Return of the Forgotten

  But just then a scrawny chipmunk approached the barber and his customers to offer his thoughts on the Pup debacle.

  “I say we tar and feather the little traitor!” the chipmunk hollered.

  Hopper’s stomach soured at the thought of it; he was glad that tar was not readily available here in the tunnels. For that matter, feathers were in short supply as well.

  And besides, the Chosen One had searched high and low, far and wide, and as best he could tell, his angry, misguided little brother was presently nowhere to be found within the boundaries of Atlantia. Hopper took some comfort in knowing that if there were to be any tarring and/or feathering, it wouldn’t be happening anytime soon.

  With a heavy heart he turned and headed back to the palace.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  PUP HAD SEETHED.

  He had stomped his paws and bared his claws and tugged at his whiskers in frustration. He had pouted and complained and made rash choices based on anger and fueled by an inflated sense of his own capabilities.

  Back at the Mūs village—how long ago, it seemed—Pinkie had refused to provide him with a uniform. She had humiliated him. But he recognized now that her refusal was not because she didn’t believe in him. It was because she knew that he was not yet ready for such responsibility. Moreover, she had wanted to keep him safe. And how had he responded?

  He had abandoned her. Escaped.

  Now he understood that it hadn’t been an “escape” so much as a desertion. After all, one only escapes from a bad situation. And what Pup had known under Pinkie’s care had not been bad at all. He’d only convinced himself it was.

  It had taken some time and an arduous journey, but he’d finally realized how wrong his perception had been. Now all he wanted was to go home.

  Home. Once a nest of aspen curls in a rusting cage on a counter in Keep’s pet shop, upland in a world called Brooklyn. Then, briefly, a comfortable barracks in a well-run and seemingly friendly camp that, in reality, had hidden a brutal and ugly secret.

  Most recently home had been a gargantuan black steel engine buried deep in the earth behind a gray brick wall in the center of the safe and welcoming Mūs village. But Pup had thrown that away because he had bristled at the thought of being loved and protected and cared for.

  Imagine! The idiocy of wanting to forsake such comfort just to prove that he could fend for himself. In fact, he had managed to survive in the tunnels for more days and weeks than he could count. But what did he have to show for it, save a single friend and ruined ear?

  Pup gazed into the distance at Atlantia, and all his pride and bravado melted away. He had not succeeded in killing Felina, but that didn’t matter anymore. What mattered was that he desperately wanted to apologize to his family and help them reach their goal of bringing safety to both the Mūs village and Atlantia. No longer would he shrug off Hopper’s assistance, or resent Pinkie’s authority. Pup wasn’t ready for authority, not yet. If he’d proven anything, he’d proven that. Authority, autonomy, maturity . . . These were things one grew into. One couldn’t simply claim self-sufficiency; one had to earn it.

  Protection sounded awfully good to Pup right now. A pair of loving arms to enfold him, a wise sibling to educate him, a hot meal, a warm bed . . . All these things added together meant home.

  And now, it seemed, home would be Atlantia.

  But only if Atlantia would have him.

  Hacklemesh stood beside him on a sloping knoll overlooking the city. Below, they could see the wall that encircled Atlantia with its gleaming iron gate. Pup, of course, knew nothing of the history of this gate—he was unaware that it was the place where his father, Dodger, had first met the young prince Zucker and together they’d set a revolution in motion; he had no idea that it was also the portal through which his brother had entered in utter terror and ignorance only to learn that he was the Chosen One of a proud mouse tribe and that he had a magnificent destiny to fulfill.

  Gazing at the entrance now, Pup knew that the imposing iron gate would lead him either to salvation . . .

  . . . or to doom.

  But this was a risk he was willing to take. Because Pup, the upland pet shop mouse, was ready to accept full responsibility for his actions and tell whosoever would listen that he was sorry to the depths of his soul. The only balm that might soothe the ache of his regret was forgiveness. And forgiveness, he dearly hoped, was just inside that gate.

  “I assume there’s a warrant out for my arrest, Hack,” Pup whispered to his arachnid companion. “Do you think I should try to disguise myself and make my way to the palace, where I can turn myself in directly to Hopper? Or perhaps it would be better to just present myself at that big old gate and announce my surrender. . . . With any luck, I’ll be able to get the words out before the guards have a chance to draw their swords.”

