2

  Janner’s Pledge

  “Oy,” said Rudric under his breath. “I was afraid this might happen.”

  “What happens if he won’t pledge?” Janner asked. Rudric didn’t hear him because he was whispering something to the chieftain of Ban Soran.

  “What’s going on?” Kalmar asked with a yawn.

  “Didn’t you hear what that guy said?”

  “I wasn’t listening.”

  Carnack had planted himself in the snow before the platform with his fists on his hips and his nose in the air. Rudric stood and addressed him. “Carnack of Ban Soran! I haven’t seen you for a while. Your chieftain tells me you’ve been patrolling the southern foothills of the Killridges. Is that true?”

  “It is,” he said with a snarl.

  “Then you have seen Fangs, have you not? And you have fought them?”

  “Aye. And they’ve killed my kinsmen. Evil they are, through and through, and I’ll not bow to one today or ever.”

  Rudric glanced at Kalmar, who was paying full attention for the first time. “Then what is your challenge, Carnack?” Rudric asked.

  “No challenge, Keeper. I’ll fight in your war. I just don’t want to pledge my clan’s blood and bone to a Fang of Dang. If I fight, I fight for the Hollows, not for a monster.”

  Janner saw the chieftains and chieftesses shifting uncomfortably. The whole point of the ceremony was to unite the clans under the Annieran flag. Carnack was a splinter in that unity—and a splinter could easily grow into a wedge. Carnack’s chief, Horgan Flannery, addressed his tribesman.

  “Carnack, ye fool! Seven tribes have pledged without incident. Why must you be the sore tooth? Do it in the name of the Shining Isle if not its king. We have a long history with that kingdom, and I mean to preserve it.”

  “Come, Carnack.” Rudric held out a hand. “For the sake of our strength.”

  “No.” Carnack folded his arms and looked away. “I pledge nothing to no Fang.”

  Leeli put her whistleharp away and leaned over to the boys. “Kal, this would be a good time to do something.”

  “But what?”

  “You could fight him,” Janner suggested. “That seems to be how Hollowsfolk work stuff out. See?” He pointed at Rudric, who was barely restraining Horgan Flannery from leaping off the stage and pummeling Carnack.

  “Look at that guy!” Kalmar whispered. “He’d destroy me.”

  “No he wouldn’t,” Leeli said. “You’re stronger and faster than any of these people.”

  Kalmar sighed and shook his head. “I hate this stuff.”

  In one swift motion he leapt from the platform and landed just a few feet in front of Carnack. There was a gasp from Rudric, Horgan, and the rest of the chieftains. Carnack sprang into a fighting stance and backed away, sword in hand. For the first time that day, the perfect snow of the Field of Finley was marked with footprints.

  But Kalmar drew no sword, for he had none to draw. Nor did he circle the warrior as if he wanted to attack. He merely stood before him in the snow, his black cloak hanging about him like a shadow.

  “What’s your game, wolf?” Carnack spat.

  “I don’t have a game.” Kalmar spread his hands to show that he held no weapon. “I just want Gnag the Nameless to lose. Don’t you?”

  “I do,” said Carnack after a pause. His sword dropped a few inches.

  “Janner, the flag,” Leeli whispered, pointing at the Annieran flag behind them.

  He understood in an instant what she meant. Janner removed the Annieran flag, then helped Leeli to her feet. The Throne Warden and the Song Maiden stepped down from the platform and joined Kalmar on the snow. Carnack looked at the three children uncertainly. Conscious of the eyes of every warrior present, Janner planted the Annieran flag in the snow and knelt, pulling Kalmar down with him.

  “If you won’t fight for the Shining Isle,” Janner called out so all could hear, “then let it be known that the Shining Isle fights for you.” He stared at the snow and waited for some response. All he heard was the flutter of the flag in the cold wind.

  “What say you, Carnack?” asked Horgan finally.

  “Aye,” Carnack answered.

  Janner heard the thunk of Carnack’s sword returned to its scabbard, then he looked up to see the tribesman stomping back to his tents, head bowed with what might have been humility.

  Kalmar raised his eyebrows at Janner and Leeli as they made their way back to the platform in an uncomfortable silence. Rudric affirmed them with a quick nod as they took their seats, and for the rest of the afternoon the ceremony languished on without further incident. By the end of the day the people of the Green Hollows and the remnant of the Shining Isle had officially locked arms in alliance.

  At dusk, when the tribe leaders and their regiments marched around the field to a medley of Hollows tunes such as “Hound and Horse and Chicken, Too,” and “Rounder’s Reel,” and the ever-popular “Grouncing as We Nibble as We Go,” even bare-chested Carnack led his tribe proudly by and raised a hand in salute to Kalmar, though Kalmar didn’t notice because he was busy licking sweetberry stains from his vest.

  “A fascinating day!” Oskar declared when the parade was over. “Thank you, Rudric, for allowing me to watch.”

  “Of course, Oskar. Well done, Wingfeathers. I apologize, Your Highness, about Carnack’s defiance.”

  “‘Your Highness’ means you, Kal,” Janner said, nudging his brother out of his sweetberry hunt.

