North Or Be Eaten Quotes

Don't just follow your heart. Your heart will betray you.

Here I sit in the presence of queens and heroes and magic. Yes, magic. It is only when we have grown too old that we fail to see that the Maker’s world is swollen with magic – it hides in plain sight in music and water and even bumblebees

When children say it’s time to leave, they mean, “It’s time to leave.” When grownups say so, they really mean, “It’s time to begin thinking about leaving sometime in the near future.

I'm too angry at you to let you die.

She seemed older, no longer shocked that such a thing could happen in the world, but heartbroken because it had. her tears struck Janner as the right kind of tears.

No, when a king forgets who he is, he looks for himself in the rubble of conquered cities. He is haunted by a bottomless pit in his soul, and he will pour the blood of nations into it until the pit swallows the man himself.

It is true the Shining Isle is smoke and ashes and that darkness is wide over the land. But your long memories have failed you. Of all creatures, you should know that the darkness is seldom complete, and even when it is, the pinprick of light is not long in coming -- and finer for the great shroud that surrounds it.

moved through the days in peace and wonder, for his whole story had been told for the first time, and he found that he was still loved.

For progress, we have eaten our souls up, and nothing matters anymore.

How many times did a wicked man come to power and suddenly find his kingdom too small?

You call that poetry?

She poured her heart into the song and filled it with everything she felt

He was only twelve, but he knew enough to realize that the way before him would be hard. Is it worth it? he asked himself. Was it worth losing his old life in order to learn the truth of who he was and who he was becoming? Yes. Like the pluck of a stringed instrument, the first edge of the sun broke loose and poured light over the world.

Swamps where cedars grow and turtles wait on logs but not for anything in particular; fields bordered by crooked fences broken by years of standing still; orchards so old they have forgotten where the farmhouse is. In the north I have eaten my lunch in pastures rank with ferns and junipers, all under fair skies with a wind blowing.

Kalmar opened his eyes, and they were clear and blue.

Podo and Leeli finally came back to where the others rested, and though her face still bore the weight of her sorrow, Janner could see that is sister was present. Her eyes didn't see stare into nothing. They saw the situation, grieved for it, and faced it.

In winter this town is freezing. You step out your door in the morning and the whole place looks like one of those nature specials in which a guy brings a camcorder to the North Pole and then the camera cuts out and you hear on the news that he got eaten by a bear

As I write this, it is nine o’clock in the morning. In the two hours since I got out of bed I have showered in water heated by North Sea gas, shaved using an American razor running on electricity made from British coal, eaten a slice of bread made from French wheat, spread with New Zealand butter and Spanish marmalade, then brewed a cup of tea using leaves grown in Sri Lanka, dressed myself in clothes of Indian cotton and Australian wool, with shoes of Chinese leather and Malaysian rubber, and read a newspaper made from Finnish wood pulp and Chinese ink.

A sprawling North London parkland, composed of oaks, willows and chestnuts, yews and sycamores, the beech and the birch; that encompasses the city’s highest point and spreads far beyond it; that is so well planted it feels unplanned; that is not the country but is no more a garden than Yellowstone; that has a shade of green for every possible felicitation of light; that paints itself in russets and ambers in autumn, canary-yellow in the splashy spring; with tickling bush grass to hide teenage lovers and joint smokers, broad oaks for brave men to kiss against, mown meadows for summer ball games, hills for kites, ponds for hippies, an icy lido for old men with strong constitutions, mean llamas for mean children and, for the tourists, a country house, its façade painted white enough for any Hollywood close-up, complete with a tea room, although anything you buy there should be eaten outside with the grass beneath your toes, sitting under the magnolia tree, letting the white blossoms, blush-pink at their tips, fall all around you. Hampstead Heath! Glory of London! Where Keats walked and Jarman fucked, where Orwell exercised his weakened lungs and Constable never failed to find something holy.

And to the far north were a people who did not believe that Oceanos’ river circled the earth, but instead it was a great girdling serpent, thick around as a boat and always hungry. It could never be still, for its appetite drove it ever onwards, devouring everything bite by bite, and one day when it had eaten all the world, it would devour itself.

He felt the withering of something, the way risk was increasingly eliminated, replaced with a bland new world where the viewing of food preparation would be felt to be more than the reading of poetry; where excitement would come from paying for a soup made out of foraged grass. He had eaten soup made out of foraged grass in the camps; he preferred food.

Over and over again he said, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” And over and over again, Nia said, “We love you, we love you.

Artham felt lighter and stronger, and for the first time in nine years, his mind was clear and sure. The words to a hundred of his own poems scrolled across his memory; he saw faces of old friends, battles he had fought, and even the most terrible moments of his life - and yet he remained himself. The wild animal inside that he had struggled so long to kill pulsed with power, but it was no longer his master. He rode the pain like a knight rides a horse. ... Artham's eyes watered from the wind and from the speed and from the magnificent beauty of the land arrayed below him. Water streaked from the corners of his eyes ... and , in the vicious cold froze into silvery jewels. He would have to write a poem about this.

Janner rested his head on his mother’s shoulder, surprised he could find any amount of comfort when their situation was so bleak, all because he was near those he loved and who loved him.

I say is someone in there?’ The voice is the young post-New formalist from Pittsburgh who affects Continental and wears an ascot that won’t stay tight, with that hesitant knocking of when you know perfectly well someone’s in there, the bathroom door composed of thirty-six that’s three times a lengthwise twelve recessed two-bevelled squares in a warped rectangle of steam-softened wood, not quite white, the bottom outside corner right here raw wood and mangled from hitting the cabinets’ bottom drawer’s wicked metal knob, through the door and offset ‘Red’ and glowering actors and calendar and very crowded scene and pubic spirals of pale blue smoke from the elephant-colored rubble of ash and little blackened chunks in the foil funnel’s cone, the smoke’s baby-blanket blue that’s sent her sliding down along the wall past knotted washcloth, towel rack, blood-flower wallpaper and intricately grimed electrical outlet, the light sharp bitter tint of a heated sky’s blue that’s left her uprightly fetal with chin on knees in yet another North American bathroom, deveiled, too pretty for words, maybe the Prettiest Girl Of All Time (Prettiest G.O.A.T.), knees to chest, slew-footed by the radiant chill of the claw-footed tub’s porcelain, Molly’s had somebody lacquer the tub in blue, lacquer, she’s holding the bottle, recalling vividly its slogan for the past generation was The Choice of a Nude Generation, when she was of back-pocket height and prettier by far than any of the peach-colored titans they’d gazed up at, his hand in her lap her hand in the box and rooting down past candy for the Prize, more fun way too much fun inside her veil on the counter above her, the stuff in the funnel exhausted though it’s still smoking thinly, its graph reaching its highest spiked prick, peak, the arrow’s best descent, so good she can’t stand it and reaches out for the cold tub’s rim’s cold edge to pull herself up as the white- party-noise reaches, for her, the sort of stereophonic precipice of volume to teeter on just before the speaker’s blow, people barely twitching and conversations strettoing against a ghastly old pre-Carter thing saying ‘We’ve Only Just Begun,’ Joelle’s limbs have been removed to a distance where their acknowledgement of her commands seems like magic, both clogs simply gone, nowhere in sight, and socks oddly wet, pulls her face up to face the unclean medicine-cabinet mirror, twin roses of flame still hanging in the glass’s corner, hair of the flame she’s eaten now trailing like the legs of wasps through the air of the glass she uses to locate the de-faced veil and what’s inside it, loading up the cone again, the ashes from the last load make the world's best filter: this is a fact. Breathes in and out like a savvy diver… –and is knelt vomiting over the lip of the cool blue tub, gouges on the tub’s lip revealing sandy white gritty stuff below the lacquer and porcelain, vomiting muddy juice and blue smoke and dots of mercuric red into the claw-footed trough, and can hear again and seems to see, against the fire of her closed lids’ blood, bladed vessels aloft in the night to monitor flow, searchlit helicopters, fat fingers of blue light from one sky, searching.