  Hack blinked his many eyes and raised one craggy leg, pointing to the gate.

  “You think I should just give myself up to the guard?”

  Hack’s expression said that this was exactly what he thought.

  “Well, it’s as good a plan as any,” said Pup on a long sigh. “I guess it’ll work . . . that is, if they don’t kill me before I get a chance to open my mouth.”

  Hacklemesh, as always, was silent.

  “Might as well get to it,” said Pup, trying to sound brave. With a deep breath he drew himself up to his full height, and took the first step in the direction of Atlantia.

  Then he stopped.

  Not because he had changed his mind.

  But because there was a blade pressed to his back.

  A voice came out of the darkness, close to his ear; a voice that was very familiar to him:

  “You are under arrest,” said General DeKalb, “by order of Emperor Zucker and Pinkie the Chosen.”

  Pup heard the scrape and whistle of three more swords being drawn and wondered if this moment would be his last. In point of fact, he wouldn’t blame these Mūs soldiers if they ran him through without another word.

  But the tip of DeKalb’s sword did not press deeper into his pelt; no attempt, for the moment at least, was being made to harm him.

  This was a good sign.

  There was a long pause, and then the steady pressure of the blade against his fur softened, as did the general’s tone.

  “Will you come quietly, Pup?” he asked. It was as much a plea as a question. DeKalb, Pup realized, had no wish to kill him. His heart bloomed with hope.

  Slowly he raised his paws above his head in a gesture of compliance. “Yes, General,” he said. “I will absolutely come qui—”

  But before he could finish this heartfelt surrender, he sensed a flash of motion to his right; in the next second he felt something warm and liquid splatter across his back.

  Blood.

  Pup was knocked to his knees in the dirt, blinded by the dust swirling wildly under four pairs of stomping boots.

  “Hack, run!” he commanded, fearing his friend might be injured in this unexplained scuffle. Pup was small, but Hacklemesh was even smaller and, despite the strength of his spider silk, far more fragile than a rodent. “Run! Now!”

  He felt Hack’s hesitation, the pull of loyalty keeping him close. Eight frightened eyes blinked with indecision, but Pup refused to allow his friend to be hurt on his behalf.

  “Run!” Pup cried. “Save yourself.”

  To his relief, he heard the delicate patter of eight slender legs as Hack fled the scene. As Pup turned his head to watch the spider disappear into the murky distance, a subway train screamed past, its headlight brightening the tunnel. And as a part of that brilliance, he could have sworn he saw a glinting prism of colored light trembling against the tile of the tunnel wall.

  In the silence that followed the thundering of the train, he thought he heard a gasp. A tiny, far-off gasp. But this was not the time to think about who or what might be lurking in the shadows, because right around him a battle had erupted. Pup kept low, closing his eyes and covering his head. He ha
d no idea what was happening. He hadn’t resisted DeKalb’s arrest. He hadn’t so much as flinched or frowned. To the contrary . . . he’d offered himself as a compliant captive. So what had gone wrong?

  Above him he heard a deep grunt, followed by a yowl of pain. DeKalb fell, landing with a sickening thud beside him.

  “Dev, have you gone mad?” came a voice Pup thought he recognized.

  The answer was the whistle of a sword slicing through the air, then another dull thump as a second rodent fell facedown in the dirt on Pup’s other side. Pup opened one eye—just a slit. The victim was close enough so that Pup could make out the nametag pinned to his uniform: PITKIN.

  Pup closed his eye again fast; his head spun. He knew Pitkin; he was one of Pinkie’s most valued soldiers. So it had been Pitkin’s voice he had heard, challenging this unknown Dev.

  Now a female voice cried out in a growl of fury. “Drop your weapon, Devon!” she screamed. “Drop it immediately!”

  Wyona, he thought. Another member of Pinkie’s personal guard. One of the bravest and most talented, if he recalled.

  Wyona’s demand was met with brittle laughter.

  “That’s just not how this is going to go, Wy,” came a cold voice. Dev.