  “Huh? Oh! Don’t worry about it. I can hardly blame him. I hate the way I look, too. When can we eat?”

  Rudric smiled. “Your work here is done, children. It was good to see you.” A look of sadness came into his eyes, then he turned away to speak to the chieftains.

  The ride home was quiet, except for Leeli’s snickering at the volume of Kalmar’s growling stomach. Oskar grew oddly anxious the nearer they drew to Chimney Hill, and when they crossed the bridge and rounded the ascent to the house Janner knew something was amiss. No lights burned in the windows. No lantern flickered on the porch. If not for the smoke rising from the chimney the place would have looked deserted.

  “Where is everybody?” Janner asked.

  “I don’t know!” Oskar said, too quickly. “I mean, I’m sure there’s a good reason the house is dark. I mean, I don’t know! Ah! Here we are.”

  Janner turned to his siblings, but they we
re studiously looking away. When he turned back to Oskar he saw that the old man had already heaved himself from the sled and slipped inside the dark house.

  “Why in Aerwiar is he acting like that?” Janner asked. But Kalmar and Leeli shrugged as if nothing were amiss and climbed down, leaving Janner alone in the sled. “Hello? What’s going on?”

  Janner muttered to himself as he entered the house after his siblings, annoyed at their mysterious behavior. He smelled dinner, but why were the lanterns shuttered? By the red glow of the fire in the hearth he saw Podo reclining in his favorite chair, but the rest of the room was dark. Oskar and the others were nowhere to be seen, and if they hadn’t been acting so weirdly, Janner would have suspected that there was some true danger at hand. But if not danger, then what?

  “Hello?” he said to the dark room. “What’s going on?”

  Then Janner heard a snicker behind him, and a gruff voice said, “Get him.”

  Before Janner could utter another word, he was tackled from behind.

  3

  The Thirteenth Muffin

  As Janner was pulled to the floor and jabbed from every angle he finally put a name with the voice he heard: Guildmaster Clout. But why in the world would Clout be here? And why would he ambush Janner in his own home? And why, above all things, would he and several other voices be laughing while they poked Janner in the ribs and legs and gut?

  “Happy birthday, laddie,” roared Podo, and at once the main room of Chimney Hill was flooded with lamplight. The cluster of bodies that had tackled Janner dispersed and left him dazed and blinking on the floor. Janner saw not only Clout, but eight of his fellow Durgan Guildlings dressed in black, and grinning. Kalmar howled with laughter and Leeli beamed. Nia emerged from the kitchen with a platter piled high with honeymuffins, then placed it on the table, which was heavy with steaming food.

  “It’s my birthday?” Janner asked, which only made everyone laugh harder.

  “I had a feeling you’d forgotten,” Nia said. “Things have been too busy lately to keep track of the days, let alone the dates. So yes. It’s your birthday. Yourthirteenth birthday.”

  At last, a smile spread over Janner’s face. He brushed himself off and greeted his fellow guildlings with playful punches. “Larnik! Brosa! How long have you been here?”

  “Long enough to want to eat a henfoot,” Brosa said.

  “Let’s eat,” said Kelvey O’Sally. “My dogs are aching for the scraps.”

  Janner hugged Podo and his mother, remembering Nia’s comment about how tall he’d grown. How had he forgotten his birthday? He had asked her about it weeks earlier, but with his Durgan training, his T.H.A.G.S., his winter chores, and his anxiety about the coming war, the last thing on his mind was his birthday.

  The meal was a combination of his favorites: spice roasted shadhaunch, butterfire biscuits, hogpig gravy, pumpkin soup, soakbeans, and herder’s meatpie. But even better than the food was the joy he felt in the presence of his family and friends: Guildmaster Clout, Larnik and Brosa, Morsha MacFigg, Churleston James, Joe Bill, and Quincy Candlesmith, along with two of the O’Sally brothers: Kelvey and young Thorn (who sat quietly beside Leeli). Janner had been in class and played countless games with these friends, but they had never before gathered at Chimney Hill for a meal. The fact that they had done so in his honor filled him with gladness. They ate and ate, Podo regaling Janner’s friends with the most embarrassing stories he could think of.

  “Like the time ye got yer head stuck in the yard gate!”

  “That never happened,” Janner said.

  “Did it not?” Podo said, taking a greasy bite of shadhaunch.

  “It was a wagon wheel,” Janner mumbled, feeling amidst the laughter that he had never eaten so much in his life.

  “Can we get started with the honeymuffins now?” Podo asked, rubbing his hands together with glee. “It’s me favorite part.”

  Nia smiled and passed the platter of muffins to Janner with a roll of her eyes. “We might as well get it over with.”

  “Mama, these look good, but I’m stuffed,” Janner said with a sigh as he passed the tray to Brosa, who pushed it back toward him with a devious smile. “Aren’t you having one?” Janner asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Those are fer you, lad,” Podo cackled. “Every last one of ‘em.”

  Janner looked around the table and was met with nothing but grins, even from Nia.

  “It’s a Durgan Guild thing, son. Sorry.”