His heart skipped a beat at the look of worry that flashed over Nia’s face. She was serene in the worst of circumstances, able to grow icy cold even as the heat of danger rose. But when the troll’s growl-moan sounded again, closer than before, her face wrinkled in a way that made her look old and

On the surface we're two utterly different types. I'm full of energy and ambition, and see the world as a scented fruit just waiting to be eaten. He is introspective, romantic and for him life is a cake laced with arsenic, every bite poisons him a little more. But our differences only increased our mutual attraction, like the inseparable north and south magnetic poles. We rapidly fell in love.

Chang-bo took to his bed, or rather to the quilts on the floor that was all they had left. His legs swelled up like balloons with what Mrs. Song had come to recognize as edema — fluid retention brought on by starvation. He talked incessantly about food. He spoke of the tofu soups his mother made him as a child and an unusually delicious meal of steamed crab with ginger that Mrs. Song had cooked for him when they were newlyweds. He had an uncanny ability to remember details of dishes she had cooked decades earlier. He was sweetly sentimental, even romantic, when he spoke about their meals together. He would take her hand in his own, his eyes wet and cloudy with the mist of his memories. “Come, darling. Let’s go to a good restaurant and order a nice bottle of wine,” he told his wife one morning when they were stirring on the blankets. They hadn’t eaten in three days. Mrs. Song looked at her husband with alarm, worried that he was hallucinating. She ran out the door to the market, moving fast and forgetting all about the pain in her back. She was determined to steal, beg — whatever it took — to get some food for her husband. She spotted her older sister selling noodles. Her sister wasn’t faring well — her skin was flaked just like Chang-bo’s from malnutrition — so Mrs. Song had resisted asking her for help, but now she was desperate, and of course, her sister couldn’t refuse. “I’ll pay you back,” Mrs. Song promised as she ran back home, the adrenaline pumping her legs. Chang-bo was curled up on his side under the blanket. Mrs. Song called his name. When he didn’t respond, she went to turn him over — it wasn’t diffcult now that he had lost so much weight, but his legs and arms were stiff and got in the way. Mrs. Song pounded and pounded on his chest, screaming for help even as she knew it was too late.

The three conditions without which healthy growth does not take place can be taken for granted in the matrix of the womb: nutrition, a physically secure environment and the unbroken relationship with a safe, ever-present maternal organism. The word matrix is derived from the Latin for “womb,” itself derived from the word for “mother.” The womb is mother, and in many respects the mother remains the womb, even following birth. In the womb environment, no action or reaction on the developing infant’s part is required for the provision of any of his needs. Life in the womb is surely the prototype of life in the Garden of Eden where nothing can possibly be lacking, nothing has to be worked for. If there is no consciousness — we have not yet eaten of the Tree of Knowledge — there is also no deprivation or anxiety. Except in conditions of extreme poverty unusual in the industrialized world, although not unknown, the nutritional needs and shelter requirements of infants are more or less satisfied. The third prime requirement, a secure, safe and not overly stressed emotional atmosphere, is the one most likely to be disrupted in Western societies. The human infant lacks the capacity to follow or cling to the parent soon after being born, and is neurologically and biochemically underdeveloped in many other ways. The first nine months or so of extrauterine life seem to have been intended by nature as the second part of gestation. The anthropologist Ashley Montagu has called this phase exterogestation, gestation outside the maternal body. During this period, the security of the womb must be provided by the parenting environment. To allow for the maturation of the brain and nervous system that in other species occurs in the uterus, the attachment that was until birth directly physical now needs to be continued on both physical and emotional levels. Physically and psychologically, the parenting environment must contain and hold the infant as securely as she was held in the womb. For the second nine months of gestation, nature does provide a near-substitute for the direct umbilical connection: breast-feeding. Apart from its irreplaceable nutritional value and the immune protection it gives the infant, breast-feeding serves as a transitional stage from unbroken physical attachment to complete separation from the mother’s body. Now outside the matrix of the womb, the infant is nevertheless held close to the warmth of the maternal body from which nourishment continues to flow. Breast-feeding also deepens the mother’s feeling of connectedness to the baby, enhancing the emotionally symbiotic bonding relationship. No doubt the decline of breast-feeding, particularly accelerated in North America, has contributed to the emotional insecurities so prevalent in industrialized countries. Even more than breast-feeding, healthy brain development requires emotional security and warmth in the infant’s environment. This security is more than the love and best possible intentions of the parents. It depends also on a less controllable variable: their freedom from stresses that can undermine their psychological equilibrium. A calm and consistent emotional milieu throughout infancy is an essential requirement for the wiring of the neurophysiological circuits of self-regulation. When interfered with, as it often is in our society, brain development is adversely affected.

Oskar nodded. “Aye. If he’s survived this long, it’s either because of his wits or because Gnag the Nameless wants him alive, as he does you. Perhaps it’s a little of both. No, I’m certain Peet the Sock Man will show himself again someday. He’s no ordinary man, you know.” “He’s definitely not ordinary,” Janner said. “That’s not what I mean,” Oskar said. “It was said that Artham P. Wingfeather shone with Eremund’s Fire.1 The wicked fled before him, and for all the years he and your father occupied Castle Rysen, peace and joy ran deep as a river.

