North! Or Be Eaten

  “Anniera,” Oskar whispered as he looked at pictures of the Shining Isle drawn by the High King himself. It was the closest he had ever come to seeing that fair country with his own eyes.

  Finally, Janner removed the big, leather-bound book from his pack.

  “Fascinating!” Oskar breathed. He reached for the book like a child reaching for a dollop of candy.

  “Grandpa says it’s one of the First Books,” Janner said.

  “Aye,” said Podo. “I heard it was among the treasures of Anniera but never laid me eyes on it until the night we fled the castle.”

  “What are the First Books, anyway?” Leeli asked.

  “There are many legends, young princess,” Oskar said. “One is that the Maker himself wrote them and gave them to Dwayne—he was the First Fellow, you know—as a gift for the care and governance of Aerwiar. The Books taught Dwayne the ways of wisdom and guided him as he reigned throughout the First Epoch, which was, they say, about five thousand years ago. Another is that Dwayne and Gladys—she was Dwayne’s wife—wrote the First Books together and that they’re a record of their time ruling the world. Another theory is that the First Books were written by Will, their second son, who caused all manner of problems.”

  “Problems?” Janner asked.

  “He was called Ouster Will in the histories,” Nia told him. “Here in Skree we have the Black Carriage to scare children while they lie in bed awake. When I was a girl in the Green Hollows, it was stories of Ouster Will that made us shiver in our sheets. They said the ghost of Ouster Will made your house creak in the night, that Ouster Will was the spidery feeling on the back of your neck when you walked through the woods alone.”3

  Janner’s skin crawled. Tink drew a hand across the back of his neck and shivered.

  “Ouster Will is as dead in the ground as me Grandpappy Helmer,” Podo snorted. “You and your ghost stories.”

  “I’m not saying I believe them,” Nia said. “I’m saying Ouster Will was a bad man—bad enough that there are still scarytales about him thousands of years after he died. Why do you look so nervous?”

  Podo grunted.

  “Where was I?” Oskar asked, patting the big book in his lap the way a mother pats a baby.

  “The First Books,” Janner said.

  “Ah. Other legends say Ouster Will wrote the First Books. They say he learned many secrets of Aerwiar, secrets the Maker gave to Dwayne, intended for the king and the king alone.”

  “What kind of secrets?” Leeli asked.

  “Well, over the thousand years that Dwayne ruled—”

  “A thousand years?” Tink’s eyes widened.

  “Yes. Maybe more. And during his long reign, he guarded the First Well carefully. The well stood at the center of the city, and Dwayne administered its healing waters to the sick and wounded. And Dwayne himself, without meaning to, lived longer than anyone else.” Oskar glanced at Podo. “It’s a long story that we don’t have time to tell right now, but it’s enough to say that Will overthrew his father—killed him—and stole the throne, intending to wield the power of the First Well for his own ends. There are some who believe the First Books were Ouster Will’s record of the secrets he discovered.”

  Janner looked at the book in Oskar’s lap with wonder and dread. He wanted to believe the Maker had written it (though that seemed impossible), or that Dwayne, whom Janner had always pictured as a kind old man, wrote it. He shuddered at the thought that Ouster Will, some villain from the shadows of history, was the author of the book entrusted to him.

  Oskar jiggled with delight as he opened the book. “This writing. Do you know what language it is?”

  “No,” Nia said. “Like Papa, I never saw the book until the day we fled. I gathered that Esben had it, but I didn’t know where he kept it hidden. He spent much of his time with Bonifer in those last days.”

  “Squoon,” Oskar said, looking over the top of his spectacles at Nia. “I know that name.”

  “Bonifer Squoon!” Janner blurted. “I remember that name too.” He closed his eyes. “‘This is the Journal of Bonifer Squoon, Chief Advisor to the High King of Anniera, Keeper of the Isle of Light. Read this without my permission and I will pound your nose.’ Was he Esben’s—er, Father’s—chief advisor?”

  Nia and Podo exchanged a glance. “Yes,” she said. “How did you…?”

