North! Or Be Eaten

  “Much better,” she said after she had a long drink. “Now tear off a bit of that shirt you’re wearin’ and clean it good.”

  Janner hated to ruin his only shirt, but he did as he was told and set about changing Nurgabog’s bandage. The wound in her side reminded Janner of Podo’s the night he almost died in the weapons chamber at Anklejelly Manor. If only he had the flask of water from the First Well. Old Nurgabog certainly needed it more than the gargan rockroach.

  “Better,” she said when they were finished. Her eyes were clearer. “I didn’t want ye runnin’ off without takin’ care of old Nurgabog first. Can’t trust a soul on the Strand.”

  “You can trust me,” Janner said.

  Nurgabog studied his eyes for a moment and smiled. “Aye. I believe I can.”

  “Where’s my family? Where’s Tink?”

  “Tink?”

  “Kalmar, I mean. Where are they?”

  “Well, lad,” Nurgabog said carefully. “You’re not gonna like the answer. And mind you, all I’m about to tell ye came from several Stranders from several clans. Word gets about, you know.”

  Janner nodded.

  “Yer family left three days ago. Your mother was afflicted with a fierce grief over you and yer brother. They never heard her say a word, but she cried aplenty. Cried like the sun had set forever, they told me. But Podo kept tellin’ her that you boys would be fine. Said ye knew how to take care of yourselves, and Maker forbid, if ye didn’t, there was nothing he could do about it. They had the girl, see.”

  “Leeli,” Janner said. His heart grew heavier with every word Nurgabog spoke.

  “Aye. And he said that with you boys missing and like as not caught by the Fangs, it was their job now to keep her safe. They waited as long as they dared, then they set off to the Ice Prairies with many a prayer and a tear for you lads.”

  Janner hung his head.

  “Podo was right when he said there was nothing else for ‘em to do,” she told him. “He would’ve come for you, lad. Believe that. But he didn’t know where you were, and even if he did, he couldn’t storm Fort Lamendron or the Palace Torr with a little girl, an old bookseller, and a bereaved mother to tend to. Maybe in his younger days—ah, lad! You should’ve seen him in his younger days.” Nurgabog wore a toothless smile and a faraway look in her eye.

  “They left me,” Janner said, pushing down the lump developing in his throat.

  Nurgabog nodded. “Aye. They did. I’m sorry, boy.”

  “Wait.” Janner lifted his head. “What about Tink? What about Kalmar? You didn’t mention him. He’s with them, right?”

  Nurgabog sighed and shook her head.

  “Then where is he?”

  “He made a choice, lad.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “He followed the road here, same as you.” She paused. “But he kept walkin’.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Janner said.

  “Never even stopped to see if they were still here,” she continued. “And the worst part of it? They were. Yer whole family, sitting down here in the dirt and the dark, sendin’ up prayers to the great silent Maker that you’d both show up safe and whole. And Kalmar Wingfeather marched right past with nary a look back, four days ago.”

  Janner felt a sob in his throat. “Why? Why would he do that?”

  “Because whatever it is inside a man that calls him to the edge of things, calls him to the shadows and away from the light, must have been mighty loud in his ears. Yer brother is a Strander now, lad. That’s what he wanted. He showed up in the East Bend with a fire in his eye, swinging Claxton’s pone about like he owned the place.”

  It was hard for Janner to hear anything Nurgabog said after those words. It felt as if his insides were boiling. Rage, then disbelief, then confusion, then sorrow, then guilt—Janner’s tears soaked the ground of the Strander burrow.

  Why would Tink do such a thing? The Stranders were vile, thieving, murderous villains—like Fangs without scales. Why would he choose to join with such people? The High King of Anniera. Janner was glad his father wasn’t alive to see his son betray the kingdom so. He knew Tink was afraid, that he didn’t want to be the king. But this? A Strander?

  Fine, Janner thought, wiping the tears from his eyes. Let the Stranders have him.

  He stood and looked down at Nurgabog coldly. “How do I get to the Ice Prairies?”

  “Eh?”

  “I have a long way to go,” he said.

  Nurgabog stared at him with a sad look in her eyes. “So you’re leavin’ him behind?”