There is an art to navigating London during the Blitz. Certain guides are obvious: Bethnal Green and Balham Undergrounds are no-goes, as is most of Wapping, Silvertown and the Isle of Dogs. The further west you go, the more you can move around late at night in reasonable confidence of not being hit, but should you pass an area which you feel sure was a council estate when you last checked in the 1970s, that is usually a sign that you should steer clear. There are also three practical ways in which the Blitz impacts on the general functioning of life in the city. The first is mundane: streets blocked, services suspended, hospitals overwhelmed, firefighters exhausted, policemen belligerent and bread difficult to find. Queuing becomes a tedious essential, and if you are a young nun not in uniform, sooner or later you will find yourself in the line for your weekly portion of meat, to be eaten very slowly one mouthful at a time, while non-judgemental ladies quietly judge you Secondly there is the slow erosion-a rather more subtle but perhaps more potent assault on the spirit It begins perhaps subtly, the half-seen glance down a shattered street where the survivors of a night which killed their kin sit dull and numb on the crooked remnants of their bed. Perhaps it need not even be a human stimulus: perhaps the sight of a child's nightdress hanging off a chimney pot, after it was thrown up only to float straight back down from the blast, is enough to stir something in your soul that has no rare. Perhaps the mother who cannot find her daughter, or the evacuees' faces pressed up against the window of a passing train. It is a death of the soul by a thousand cuts, and the falling skies are merely the laughter of the executioner going about his business. And then, inevitably, there is the moment of shock It is the day your neighbour died because he went to fix a bicycle in the wrong place, at the wrong time. It is the desk which is no longer filled, or the fire that ate your place of work entirely so now you stand on the street and wonder, what shall I do? There are a lot of lies told about the Blitz spirit: legends are made of singing in the tunnels, of those who kept going for friends, family and Britain. It is far simpler than that People kept going because that was all that they could really do. Which is no less an achievement, in its way.

The sagas, however, do not mention any entheogens in any context that I can discover: the special meal prepared for the seeress in Eiriks saga rauöa is of the hearts of animals and is eaten the night before her seiör is to occur. References to drinking in the Eddas (e.g. Mimir's well, the mead of poetry) are ambiguously metaphorical at best (though in a highly speculative mode, Steven Leto (2000) suggests that the use of both A. muscaria and R semilanceata may be represented metaphorically in various poems or sagas). Archaeology, however, gives some evidence, from several hundred henbane seeds found in the pouch of a burial considered to be that of a seeress (Price, pers. com.) and a very small number of cannabis seeds present in the Oseberg burial (often considered to be that of a seeress or a priestess), carefully Placed, Neil Price tells me, between the cushions and feathers piled by the bed.

There were strange stories going around about adults who preyed on children. Not just for sex, but for food. Hyuck was told about people who would drug children, kill them, and butcher them for meat. Behind the station near the railroad tracks were vendors who cooked soup and noodles over small burners, and it was said that the gray chunks of meat floating in the broth were human flesh. Whether urban legend or not, tales of cannibalism swept through the markets. Mrs. Song heard the stories from a gossipy ajumma she had met there. “Don’t buy any meat if you don’t know where it comes from,” she warned darkly. The woman claimed she knew somebody who had actually eaten human flesh and proclaimed it delicious. “If you didn’t know, you’d swear it was pork or beef,” she whispered to a horrified Mrs. Song. The stories got more and more horrific. Supposedly, one father went so insane with hunger that he ate his own baby. A market woman was said to have been arrested for selling soup made from human bones. From my interviews with defectors, it does appear that there were at least two cases—one in Chongjin and the other in Sinuiju—in which people were arrested and executed for cannibalism. It does not seem, though, that the practice was widespread or even occurred to the degree that was chronicled in China during the 1958-62 famine, which killed as many as 30 million people.

stories about magic stones and forgotten secrets. We both know that stuff is no more real than the groanin’ ghost of Brimney Stupe.” “But the ghost was real, Podo! Or—the story of the ghost was real. My wind contraption just added

prodding

Conservatism" in America's politics means "Let's keep the niggers in their place." And "liberalism" means "Let's keep the knee-grows in their place-but tell them we'll treat them a little better; let's fool them more, with more promises." With these choices, I felt that the American black man only needed to choose which one to be eaten by, the "liberal" fox or the "conservative" wolf-because both of them would eat him. I didn't go for Goldwater any more than for Johnson-except that in a wolf's den, I'd always known exactly where I stood; I'd watch the dangerous wolf closer than I would the smooth, sly fox. The wolf's very growling would keep me alert and fighting him to survive, whereas I might be lulled and fooled by the tricky fox. I'll give you an illustration of the fox. When the assassination in Dallas made Johnson President, who was the first person he called for? It was for his best friend, "Dicky"-Richard Russell of Georgia. Civil rights was "a moral issue," Johnson was declaring to everybody-while his best friend was the Southern racist who led the civil rights opposition. How would some sheriff sound, declaring himself so against bank robbery-and Jesse James his best friend? How would some sheriff sound, declaring himself so against bank robbery-and Jesse James his best friend? Goldwater as a man, I respected for speaking out his true convictions-something rarely done in politics today. He wasn't whispering to racists and smiling at integrationists. I felt Goldwater wouldn't have risked his unpopular stand without conviction. He flatly told black men he wasn't for them-and there is this to consider: always, the black people have advanced further when they have seen they had to rise up against a system that they clearly saw was outright against them. Under the steady lullabies sung by foxy liberals, the Northern Negro became a beggar. But the Southern Negro, facing the honestly snarling white man, rose up to battle that white man for his freedom-long before it happened in the North. Anyway, I didn't feel that Goldwater was any better for black men than Johnson, or vice-versa. I wasn't in the United States at election time, but if I had been, I wouldn't have put myself in the position of voting for either candidate for the Presidency, or of recommending to any black man to do so. It has turned out that it's Johnson in the White House-and black votes were a major factor in his winning as decisively as he wanted to. If it had been Goldwater, all I am saying is that the black people would at least have known they were dealing with an honestly growling wolf, rather than a fox who could have them half-digested before they even knew what was happening.

Janner

Was Dugtown always this way or only when the Florid Sword was up to his mischief?

You run through the now-open door to Capulet Castle and quickly find Juliet to deliver the good news to her. You are tired, aching, and out of breath. But on the plus side, you solved some cool puzzles and didn’t get eaten by crazed animals! Juliet is overjoyed to see you and can’t wait to hear your good news. She will marry her Romeo because of you. It is a happy ending, because as we know, nothing can go wrong when people get married!