  “I will run you through,” Wyona assured him, “if you don’t stand down this instant.”

  There was a sharp crack. Metal on bone. Wynona fell, landing in a heap just beyond DeKalb.

  Pup was going to be sick.

  Worse: he was going to be killed.

  Shaking, he kept his eyes squeezed shut and braced himself for a sword to the back. But instead of the hiss of a swinging blade, he heard the sound of footsteps, circling him, slow and menacing.

  Deciding he had nothing to lose, he opened his eyes and lifted his head.

  And there above him loomed Dev, smartly dressed in Pinkie’s pink military regalia, buttons shining, epaulets shimmering with fringe. His boots were polished to a high gleam.

  And his face . . . looked astonishingly friendly.

  “Sorry about that, Pup,” said the soldier, holding out a paw. “Here, let me help you up.”

  For one crazy moment, Pup thought he might be hallucinating, for in addition to the bewildering sight of Dev’s outstretched paw, he thought he spied another pale splash of light, shimmering on the tunnel wall and ceiling.

  “It’s all very disturbing, I know,” said Dev breezily. “But I had to do it. You see, they were traitors. All of them.”

  “Traitors?” Pup took hold of the stranger’s paw and stood, giving himself a moment to let this incredible accusation sink in. “Wyona and Pitkin?” He stared at the fallen soldiers with wide eyes. “I . . . I can’t believe it.”

  Dev’s face was somber.

  “And General DeKalb?” Pup shook his head in disbelief. “That’s just not possible. I refuse to accept it. I need to talk to Pinkie. And Hopper. Right now.” Gathering his courage, he took one purposeful stride in the direction of the Atlantian gate. But Dev caught hold of him before he could take a second step, clutching his arm and stopping him in his tracks. When Pup whirled to face him, he saw an urgency in the soldier’s expression.

  “Listen to me, Pup. I have just saved you from a terrible fate. Pinkie sent us out from the palace at Atlantia to find you. Her orders—as far as Hopper and the emperor and that haughty, self-important wife of his were aware—were for DeKalb to bring you back alive. But you know Pinkie. She had her own designs.”

  Pup felt his whiskers begin to quiver. “What kind of designs?” he asked, his voice hollow.

  “She wants you dead. She gave us this order in secret, long before our meeting with the Atlantian delegation. She told us to ignore whatever she might say when we met with the Chosen One and the others, because she’d only be lying to appease them.” Now Dev gave Pup a grin. “She’s always been a sneaky one, that Pinkie, hasn’t she?”

  Pup could only nod.

  “Pup, you embarrassed your sister when you ran off like you did. She loathed the idea of the Mūs thinking she was unable to exert control over someone so puny and harmless as you. Her words, not mine. The point is, you made a fool of her, so she vowed to destroy you.” Dev surprised Pup with a chuckle. “Only fair, I suppose, since you had already vowed to destroy . . . well, basically everyone else.”

  Pup bowed his head, ashamed, and he felt his knees buckle; suddenly he was back on the ground again, his shoulders shaking as he sobbed. This was too much to take in. “I don’t understand. Why did DeKalb ask me to come quietly, then? Why didn’t he just run me through and be done with it?”

  “Ah, well, that brings us to the traitorous part of our story. DeKalb, as it turns out, is no fan of Firren’s—”

  “Firren?” Pup interrupted. “You mean Pinkie’s?”

  “Right.” Devon’s face flushed beneath his fur. “Yes, yes, of course I meant Pinkie.” He took a deep breath, then gave another mirthless cackle. “DeKalb was no fan of Pinkie’s. And do you blame him? I mean, she really can be something of a pink nightmare when she wants to, can’t she?”

  He would get no argument from Pup on that point.

  “DeKalb’s plan was actually quite ingenious,” Devon continued.

  “What was his plan?” Pup asked.

  “To disobey Pinkie and keep you alive.”

  At this, Pup felt a small flutter of gratitude. “So DeKalb was acting in my best interests.”

  Dev snorted. “Hardly. One does not become the most powerful general in an army without being possessed of certain self-serving tendencies. His counterplan was to keep you alive because your hatred of Pinkie and Hopper could be of use to him. He wanted to overthrow both the Mūs village and Atlantia. Pit and Wy were behind him in this, and his hope was to enlist you as well.”