  “His journal was in the bottom of the crate from Dang,” Tink said. “The one we unpacked for Mister Reteep just before I found the map.”4

  “I read it,” Oskar said. “In fact, I was reading it when I heard you and Peet fighting the Fangs in front of the jail that night. I assumed it was a forgery or some kind of fiction from Anniera, a children’s book perhaps, fashioned to seem like the real thing for the purpose of feeding young imaginations. But you say this Squoon was truly the advisor to the king?”

  “Aye, and Squoon was the type to tell you that he’d pound yer nose, that’s for sure,” Podo said. “Not that he would’ve ever actually pounded it. He was much too cowardly for that.”

  “So I was in possession of the chief advisor to the High King’s journal. Right there in Books and Crannies, but now gone forever,” Oskar sighed. “In the words of Vilmette Oppenholm in her essay on the decline of free cupcakes, ‘How awful.’”

  “I wonder how that journal ended up in Skree,” Nia said to herself. “Where did you say you found the crate from Dang, Oskar?”

  “In Torrboro. Over the years I’ve come across several crates of its kind, probably loot from ships the Fangs pirated between here and Dang. It was a nice surprise, but not unheard of. The journal, of course, had I known it was authentic, would have been a great deal more than a surprise to me.”

  “What was in it?” Nia asked.

  Oskar thought for a moment. “Nothing that interesting. No mention of first names that I remember—only ‘the king’ this and ‘the queen’ that. He wrote of his trips to and from Dang. He seemed to do a lot of that, supervising shipments and trade routes and such. Odd work for a king’s advisor, especially since he was an old fellow. But I thought little of it, since I believed the journal was a piece of fiction.”

  “I remember he spent a lot of time abroad,” Nia said.

  “So he was a busy old feller. What does this have to do with the book?” Podo said with a trace of annoyance. Janner could tell he was itching to move on.

  “Bonifer and Esben spent much time together in those last days,” Nia explained. “I heard them talking about the First Book more than once. That’s all I know about it.”

  “The letters look like Old Hollish, the ancient language of the Green Hollows. Do you remember that from your youth, highness?” Oskar asked Nia.

  “I studied Hollish when I was a girl, but no one speaks it anymore. Old Hollish is another thing altogether.” She narrowed her eyes at the writing in the book and tilted her head from one side to the other. “Try this,” she said, flipping the book around. “There. I can’t read it, but it’s definitely some version of Hollish.”

  “Ah!” Oskar said. “I see it now, too.” He studied the cover and binding of the book. “This isn’t the original cover. Whoever replaced it, however many years ago, didn’t know the language either and placed the new cover backward. What we thought was the first page is actually the last. See?”

  It all looked the same to Janner, but it was fascinating nonetheless.

  “I think, highness, with what I know of languages and what you remember of Hollish, we might be able to translate this.” Oskar looked at Nia eagerly.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “There’s a reason these books were hidden. A reason they haven’t been translated before.”

  “But highness, there must also be a reason the book has been preserved all these years.”

  “And a reason Father wanted me to have it,” Janner said quietly.

  “We really need to get a move on,” Podo said, kicking dirt over the fire. “I know ye’d like to sit all day and have a nice discussion about
old, upside-down languages, but we’ve got a long way to go.”

  The crunch and snap of breaking branches echoed through the forest.

  Janner and Tink leapt to their feet, drew their swords, and took their places on either side of Podo, forming a fierce wall of protection in front of Nia, Leeli, and Oskar.

  A toothy cow, bigger than any Janner had ever seen, lumbered toward them.

  “The tree!” Podo yelled. “Now!”

  Seconds later, they were safe in the swooping limbs of the glipwood oak, looking down at the giant beast as it limped around the trunk of the tree. Blood dripped from its teeth. The cow’s milky eyes rolled, wild and unable to focus.

  “Look!” Leeli pointed at a spear that hung from its right shoulder.

  The cow gurgled. Its eyes fluttered, and with an ignoble shudder, it crumpled to the ground and died. After a moment of silence, the company climbed down the tree.

  “I’m glad she was injured,” Podo said as he wrenched the spear from the cow’s side, “or we might not have had time to get clear.”

  Tink squatted near the cow’s head and poked at it with a stick.