By a quirk of biological history, the pre-Columbian Americas had few domesticated animals; no cattle, horses, sheep, or goats graced its farmlands. Most big animals are tamable, in the sense that they can be trained to lose their fear of people, but only a few species are readily domesticable—that is, willing to breed easily in captivity, thereby letting humans select for useful characteristics. In all of history, humankind has been able to domesticate only twenty-five mammals, a dozen or so birds, and, possibly, a lizard. Just six of these creatures existed in the Americas, and they played comparatively minor roles: the dog, eaten in Central and South America and used for labor in the far north; the guinea pig, llama, and alpaca, which reside in the Andes; the turkey, raised in Mexico and the U.S. Southwest; the Muscovy duck, native to South America despite its name; and, some say, the iguana, farmed in Mexico and Central America.* The lack of domestic animals had momentous consequences. In a country without horses, donkeys, and cattle, the only source of transportation and labor was the human body. Compared to England, Tsenacomoco had slower communications (no galloping horses), a dearth of plowed fields (no straining oxen) and pastures (no grazing cattle), and fewer and smaller roads (no carriages to accommodate). Battles were fought without cavalry; winters endured without wool; logs skidded through the forest without oxen. Distances loomed larger when people had to walk from place to place; indeed, in terms of the time required for Powhatan’s orders to reach his minions, Tsenacomoco may have been the size of England itself (it was much less populous, of course).

children say it’s time to leave, they mean, “It’s time to leave.” When grownups say so, they really mean, “It’s time to begin thinking about leaving sometime in the near future.

Traditional ranching with fences has generally been a kind of animal monocropping. One chosen species was grown, and all others treated as pests. Although antelope, elk, or bison can also turn grass into meat, most North American ranchers have assumed that every mouthful of grass eaten by these animals is a mouthful lost to their cows. Although the wild prairies used to support both tens of millions of bison and a probably equal numbers of pronghorn antelope, the settlers eliminated these herds in roughly the same way that Brazilian ranchers burned rain forests.

the hold

When children say it’s time to leave, they mean, “It’s time to leave.” When grownups say so, they really mean, “It’s time to begin thinking about leaving sometime in the near

As the famine deepened, rumours of cannibalism spread throughout the province. The goverment issued stark warnings about it. We heard that an elderly man had killed a child and put the cooked meat into soup. He sold it at a market canteen, where it was eaten by eager diners. The crime was discovered when police found the bones. I thought these killers must have been psychopaths, and that ordinary people would never resort to such crimes. Now I am not sure. Having spoken to many who came close to death during that time I realize that starvation can drive people to insanity. It can cause parents to take food from their own children, people to eat the corpses of the dead, and the gentlest neighbour to commit murder.

Pets hardly exist in North Korea because most have been eaten.

Indeed, in the 1960s, 18 percent of men in southern Italy were of “low stature” (under 5 feet 2 inches), compared to only 5 percent in the north, where more animal foods were eaten.

They gave advice on alternatives to the standard food ration. “Make the root of rice plants into a powder and eat it! It’s rich in protein! . . . Arrowroot contains a lot of starch! . . . If you eat and survive, we can definitely prevail!” Useless information, all delivered with the usual histrionic exclamation marks. By that time, we’d been scouring the ground for ages for anything edible—acorns, mugwort, pine-tree bark. It was hellish stuff. You can use bark to make something vaguely resembling a rice cake. It was a dreadful thing. People had eaten it out of desperation at the end of the colonial era and again just after the Korean War. Times when people had no other choice. Times like the ones we found ourselves in.

He found a location in the north of the island from where to view the transit, but it was too late to build a proper observatory. Instead he placed some big boulders in a circle and constructed a small hut to house the instruments. It was so crudely built that it gave little protection from wind, dust and animals. The instruments had already suffered from the long sea voyage with some ‘eaten by rust’, Pingré moaned, hectically polishing and greasing them with turtle oil, the only lubricant available. Over the next days, the French astronomer prepared his instruments and observed the movements of Jupiter’s satellites at night in order to set the clock – an enterprise that was sabotaged by the rats that chewed through one of the pendulums. At

He’ll come back when he realizes we aren’t with him,” Leeli said with a smile. She and Peet spent hours together either reading stories or with him dancing about with great swoops of his socked hands while she played her whistleharp. Leeli’s presence seemed to have a medicinal effect on Peet. When they were together, his jitters ceased, his eyes stopped shifting, and his voice took on a deeper, less strained quality. The strong and pleasant sound of it helped Janner believe his mother’s stories about Artham P. Wingfeather’s exploits in Anniera before the Great War.

Joe and Addie hurried to the kitchen, where they set to work concocting a critternose casserole, the name of which Addie had invented on the spot. She sent Joe out to round up as many rodents as possible so she could begin the work of removing their little black noses.

He hung his apron on the back of a chair and pulled on his boots but hesitated with his hand on the doorknob. Joe peeked out the window that opened on to the back courtyard. He saw no Fangs.

Room eight contained a neatly made bed, a wash basin on a chest of drawers, and a desk, each piece of furniture simple but sturdy. Joe moved to the window and paused, looking out at the wreckage of Glipwood with a pang of sadness. Below the window lay what remained of Shaggy’s Tavern. The stone chimney stood like the trunk of an old petrified tree, the ground littered with planks, broken stools, and shattered bottles. Wincing at the creak of his footsteps on the wooden floor, he crept to the chest of drawers and slid it away from the wall. Behind the bureau was a small doorway. Joe looked around one last time and ducked inside, pulling the chest back into place behind him.

Joe looked at the stacks of books in every corner of the room. “I’ll do my best,” he said. “Rest. I’ll be back tonight. It’s nice that you’re able to talk again, Oskar.

When the Shoosters emerged from their hiding place the morning after the battle, it felt as if the world of Aerwiar had ended. Dark clouds roiled in the sky above the deserted town, and the streets were clogged with the dust, bones, and armor of countless Fangs. Soon Shaggy emerged from the tavern, and the Shoosters felt great relief at his appearance. They had been neighbors for decades and were the only members of the Glipwood Township who chose to stay rather than flee to Torrboro or Dugtown the night the Igibys fought their way out of the Black Carriage.

The Fangs left as quickly as they had come, but by the time Joe and Addie raced to Shaggy’s side, he was already dead. The Shoosters wept as they buried their friend in the Glipwood Cemetery at the southern end of Vibbly Way. Joe scavenged the SHAGGY’S TAVERN sign from the building’s wreckage. It bore the name of the tavern and an image of a dog smoking a pipe. Joe placed it at the head of Shaggy’s grave after carving, in his finest lettering, the inscription “Shaggy Bandibund, an Exemplary Neighbor and Friend.

A small figure with delicate features and a patchwork tunic perched outside the window of room eight. His eyes were piercing and cold, and they froze Joe in his tracks.