  Janner counted the honeymuffins with mounting dread. There were thirteen. He had just stuffed himself with dinner, and now he was supposed to eat a platter full of sticky sweet muffins? “Do I have to?”

  “Welcome to Ban Rona, guildling,” Clout said, leaning back and tossing his napkin onto his plate. “This is my favorite part, too.”

  By the time he had finished the fifth muffin, Janner was ready to lose his meal and Podo was ready to lose his composure, snorting gleefully every time Janner wiped the sweat from his forehead. The rest of the party had commenced to pleasant chatter among themselves, but always with an eye on Janner’s progress. He was enjoying his birthday less with every bite. When he swallowed a dangerous burp he pushed away from the table thinking that the joke had played itself out. But Nia of all people stopped him. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “But there are eight more. Eight!”

  “Then you’d better get busy,” Morsha MacFigg said with a snicker.

  “Oy. We all had to do it when we turned,” Quincy Candlesmith said.

  Janner paced the room for a few nauseous minutes then sat back down and forced four more muffins down. Podo watched with gleaming eyes, hardly able to contain himself. “Ah, this is the life, lass. Watchin’ yer grandson grow up before yer very eyes.”

  Unable to believe he was doing it, Janner at last lifted the thirteenth honeymuffin to his lips. Hot bile rose in his throat and he decided he would never eat again. No one at the table spoke, and he had their full attention as he bit into the gooey dessert. He figured it was only because he felt so ill, but the final muffin, the one at the bottom of the pile, seemed to taste different. After he swallowed the first bite everyone at the table stood and began clearing their dishes.

  “Wait, that’s it?” Janner said, barely noticing the way he slurred his words. The room was spinning, and he began to suspect it wasn’t just that he had eaten too much. “What was in that last muffin?” he mumbled.

  “That’s your birthday present,” said Clout. He took the muffin from Janner and helped him to his feet. “Nia, do you have his pack?”

  Janner tottered but felt Clout’s strong hand on his elbow.

  “Good luck, Janner,” said Brosa.

  Kalmar whacked him on the shoulder. “See you in a few days, old man.”

  “Be careful,” said Leeli with a kiss on his cheek.

  “What’s going on?” Janner asked, though it sounded more like, “Whazzzzgoingnnnn?” His knees buckled and Clout eased him to the floor.

  Clout sat on his haunches and looked Janner in the eye. “You’re thirteen, lad, and one of the finest Durgans I’ve seen in a long time. You’ll be fine. Help me out, guildlings.” Janner felt himself lifted by several hands. Someone pulled his arms through the sleeves of his winter coat while someone else placed a heavy pack over his shoulders. He was afraid, but whatever they had put in that last muffin made the fear seem distant. Nia hugged him, Podo clapped him on the back, and the next thing he knew he was outside in the freezing air being lifted onto a horse in front of Guildmaster Clout.

  Out of the night rode a figure that Janner dimly recognized as Rudric. He was surely uncomfortable being so close to Chimney Hill, and Janner felt an impulse to try and make him feel welcome, but his lips wouldn’t move. Rudric handed Clout something—a sword?

  “Make sure he gets this, Clout. It was mine when I was a lad, and I want him to have it if that’s all right.”

  “Oy, Keeper,” Clout said with a nod. “A fine gi
ft.”

  Then Rudric nodded at Janner and rode away. Janner wanted to say thank you, or at least wave, but his arms were as useless as his mouth.

  “There’s nothing to it,” Clout said as he repositioned Janner and clicked the horse into a trot. The last thing Janner heard as he drifted into unconsciousness was his guildmaster’s voice: “You just have to find your way home. We’ll be waiting.”

  When Janner woke, it was early morning. He was lying under a blanket in a snowy wood beside the embers of a dying fire, and he had no idea where he was.

  4

  Blindplopped

  The white sky, visible beyond the gray skeletal trees, was brightening in the east, but the sun hadn’t yet broken the horizon. Frost covered Janner’s blanket, and the wind had blown a little drift of snow against his pack. He sat up and shook his head, trying to remember how he had come to be there. As the previous night came back to him he realized how terribly cold he was. A violent shiver began in his stomach and coursed outward to the tips of his fingers and toes. Thankfully there were enough stray branches that Janner was able to resurrect the fire. He pulled off his gloves and warmed his hands, but he knew that unless he found more wood the little fire would weaken again.

  He studied his surroundings, still trying to piece together the strange ending to his birthday party. The fire crackled at the center of a clearing no bigger than a tent. The trees were tall and thin, crowded with bramble and brush, making it impossible to see whether he was in one of the little stands of applewood that dappled the prairie hills or a deep forest farther south and west. He was glad to be in the trees, because he could hear the frigid wind and see it raking the treetops. But the more he woke, the more annoyed he felt that his friends and family had left him alone in the wilderness. Someone had said it was a Durgan tradition—well, what a ridiculous tradition! Not only did Clout—he remembered now that it was Guildmaster Clout who brought him here on horseback—abandon him, he had somehow covered his tracks to make it even more difficult for Janner to find his way home. The snow between the trees appeared untouched by anything other than thwaps and a few birds. Clout, a master of sneakery, would have had no problem disguising his tracks, had he left any in the first place.