  “So there are Fangs nearby,” Janner said, eying the bloody spear.

  “No, lad,” Podo said. “This ain’t a Fang spear. Far too fine a weapon for that. This explains why we’ve not seen any critters before now.” He threw the spear aside and wiped his hand on his breeches. “Stranders.”

  “Now will you tell us what a Strander is?” Tink asked.

  “Aye,” Podo said darkly. “Thieves and killers. If they’re around, we need to move, and fast. The sooner we get clear of the forest, the better.”

  1. Eremund was a Throne Warden in the year 54 of the Third Epoch. When the High Queen Nayani, his little sister, was kidnapped by Symian pirates, he passed through many trials to bring her home. He sailed past the edges of all maps in pursuit of the pirates and years later returned with the queen at his side. His courage was rare, even among Annierans, and it was said that his eyes were golden and shone in the dark like candles. Several books detailing his exploits are preserved in the Grand Library at the Castle Rysen. See The Eremiad, translated by Hureman Perdus, Symar House Publishers, 345.

  2. Though little known outside of the Shining Isle, Alma Rainwater was one of many Annieran poets whose work was hailed as revolutionary because it rhymed and followed a strict form called ba-dum-ba-dum pentameter.

  3. For a sample of a Hollish poem about the dreaded Ouster Will, see Appendices.

  4. See map in Appendices.

  20

  In the Hall of Lamendron

  That evening as the sun set on Skree, the troll flung Peet to the floor of the great hall at Fort Lamendron. Torches flickered on the walls. The Fangs at the perimeter of the room hissed at the chained figure writhing on the floor in front of the throne.

  Zouzab and the other ridgerunner slunk to the foot of the dais and bowed. “Greetings, General Khrak,” said Zouzab.

  Just behind the ridgerunner, Peet lay on his back and stared at the high ceiling. For the moment, his mind worked properly, and he remembered everything. The troll had dragged him for a night and a day from the forest, through the Glipwood Township, and down the long road to Fort Lamendron. Peet ached from every jarring inch of the journey.

  He found some satisfaction in the fear in the Fangs’ eyes when they looked at him. They had good reason to be afraid. If he were free of his chains, he could put an end to every beast in the room. Just to be sure, Peet flexed his muscles. The Fangs sank back, but the chains held fast.

  “I see you’ve captured the Throne Warden,” said Khrak.

  Zouzab nodded.

  “Excellent. Gnag will be pleased. But I don’t sssee the children.”

  “The jewels,” Zouzab said, then paused.

  “Speak, creeper!” Khrak hissed.

  “The jewels have…escaped. Again.”

  Khrak’s face was unreadable. Peet grinned. Zouzab glanced at the rafters of the hall and the high windows, probably in case he needed to make a quick getaway. Khrak had a reputation for being more ruthless than the average Fang, which was saying something.

  “I could tell you all the details about how your Commander Higgk’s incompetence led to their escape,” Zouzab continued, “but the important thing is not that they escaped.”

  “And what isss the important thing?” asked the general in a menacing voice.

  “The important thing, General Khrak, other than the capture of the Throne Warden, is that we listened as the mother and grandfather planned and discussed, and we know where they’re going.”

  “Ah. And where isss that?”

  “The Ice Prairies.”

  “Kimera?” Khrak asked.

  “Yes, my lord. They know of the force gathered there, and the leader, a man named Gammon. They know that the Fangs, mighty though you be, cannot endure the harsh cold, so they believe it is safe there.”

  “Safe, eh?” said Khrak to a nearby Fang.

  “Aye, General,” said the Fang with a snicker, “perfectly ssssafe.”

  The Fangs in the hall burst into laughter.

  Peet broke into a sweat. Had Gnag figured out a way to protect the Fangs from the cold? He had to find a way to tell the children!

  He strained and twisted, sensing Khrak’s eyes on him, and then his mind grew muddy, and he forgot where he was, who he was, who the children were. He became little more than a chained animal.

  When the laughter died away, the Fang on the throne stepped down from the dais and stood over Peet. Its tongue flitted out and tickled the air only inches from Peet’s face.