  “You said he made a choice,” Janner spat. “I’m not risking my life to try to convince him to do something he should want to do. I’m tired of chasing him, tired of his jokes and his selfishness. I’m tired of him. If he wants to be a Strander, I can’t stop him. He would have made a lousy king anyway.”

  Nurgabog said nothing.

  “Well?” Janner demanded.

  “North of here,” she said after a moment. “After about a day’s walk, you’ll come to the Barrier. Go east till ye find an old dead glipwood tree. Thirty paces past it, you’ll find a breach in the wall. The dead tree is a snickbuzzard’s roost, so be wary. Move quick, or they’re likely to make food out of you. It’s easy enough to slip through when the Fangs are lookin’ elsewhere, especially now that the patrols are so few.”

  “Why are the patrols fewer?” Janner asked as he crossed the room to the ladder.

  “Don’t know. But the Fangs seem less and less worried about Skreeans slippin’ through to the Ice Prairies, which makes me a fair bit worried about what old Gnag the Nameless is doing that we don’t know about.”

  “Thanks for your help,” Janner said. “What will you do?”

  “Old Nurgabog will be fine, lad.” She smiled again. “Thank ye for the thought, though.” She paused, looking at Janner like she wanted to say more.

  “What?”

  “I’ve a mighty argument kickin’ around in me head, lad.”

  He waited.

  “I don’t know much about Anniera. Not even sure there is such a place. I don’t pay much mind to what’s happenin’ in the great world that don’t affect me. I let things pass as they will,” she said. “But yer Podo did somethin’ for me that nobody else ever did. I care about ‘im, see. Which is to say that I care about what he cares about. I know he cares about you and your brother, so now I’ve got to wonder if he’d want you get-tin’ safe to the Ice Prairies alone or you doin’ what’s right—and maybe neither you nor your brother makin’ it.”

  “I don’t understand,” Janner said.

  “Don’t ye want to know what happened to me? It’s not every day I get stabbed by me own son.”

  Janner was ashamed he hadn’t bothered to ask about Nurgabog’s wound. “I’m sorry,” he said. “What happened?”

  “Your brother may have quick hands, quicker than any Strander I ever saw, but old Claxton’s got talents too. Didn’t take him long to find out Kalmar Wingfeather was back on the Strand. Quick hands don’t make a boy invincible, do they?”

  Janner’s anger at Tink cooled a little, and he felt a prick of fear. “What happened?”

  “It’s the Black Carriage, lad.”

  “What about the Black Carriage?”

  “The Fangs swing through once a week, thanks to an agreement Claxton made with ‘em. He wanted the Stranders of the East Bend to rule more than just our little section of the river, see. Wasn’t content with the way things have always been. Ye may not know it, but the Fangs are under heavy orders to collect more and more children, and children are gettin’ harder and harder to come by. The Fangs allow those of us in the East Bend to carry daggers and leave us be—as long as we give ‘em a few fresh children each week for the Black Carriage.”

  “What does this have to do with Kalmar?”

  “Claxton’s got ‘im in a cage, waitin’ for the Black Carriage right now. Kalmar thought he’d be welcome in the East Bend like a long lost
son. But like I said, ye can’t trust a soul on the Strand. No sooner had your brother strutted into the East Bend than Claxton beat him near to death and took back his pone.”

  “No,” Janner said.

  “Aye. It’s true. And old Nurgabog tried to stop it all. Didn’t want to let me old sweetheart’s grandbaby get carted off. But Claxton is mad as a blat, like I said. Stabbed me in the gut and kicked me into the river. His own mother.” Nurgabog covered her face with her hands.

  Janner knew the Stranders were an evil bunch, but this was worse than he had imagined. And Tink wanted to join them. It made Janner sick.

  “I survived, of course,” Nurgabog said with a sniff. “Got word Podo was holed up in this burrow, so I came as fast as I could. Too late, you see. They were gone by the time I got here. And yer brother will be gone after tonight, when the Black Carriage rolls in.”

  Janner didn’t know what to do.