Nowhere,” said Podo with a deep sigh. “We stand and fight.” He drew his sword. “We fight, and we don’t give up until the water’s lapping at our toes, eh? If something terrible happens and us old codgers don’t make it through this, then you kids stay together, hear? Fight with yer teeth if you have to, but stay together. I don’t know what old Gnag has planned for you, but you just trust the Maker and…and do like your father would have you do. Do like me and yer ma would have you do. Don’t just follow your heart. Your heart will betray you.

Tink, where are you going?” Janner asked. Tink was ten steps or so away, picking a path around a boulder that seemed to hover in the fog. “Tink!” Janner yelled, growing angry again.

I told you, I thought I saw something,” Tink said without looking up. “An outline in the rocks, like someone had started to draw some stairs or a path down from the tree line but never finished.

Tink pointed below the cliff where the others gathered, and Janner understood. He saw buried beneath the pebbles and slate the faint outline of more steps, cut into the face of the cliff. Even now that he knew they were there, he had to squint and use his imagination to see the stairs, and he wasn’t sure anyone but Tink would have spotted them.

The stair was treacherous, no more than a narrow ledge cut into the wall of rock. The wall curved away from the bank and seemed to lead straight into the waterfall, while on the right the ground fell away and vanished into the void below.

Just in front of Janner, Nugget kept as close to the wall as possible, his tail between his legs. The ledge took them behind a rush of water, a passageway of thunder, spray, and stone. When they emerged, the stair descended more sharply into the mist.

Nugget stopped, and Janner bumped into the dog’s rear. “What is it?” he called to Nia and Leeli as he squeezed past Nugget. “The steps end here,” Tink said, pointing at a fall of white water hissing through a gap as wide as the lane that led from the Igiby cottage. Had it been a stream in the forest, they might’ve jumped across with little trouble.

Janner crept forward and stuck his hand into the rushing water, and it was jerked downstream as if someone had slapped it. There was no way they could wade or swim across without being swept away.

In one fluid motion, Podo drew his sword, spun around, and put an end to the nearest snake man. It took a few moments for the second Fang in line to understand what had happened, but when it did, it snarled and waved its sword at Podo.

Make what?” “The jump! It’s our only chance. Can you do it?” “But then what? What about Oskar? What about Grandpa?” Janner’s temper flared again. “I don’t know! Even if you’re the only one who makes it over, that’s better than all of us being caught! Can you do it?” Without another word, Tink backed up, took a deep breath, and jumped. He landed on the other side of the gap and rolled to a crouch. “Leeli, can you get Nugget to jump over?” Nia shouted. “I think so,” Leeli said. She leaned over and whispered into Nugget’s ear. “Here, boy!” Tink called. He clapped his hands and whistled. Janner saw Podo struggling with another Fang, this one wielding a spear.

Tink grabbed her hands and pulled with all his might, but he could feel his mother slipping away.

Janner wasn’t sure what to do next. He knew he could make the jump, but what of Oskar and Podo? Someone would have to hold off the Fangs to allow the others to escape, and if Nia had barely made the leap, then Oskar was certain to perish.

Janner drew his sword. He wanted to be strong and brave enough to push past Podo and fend off the Fangs so that his grandfather could escape, but he knew he was no match for the Fangs. Though they had shown themselves poor fighters, they were still venomous and strong. Much had happened in the weeks since the Dragon Day Festival—he had helped Podo defeat Commander Gnorm, and he had grown used to the heft of a sword—but he was still only twelve.

He looked back through the mist and saw Tink, Nia, and Leeli watching, none of them sure what to do. Podo raged on, cursing the Fangs amidst the clang of swords and the rumble of the Mighty Blapp. Oskar pressed a hand to his wounded side and sank to the ground.

Janner was no longer just Janner Igiby of the Glipwood Township. He was Janner Wingfeather, Throne Warden of Anniera, protector of the throne, and protector of those whom he loved. He imagined Peet—Artham Wingfeather—hair jet black, eyes clear, sword arm strong. Artham reminded him that royal blood pumped through his veins, royal not just because of ancestry but because of the love of those who had gone before him and laid down their lives for him.

He pulled Nugget’s head to the ground, and the dog’s body followed. Oskar limped over to the giant dog and fell upon it gracelessly. Nugget whimpered and strained to his feet beneath the weight of the big man. Oskar wrapped his arms around Nugget’s neck.

Janner never had a chance to swing his sword. The two Fangs at the steps retreated into the mist and left Janner and Podo dumbfounded. “Come on, lad!” The old pirate wasted no time scrambling down the steps. He skidded to a stop at the edge of the rushing water. Without being told, Nugget hopped across again and crouched so Podo could climb on. The giant dog barked and carried him over.

Then with a whoosh of wind, the mist spun away for a heart-stopping moment. The eternal gray of the Dark Sea of Darkness yawned before them. Here the plateau of Skree was twice as high as the cliffs of Glipwood. The tiny whitecapped waves were invisible at this height, and the horizon curved downward to the north and south, which made Janner wonder if the books he had read were right after all in their claims that Aerwiar was as round as the moon.

The creature loomed over them, squatting on a boulder the size of a house. It had come from another direction, Janner realized, probably leaping through the mist from boulder to boulder so that it could cut the family off or at least surprise them. While Podo had been watching the stairs behind, the troll had been approaching from above. After a dumb grin at the Igiby family, the beast gathered itself and leapt from the rock.

The Fang in charge beckoned to the trolls, but the trolls shook their heads. The Fang pointed at Janner and Tink and brandished its sword at one of the trolls. The troll shook its head again, but with less certainty. Finally the other troll nodded and released its grip on the wall. The other followed suit, and the two beasts stepped to the edge of the long stair bridge that led directly to where Janner and Tink knelt.

Come on!” Janner said, pulling Tink to his feet. The Igiby boys fled, and the trolls bounded after them. The beasts closed the distance with every stride while the Fangs followed at their heels. Far ahead, the others neared the bridge that led to the fifth and final tower. And what then? Janner wondered. What happens when there’s nowhere left to run? Just as the boys reached the bridge to the third tower, the ground shook. The trolls were only a few feet behind, and one of the beasts had pounded its fist on the tower floor.

Tink sped ahead of Janner, arms and legs pumping, but with the awful sound of the trolls’ huffing and puffing so close behind, Janner was able to keep up with his brother for the first time in his life. Podo stood at the edge of the farthest tower and frantically waved the boys on.

Far ahead, the others neared the bridge that led to the fifth and final tower. And what then? Janner wondered. What happens when there’s nowhere left to run? Just as the boys reached the bridge to the third tower, the ground shook. The trolls were only a few feet behind, and one of the beasts had pounded its fist on the tower floor.