  “Me?”

  “Well, you’d already made your enmity known, hadn’t you? DeKalb intended to use that to his advantage. He would let you continue to terrorize the tunnels, causing all the trouble, taking all the risks. You would blaze forth with all your rancor and determination and set the coup in motion, then he and his cohorts would sweep in and take all the glory. He was giddy over the thought of seeing Pinkie driven out from behind that big gray wall in a giant pink cloud of disgrace.”

  “Pinkie would have hated that,” Pup remarked.

  “And his plot to destroy Atlantia was even uglier,” Dev explained, “because he wouldn’t have merely banished the emperor and empress. He wanted to see them suffer. Zucker would go quickly, but Firren’s end would come slowly; he would listen to her cry out for help, knowing that not a single paw would reach forth to save her. For once, these tunnels would not echo with the sound of her arrogant battle cry . . . ‘Aye, aye, aye!’ ” Dev curled his mouth back to show his pointy teeth. “Then the victor would be free to rule the tunnels, with absolute power over every rodent who dwells here.” He examined the lethal edge of his sword. “Oh, and did I mention that when all was said and done, he would have killed you, too?”

  “Who would?”

  “The victor.”

  “DeKalb?”

  Dev just smiled an icy smile.

  Pup swallowed hard. “No. You didn’t mention that.”

  “That was the plan, Pup. DeKalb was going to trick you into joining forces with him, then betray you just as he betrayed Pinkie, Hopper, Zucker, and . . . Firren.”

  The empress’s name trembled in the air as Devon began to circle him again, in lazy, unhurried strides.

  “Can we go back to Atlantia?” Pup pleaded. “I want to see my brother and sister. I want to make amends.”

  Devon let out a long rush of breath. “Nothing would make me happier than to reunite you with your family, Pup. You see, I know how important family can be, and how much one yearns for them when they are gone.”

  “Good. Let’s go.”

  Again, Dev caught Pup’s arm and held him back. “Unfortunately . . . this new turn of events does present something of a bigger problem.” He nodded toward the three d
ead guards. “I’m sure that Pinkie will blame you for these deaths. Even after I explain to her that it wasn’t you.”

  Pup’s heart sank in his chest. “She can’t falsely accuse me of something and then punish me for it, can she?”

  “My, my, you are a bit slow on the uptake, aren’t you?” Dev snickered. “Of course she can. Don’t you know, Pup, that you can’t fight City Hall?” He spoke these words as if they were some kind of inside joke.

  “City Hall?” Pup repeated.

  “What I mean is that Pinkie is in charge. She, for all intents and purposes, is City Hall.” Again, Dev’s eyes twinkled as if there was some dark humor behind his choice of words. “And she’ll use that power to get what she wants.”

  Dev was right. If Pinkie wanted him out of the picture, she could charge him with these deaths and use the crime as an excuse to publicly execute her own brother.

  “It does sound like something Pinkie would do,” Pup acknowledged. His stomach rolled over and his mind whirled in search of a solution. “What should I do, Devon?”

  Dev gave him a piteous look. But before the soldier could explain further, he was interrupted by the sound of a faint scuffling along the wall. His ears pricked up as he yanked his sword fully out of its sheath. His eyes darted back and forth, his senses alert, his weapon poised.

  And then Pup saw the tail. It was just a flick, a swish in the dirt. A second later, a tiny face, tinier even than his own, peeked out of the shadows.

  Pup thought he recognized the face, but it ducked back into the darkness as quickly as it had appeared. So quickly, in fact, that Pup was left wondering if he’d actually seen it at all. Perhaps, under the stress of the moment, his mind was playing tricks on him.

  “Help me, Dev,” Pup begged, springing up to his hind paws, his arms outstretched in a pleading gesture. “Whatever you can think of that might keep me alive, I’m prepared to do it. I want to live . . . at least long enough to make Pinkie and Hopper understand that I’m really, truly sorry.”

  “Sadly, Pup, I think you’ve reached the point of no return. I just don’t think merely apologizing to Pinkie is going to work.”