  “So,” Nurgabog said, “you see my dilemma. If I kept quiet, ye’d scoot off past the Barrier and have at least a chance to find your family again. But now that I’ve told ye Kalmar’s in a cage, you’re gonna do what any good brother would. You’ll try to save ‘im. And you’ll be caught, and you’ll both be carried away.” She sighed. “And now I’ve doomed not one but two boys to the Deeps of Throg. Of course, ye could forget what I told ye, run to the Ice Prairies, and leave Kalmar to whatever fate the Maker has for ‘im, as you said you would.”

  Janner stood at the foot of the ladder with his head bowed low. He couldn’t leave his brother.

  “Thank you, Nurgabog,” he said. “I’m glad you told me everything.”

  “So you’re goin’ to try and save ‘im, then?”

  “Yes ma’am. I have to. I’m a Throne Warden.”

  “Then you’ll need these.”

  She triggered another hidden latch in the wall, and a small, square door swung open. Janner gasped. Inside were two leather backpacks, the ones Nia had made for him and Tink, complete with swords and bows.

  “I reckon Podo left ‘em for ye. Proof the old man believed you’d make yer way here sooner or later. The dried diggle meat is gone. I ate it. My apologies.” She gave him a gummy smile.

  In his pack, Janner found a folded parchment with his name on it in his mother’s handwriting. He slid to the floor and opened the letter, heedless of the sad way Nurgabog watched him.

  My dear Janner, it began.

  I have in my life been forced to make many difficult decisions. The decision to marry your father, though it meant leaving the Green Hollows and most of my family. The decision to leave your father as the castle burned. The decision to keep his memory hidden from you and your siblings. And now it seems I am forced to make the hardest decision of all.

  We can’t stay here forever. The Fangs prowl, and the Stranders are an ignoble brood. Their lips flap like flags in a storm, spreading news of our flight from here to the edges of the maps. It is only a matter of time before the Fangs discover this burrow. We must, though it is more painful than I can bear, leave you.

  Your grandfather assures me that you and your brother are more capable than many men he has fought beside and that you will find your way. My tears have wet the ground, and I have fought him, but I have lost that fight. Your sister must be safe. We must move on. My hand trembles as I write this, so great is my fear for you. Keep your brother safe. Keep yourself safe. And find your way. Know that a fire of welcome burns for you in the Ice Prairies. Maker help you.

  Love,

  Your mother

  Janner sniffed and wiped his eyes. At the bottom of the page, written in a much less refined hand, was a note from Podo.

  Lad.

  Stay away from the roads. You and your brother need to find a breach in the Barrier, then push through the mountains. I’ve word from an old Strander that the Stony Mountains look tamer to the west but that it’s a lie of the land. The only way through is east, into the crags. Find the trail that winds over the right shoulder of the highest peak. It’s called Mog-Balgrik, which Oskar tells me means “the Witch’s Nose.”

  Once you’re past Mog-Balgrik, the land slopes away into the Ice Prairies. After that, your guess is as good as mine. Keep clear of bomnubbles and snickbuzzards and cliffs. The good thing is, you’ll see no Fangs. Keep your little brother safe. He needs you.

  Podo

  Beneath Podo’s signature was a line written in a careful, flowing script:

  Janner, I have your book. I’ll keep it safe until you arrive. In the words Of Bronwyn Silverfoot, “I hope you don’t mind.”

  Oskar N. Reteep,

  Appreciator of the Strange, the Neat, and/or the Yummy

  Janner tossed the packs over his shoulder and hugged Nurgabog (careful not to breathe through his nose while he did so). She pinched his cheek and told him where to find the lever to open the cages, then Janner clambered up the ladder to rescue the High King of Anniera.

  48

  The Cages

  As soon as Janner left the house, he spotted Fangs.

  A company of them marched west, down the hill to Dugtown, and in the distance more approached from the eastern reaches of the Strand. Janner slipped back into the house and peeked out the window. The wind shifted, and Janner caught the smell of fire mingled with the reek of the river and the Fangs. Then he saw that houses all along the Blapp were burning. That probably meant they would soon torch the house where he was hiding.