Podo stopped in the center of the final bridge as the boys approached him, but he wasn’t looking at them. His fiery eyes were trained on the troll at their backs. Podo raised his sword and arched his back, straining every muscle in his barrel chest.

Tink, duck!” Janner screamed.

A mighty shudder sent rocks plummeting to the water below. The dead troll lay motionless, the blade of the sword peeking out from between its shoulders. The other troll, standing just behind its dead companion, howled and beat its chest. In its anger it was unaware of what became immediately clear to Janner, Tink, and Podo: the bridge was about to fall.

Podo cleared his throat and spat into the Dark Sea. Janner saw that his grandfather trembled, facing the sea with what looked like defiance. Podo’s sword was drawn as if the ocean, or something in it, was about to attack.

All eyes turned to the ledge far behind them. The two trolls clung to the stone wall so that the long line of Fangs had room to cross the bridge in single file.

After a long, winding climb over gravel and boulder, the Igibys, Podo, and Oskar reached level ground. Soft green grass stretched before them for a short distance before the trees of the forest gathered into a green wall. They stood in a clearing roughly the size of the Glipwood Township, an oasis of open space surrounded by glipwood trees. The area was littered with large stones, but they weren’t the rounded boulders of the falls. They were squared, stacked in places, and overgrown with weeds. Beneath the grass, the trail they followed up from the river became a cobbled roadway, the stones the ruins of a cluster of

An immensely clever tale from a wonderful storyteller—filled with great values and even greater adventure!” —PHIL VISCHER, creator of VeggieTales

In the midst of the clink of knives and the cackle of black-toothed men and women, Janner heard a wonderful sound. It was a sound he had known for as long as he could remember, one that never failed to bring a smile to his face and a warm fire to his belly.

His laugh was like the sound of trees bending in the wind, the bubbling of a river where the mill wheel spins. All the tension in Janner’s neck and face eased away, and he laughed too. Leeli giggled.

Podo winked at Janner, then reached inside his shirt and removed an iron cup.

Nia glared at her father. “And what is so funny?” Podo struggled to control himself. “I just wanted to thank you all. Ye’ve been very kind and generous.

I tell you, old friend, I'd rather be stuck here in a Strander burrow than blowing smoke rings in Glipwood, where the Fangs spit and howl and kill our spirits. At least we're here because we choose to be. We're here out of bravery and not cowardice.

The Gully Rim

life. For the Indians living inside the Rocky Mountain Range in the far North of Canada, the successful nutrition for nine months of the year was largely limited to wild game, chiefly moose and caribou. During the summer months the Indians were able to use growing plants. During the winter some use was made of bark and buds of trees. I found the Indians putting great emphasis upon the eating of the organs of the animals, including the wall of parts of the digestive tract. Much of the muscle meat of the animals was fed to the dogs. It is important that skeletons are rarely found where large game animals have been slaughtered by the Indians of the North. The skeletal remains are found as piles of finely broken bone chips or splinters that have been cracked up to obtain as much as possible of the marrow and nutritive qualities of the bones. These Indians obtain their fat-soluble vitamins and also most of their minerals from the organs of the animals. An important part of the nutrition of the children consisted in various preparations of bone marrow, both as a substitute for milk and as a special dietary ration. In the various archipelagos of the South Pacific and in the islands north of Australia, the natives depended greatly on shell fish and various scale fish from adjacent seas. These were eaten with an assortment of plant roots and fruits, raw and cooked. Taro was an important factor in the nutrition of most of these groups. It is the root of a species of lily similar to "elephant ears" used for garden decorations in America because of its large leaves. In several of the islands the tender young leaves of this plant were eaten with coconut cream baked in the leaf of the tia plant. In the Hawaiian group of islands the taro plant is cooked and dried and pounded into powder and then mixed with water and allowed to ferment for twenty-four hours, more or less, in accordance with the stiffness of the product desired. This is called poi

On a teaching assignment of a one-week module in Nigeria, I asked my class to evaluate the class experience. One of the pastors responded, "You have come to us, stayed with us and eaten our food." He made no mention of my teaching! Instead, he saw me as part of the family.

My affliction decided to join us, forcing me to push my toes on the floor as though I were trying to eject myself from the chair. I prayed she didn’t notice what the affliction was making me do. I half expected to be eaten alive or murdered and buried out back in the school yard. “I’m not afraid of you, ya know,” I said, although I was terrified of her. The words hurt her, but that wasn’t my intent. She turned her face and looked out the window into North Cliff Street. She knew what her face and twisted body looked like, and she probably knew what the kids said about her. It was probably an open wound for her and I had just tossed salt into it. I was instantly ashamed of what I done and tried to correct myself. I didn’t mean to be hurtful, because I knew what it was like to be ridiculed for something that was beyond one’s control, such as my affliction, and how it made me afraid to touch the chalk because the feel of chalk to people like me is overwhelming. If I had to write on the blackboard, I held the chalk with the cuff of my shirt and the class laughed. “You look good in a nun’s suit,” I said. It was a stupid thing to say, but I meant well by it. She looked down at the black robe as if she were seeing it for the first time.