  “I know exactly what to do with you, Artham Wingfeather,” said the Fang, and at his name, Peet’s mind cleared a little.

  “D-don’t send me back,” Peet stammered. “P-please…”

  “Back to Throg?” Khrak said with a wicked grin. “You don’t want to go back to the Deeps of Throg? Why, I’m sure Gnag the Nameless could find you a place in the dungeon. Your old cell, perhaps? The one with the excellent view, as I remember.”

  Peet wept and shook his head.

  Khrak straightened and looked at him with disgust. “Stop whimpering. It’s the Phoob Islands for you, Wingfeather. We’ll let the Grey Fangs try to…make something of you. Take him to the docks!”

  21

  Podo’s Nightmare

  As the sky grew dark and the forest grew darker, Podo called a halt. There had been no sign of Stranders and no more toothy cows in the six hours since lunch.

  “Can we have another fire?” Leeli asked her grandfather sweetly.

  Podo sighed. “No lass, I’m afraid not. Not at night. If we want light, it’ll have to be of the greenish sort.”

  After a cold, silent meal by the light of the snotwax candle, Podo set up the tent near a good climbing tree and stood watch while Tink and Janner huddled over the ancient book in Oskar’s lap. Now and then the old bookseller beckoned Nia over and held the candle so that she could see the page. She gave him her best guess about the sound or meaning of a letter, then returned to her spot next to Leeli.

  Janner was sore and tired, but his mind whirled with questions long after Nia blew out the candle and the others fell asleep. He wanted to know why Podo, who had seemed so happy during the weeks at Peet’s castle, was now so irritable and distant. He wanted to know what about the Dark Sea gave the old pirate pause. He wanted to know what had happened to Peet the Sock Man. He wanted to know why his father had left him this giant, timeworn book written in a language nobody remembered. He wanted to know who the Stranders were. He wanted to know what Gnag the Nameless could possibly want with him and his brother and sister. Janner’s mind was as tired from thinking as his legs were from walking, and he finally felt himself drifting to sleep, floating into the dream realm like a boy on a boat.

  “I’m sorry,” said a voice.

  Janner sat up, not sure if he was dreaming. After a moment the fog in his brain thinned, and he remembered where he was. He
heard the snores and deep breathing of the others, crickets outside the tent, and an owl somewhere in the distance.

  “I’m so, so sorry,” came the voice again. It was Podo.

  “Grandpa?” Janner whispered. There was no answer. He crept to where Podo lay. By the faint light in the tent, he could see that his grandfather’s eyes were closed, his mouth slightly open. “Grandpa, you’re dreaming,” Janner whispered.

  “No excuse, lords…I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Ye must believe me,” mumbled Podo, on the verge of tears. Whatever he was dreaming about was awful. The owl hooted again, and Janner thought about lying back down and leaving Podo to his dream, but then the old man’s mouth drew down and he moaned.

  “Grandpa!” Janner whispered again, this time with a hand on Podo’s shoulder.

  Podo’s eyes opened. One of his stony hands shot up and caught Janner by the throat, but Podo came to himself and released him just as quickly.

  “You were dreaming,” Janner gasped. The two looked at each other in silence while Podo’s breathing slowed.

  “Outside,” the old man whispered.

  They crept out of the tent and stood in the living silence of the forest. The stars were so bright that the leaves cast shadows. Podo removed his pipe from his pocket, packed it with tobacco, and lit it without saying a word. The chill in the air seeped through Janner’s clothes and set him shivering, but the smell of the pipe smoke was warm and comforting and conjured memories of the Igiby cottage and the hearth.

  “Dreaming, eh?” said Podo.

  “Yes sir.”

  “What did I say?”

  “You said there was no excuse, that you didn’t know. And that you were sorry.”

  Podo drew long on his pipe and blew the smoke out slowly. “Aye,” he said to himself. “That I am.”

  “What for?” Janner asked timidly.

  “For things I done a long time ago. Things that ain’t been paid for yet.”

  “But you won’t tell me what.”

  “I reckon not. Not yet, at any rate.”

  Janner wanted to press him but could tell from the tone of his grandfather’s voice that it would be better to leave it alone.