  His first thought was for Nurgabog. But even if the house burned to the ground, the burrow would remain hidden beneath the ashes. He didn’t doubt she could find a way out through one of the hidden passageways. But how would he get all the way to the East Bend of the Strand in broad daylight? It would have been difficult even without the Fangs seeking, of all the souls in Aerwiar, Janner himself.

  He took a deep breath. There was nothing to do but run and avoid the road.

  Janner jumped the fence behind the house, squelched through the mud of what used to be a pigpen, and sprinted across the clumpy back field to a stand of trees that had overgrown a fence line. As he ran, the two backpacks bounced and rattled and reminded him of Tink with every bump. At the trees, Janner caught his breath and looked for his next point of cover. He spied a tangle of brush and thorn on the opposite side of another pasture, and ran.

  In this way Janner pushed eastward, bursting from sagging barns, across fields, to shallow, weedy streams, up gradual hills, and so on, until he was covered with burrs and cut by thorns.

  He didn’t allow himself to think of Sara Cobbler, or Nurgabog, or even himself. He thought of nothing but the vision of Tink in the cage. In the vision he was frightened, cold, alone, and helpless. Janner still wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense into him, but there would be time for that after he was safe.

  It wasn’t long before Janner spotted signs of a Strander clan. Smoke rose from a small fire at the opposite end of the field. Figures moved about. Laughter drifted across to where Janner squatted in the brush. After several minutes he crawled through the tall grass until he was sure he was far enough away to stand unnoticed; then he moved on, hoping the rest of the clans would be as easy to avoid.

  A few hours after the sun began its descent into the west, Janner stopped to rest. The water skin was empty. Leaning against the ivy-covered stones of an old dry well, he ate the last seven salted nuts in his pouch. After rummaging through both packs, he was finally convinced he had eaten all the food and drunk all the water. He looked into the well, as if clean water might seep up from the mud as he watched.

  Janner hadn’t had a proper meal since the bowls of broth five days earlier, if the broth could be considered a proper meal. Then he remembered the apple in the coffin. It had perhaps been the finest apple he had ever eaten. In spite of the heat and the worry and the hunger that plagued him, Janner smiled at the thought of the Overseer and Mobrik, mad as fire that perhaps for the first time a boy had escaped the Fork Factory. But his smile vanished when he remembered Sara Cobbler
’s pretty eyes shining through the soot on her face.

  Janner stood and sighed. There was no time to sit around thinking about food and friends he had left behind. Not when Tink was in danger.

  When Podo had led them from the Strander camp of the East Bend to Dugtown, the journey had taken a full day. But they had moved at a slug’s pace compared to Janner now. Even though he had to sneak past five more Strander camps, he was still making good time. He didn’t think it would be long before he reached the East Bend—though he had no idea what he would do when he got there. That he had managed to slip past the Stranders so easily gave him hope. There were advantages to being small and alone.

  But there were disadvantages too.

  When the north wind rushed over him, carrying with it the blood-chilling howl of a horned hound, for example, Janner ached for the strong, sure hand of his grandfather. When his stomach complained of its hunger, Janner longed for the comfort of the Igiby cottage thick with the aroma of his mother’s stew. When a gulpswallow fluttered overhead and perched on a birch limb to sing its song, Janner thought of Leeli and the music that hovered around her like spring pollen in a sunbeam.

  He didn’t want to be small and alone for one second longer than he had to be.

  When the sun set and the colors of the world deepened, Janner came to a rise in the land that overlooked the great river. He sat on a mossy boulder with his knees tucked under his chin and felt the day breathe its last. The river narrowed here, its glassy surface carved with eddies and a quiet unrest from the hidden and quickening currents that played beneath. Beyond the Blapp, the tree-spiked land sloped away to the south. Somewhere in that direction lay the road that led east to Glipwood and west to Torr-boro. Along the nearer bank, Janner could see the muddy road he and his family had traveled when they first left the East Bend. To the east, Glipwood Forest gathered, wild and ancient, a thirsty shadow that opened its mouth to swallow the Mighty Blapp.

  He was close. The Strander camp lay where the river and the road and the forest converged. Janner looked again at the sky in the west. The gold was gone. The dark blue sky reached from the east to snuff it out so that the stars might waken.