A man can survive ten years--but twenty-five, who can get through alive? Shukhov rather enjoyed having everybody poke a finger at him as if to say: Look at him, his term's nearly up. But he had his doubts about it. Those zeks who finished their time during the war had all been "retained pending special instructions" and had been released only in '46. Even those serving three-year sentences were kept for another five. The law can be stood on its head. When your ten years are up they can say, "Here's another ten for you." Or exile you. Yet there were times when you thought about it and you almost choked with excitement. Yes, your term really _is_ coming to an end; the spool is unwinding. . . . Good God! To step out to freedom, just walk out on your own two feet. But it wasn't right for an old-timer to talk about it aloud, and Shukhov said to Kilgas: "Don't you worry about those twenty-five years of yours. It's not a fact you'll be in all that time. But that I've been in eight full years--now that is a fact." Yes, you live with your feet in the mud and there's no time to be thinking about how you got in or how you're going to get out. According to his dossier, Ivan Denisovich Shukhov had been sentenced for high treason. He had testified to it himself. Yes, he'd surrendered to the Germans with the intention of betraying his country and he'd returned from captivity to carry out a mission for German intelligence. What sort of mission neither Shukhov nor the interrogator could say. So it had been left at that- -a mission. Shukhov had figured it all out. If he didn't sign he'd be shot If he signed he'd still get a chance to live. So he signed. But what really happened was this. In February 1942 their whole army was surrounded on the northwest front No food was parachuted to them. There were no planes. Things got so bad that they were scraping the hooves of dead horses--the horn could be soaked In water and eaten. Their ammunition was gone. So the Germans rounded them up in the forest, a few at a time. Shukhov was In one of these groups, and remained in German captivity for a day or two. Then five of them managed to escape. They stole through the forest and marshes again, and, by a miracle, reached their own lines. A machine gunner shot two of them on the spot, a third died of his wounds, but two got through. Had they been wiser they'd have said they'd been wandering in the forest, and then nothing would have happened. But they told the truth: they said they were escaped POW's. POW's, you fuckers! If all five of them had got through, their statements could have been found to tally and they might have been believed. But with two it was hopeless. You've put your damned heads together and cooked up that escape story, they were told. Deaf though he was, Senka caught on that they were talking about escaping from the Germans, and said in a loud voice: "Three times I escaped, and three times they caught me." Senka, who had suffered so much, was usually silent: he didn't hear what people said and didn't mix in their conversation. Little was known about him--only that he'd been in Buchenwald, where he'd worked with the underground and smuggled in arms for the mutiny; and how the Germans had punished him by tying his wrists behind his back, hanging him up by them, and whipping him. "You've been In for eight years, Vanya," Kilgas argued. "But what camps? Not 'specials.' You bad breads to sleep with. You didn't wear numbers. But try and spend eight years in a 'special'--doing hard labor. No one's come out of a 'special' alive." "Broads! Boards you mean, not broads." Shukhov stared at the coals in the stove and remeinbered his seven years in the North. And how he worked for three years hauling logs--for packing cases and railroad ties. The flames in the campfires had danced up there, too--at timber-felling during the night. Their chief made it a rule that any squad that had failed to meet its quota had to stay In the forest after dark.

Beauty, I am coming. I am on my way. I have not forgotten your fragile pastries. The ridges on your leavened bread. Half-eaten pomegranate in General Sahib's fridge. Cherries so big they redden Rubiya's hands, Irem's fingers. Kashmir, you are real. You are my half-chilled soup, minced cilantro, my zaman pilaf. Bittersweet chukunder. Rista. Aab gosht. Gurdé Kaporé. Kidney and testicle curry. Kaléji. Sheermal. Lavasa. Tsot. Maythi paratha. Kabuli chana. Nargissi kebab. Tamatar muli. You are a sudden red mirchi. You give me pleasure and pain, both at once. You are my dream, my desire. My North, my brain. My pounding headache.

Before he could finish, the poor donkey—whether from fatigue or because he could no longer bear the indignity of such a jiggly rider—went down. Oskar’s eyes bulged as he soared through the air toward the clearing where Janner stood. He flew with a surprising grace, hair trailing behind, spectacles dangling, his mouth forming a perfect O as the reins, still firmly in his grip, snapped taut and flipped the round man over to land on his back at Janner’s feet. The donkey brayed. Oskar lay on the ground, blinking, surprised he wasn’t dead.

Yes sir,” Tink said from behind Podo. “Help yer sister with her things, then have yer bow and arrow ready. You ride on Nugget with her and shoot at anything you’re sure you can hit. Be sure, understand? Arrows are precious.” “Yes,” said a papery voice just above them. “Arrows are precious. But they’ll do the Igibys no good, I’m afraid.” Zouzab Koit perched high in the overstory and looked down on them with an expressionless face. Oskar sputtered, so enraged that he could think of no one to quote. “You!” shouted Podo, his face already reddening for the torrent of curses about to burst from his mouth.

While Janner pulled the tired donkey to its feet, Nia pushed the dirt into the hole where Peet had stashed his precious journals. She threw a pile of leaves atop the fresh dirt and spread them around to conceal it.

Ah!” Oskar said. “There’s a bridge. A way across…” He doubled over and coughed. Janner rushed to his side to steady him. Podo climbed down the ladder in a blur, carrying an armful of dried meat, which he shoved into his pack. “We’re fools to stay here a toot longer. Hurry!” “Here.” Nia tossed Peet’s leather satchel to Janner. “Tie this to the donkey, then get your things. Go!” “Mama, Mister Reteep is hurt,” Janner said. “Where’s the water from the First Well?” “I don’t know, son. Artham had it. We’ll have to give Oskar some when we get far enough away from the Fangs.” She turned to Oskar. “Can you make it? Can you ride?” Oskar nodded, wheezing.

So what’s this about Miller’s Bridge?” Tink asked. They stood at the crest of a hill and looked down at the impassable mayhem of the Mighty Blapp. Oskar’s side had stopped bleeding, but the old man was near exhaustion. He had been running since that morning, first stealing the Fangs’ donkey from the stable behind Ferinia’s Flower Shop, then driving the donkey north and into the perils of the forest, only to be forced to run when he finally reached his friends.

But—but—Fingap Falls is too close to the Dark Sea. Might fall in.” Podo crossed his arms over his chest as if that ended the conversation.

Why not?” Nia said. “We can’t go west. The forest stretches for miles and miles, and Maker knows how many cows we’ll meet, even if the Fangs don’t catch us.

I think I remember seeing it on a map,” Janner said. “It’s a bridge—at Fingap Falls.” “Fingap Falls!” Podo sputtered. “Blubber and porridge, how could there be a bridge at that awful place? I went there as a boy, and it was all cloud and thunder, a thing to make yer stomach curl up into yer throat. No. Absolutely not. We can’t go east.

Papa, if there’s a bridge, and it’s a short walk from here, we might make it across before the Fangs even know it’s there. They might even assume we went west. I think we should listen to Oskar and Janner.

They picked their way over the rocks as the bank rose, so steep that Janner worried it would be impossible to find a safe way down to the bridge, if it existed. The other side of the Blapp looked no different—wet boulders and shale that sloped up to a tree line. He knew from maps that the river evenly divided Glipwood Forest. Beyond the forest in the north lay the Stony Mountains and then the Ice Prairies. He had always dreamed of seeing more of Aerwiar, but he never imagined it would be on the run from Fangs, trolls, and horned hounds.

He pulled his mother to the next boulder and kept hold of her hand as they hurried on. Podo helped Oskar, while Tink kept close to Leeli and Nugget. Janner was glad to see that Tink turned around every few steps to be sure his bow wasn’t needed. Finally, they rounded the bend in the river and beheld, far below, a plume of rainbow-lit mist, the hissing cloud that churned up from Fingap Falls. The river was split by jagged, towering crags into hundreds of roaring courses that tumbled downward in white madness. Far beyond and below the mist lay the wide, silent gray of the Dark Sea of Darkness. Such a view demanded that the company stop in its tracks. They huddled together, sopping wet and weary. If Janner had been able to read minds, he would’ve learned that each of them had the same thought: with the Fangs behind and the falls ahead, it seemed certain the river would kill them. It would suck them in and hurl them into the cold black Deep. Tink stood in front of his grandfather, trying to be heard above the roar of the falls.

Tink was right. The idea that there had ever been a bridge at Fingap Falls struck Janner as ridiculous now that he could see the place with his own eyes.

Grandpa,” Leeli said. “I can see the sea from here, and it’s not dark at all. It’s wide and terrible and beautiful. We’re supposed to go that way. I don’t know why, and I know I should be afraid, but there’s something…right about it. Something about the size of the ocean, about the way it stretches out forever and flat—it makes me want to sing.” It seemed a silly thing to say, but Leeli’s eyes were steady. She angled her chin and pulled her hair from her face so that the wind blew it out behind her. Podo smiled at his granddaughter and nodded. Janner looked beyond the mist but saw only the ocean and felt nothing other than a dizzy shiver in his stomach at how far below the falls it lay.

Nia placed a hand on Nugget’s collar, took a deep breath, then led the dog and Leeli down the rocky incline toward the falls. A great crash split the air.

No one heard what he said, but they looked where he pointed and moved as far from the edge as possible

Tink had one eye squinted shut and his head cocked sideways. He eyed the bank above the falls the same way he studied a tree he was about to draw.

What are you doing?” Janner screamed. He yanked Tink’s arm so hard that his brother stumbled and fell. “Ow!” Tink cried as he leapt back to his feet. “Tink, they’re right behind us!

Tink didn’t answer. The boys skidded to a halt when they reached the others, who had come to the end of the road. They stood at the brink of a cliff. Below was a whirling murk of mist.

The Fangs gathered at the bottom of the bank and ordered the trolls back. The Fangs seemed worried that the children might somehow get pushed over the falls in the fight if they advanced too quickly, so they proceeded with caution. More Fangs appeared, and they organized themselves into ranks. Meanwhile, the trolls knelt like children at the river’s edge and ran their fingers through the speeding water. When daggerfish leapt, the giggling trolls batted them out into the rapids.

Oh, stop it,” said Leeli. “Now’s not the time.” She leaned forward and rested her head between Nugget’s ears. The dog whined and wagged its tail. “Why aren’t they coming?

Janner could hardly believe he had just crossed such a precarious distance; in fact, he could hardly believe such a place existed at all. He turned to see Oskar and Nia lift Leeli and walk her to a stone bench. Nia held Leeli’s head to her chest and rocked to and fro while Oskar patted her back. Leeli cried. Janner remembered the day at the cottage when she thought the Fangs had killed Nugget.

Tink sat on the ground with his back to the stone bench and absentmindedly pulled weeds from the cracks between cobbles. Podo knelt in front of Leeli on his good knee.

Janner plopped to the ground beside Tink, and the weariness of the day fell on him like a blanket. He leaned his head back on the stone and looked at the sky. White clouds slid across the deep blue dome, peaceful as a sigh. His eyes drooped shut, and wind tickled his face and the hairs on his forearms. The rockroach den, then the trolls, Peet’s capture, the foggy despair of the flat beside the river, the dizzy sight of the Dark Sea, the troll breathing at Janner’s back—and Nugget. He opened his eyes and looked at the sky again. Where was Peet now? Janner was afraid for him but felt sure Peet was still alive. He had survived terrible things for years, and something about the way Zouzab watched him from the troll’s shoulder made Janner believe Gnag wanted the Sock Man alive for some reason. For a long time they sat among the ruins. Podo and Leeli finally came back to where the others rested, and though her face still bore the weight of her sorrow, Janner could see that his sister was present. Her eyes didn’t stare into nothing. They saw the situation, grieved for it, and faced it. As Janner drifted to sleep, he was aware of Nugget’s absence; no giggles from Leeli; no big, whiny yawns; no sense of safety knowing that, whatever lay in wait for them in the shadows, at least this huge, happy monster was on their side. Janner woke with a start. Dusk approached, and the clearing lay in cool shadow. Leeli slept on Nia’s lap. Oskar lay on his back, hissing with pain while Podo worked to remove the old fellow’s bandages. Tink assisted Podo with a sick look on his face. Janner wondered for a moment where Nugget and Peet were, until he remembered with a shiver that the day hadn’t been some awful dream. “Hold on now,” Podo said. “I’m almost finished. Tink, hand me the knife, eh?” Tink passed a small knife to his grandfather, who used it to cut away the clotted bandage.

Janner woke with a start. Dusk approached, and the clearing lay in cool shadow. Leeli slept on Nia’s lap. Oskar lay on his back, hissing with pain while Podo worked to remove the old fellow’s bandages. Tink assisted Podo with a sick look on his face. Janner wondered for a moment where Nugget and Peet were, until he remembered with a shiver that the day hadn’t been some awful dream. “Hold on now,” Podo said. “I’m almost finished. Tink, hand me the knife, eh?” Tink passed a small knife to his grandfather, who used it to cut away the clotted bandage.

Which wasn’t all that good, if you remember,” said Oskar. “In the words of Izikk the Slapped, ‘I’m round as the moon and just as big—ouch! That hurt!’” Oskar laughed and turned his tired eyes on Janner. “Miller’s Bridge, my boy! Can you believe it? A legend proved true. A lot of that going on these days, it seems. Lost jewels, heroic deeds. I tell you, seeing the way you Igibys—Wingfeathers, rather—manage to survive makes me dare to believe the old stories are true after all. All those epics about mighty victories and brave kings. If I live long enough to sit at a desk again with a quill and parchment, I’ll tell about this day. I’ll put it down so that a thousand years hence some lad will read of the day Janner Wingfeather charged the Fangs of Dang beside his stout grandfather or how young King Kalmar’s skill with the bow drove an army of Fangs to retreat.

Janner and Tink joined her and stared out at the sea, her song conjuring images of Anniera, feelings of home, of fire in the hearth. Then the song changed. It took on a sad tone, the notes bending upward like the croon of a lonely bird, and Janner knew Leeli was playing for Nugget. She poured her heart into the song and filled it with everything she felt. Suddenly, like a dream hovering at the front of his mind, Janner could see Nugget. The image swirled like a reflection in a pot of stirred water, gathering itself into clear, moving pictures of little Nugget running through the pasture, fetching a ball, wagging his tail as Leeli stooped to hand him a hogpig bone. The images hovered like smoke from a pipe, scene after beautiful scene of Nugget in all the stages of his life.

A deep sound shook the air, a sound Janner had heard before but couldn’t place. He looked left and right, expecting something to emerge from the trees, wondering for a moment whether he was hearing things that weren’t really there. But it wasn’t his imagination. Oskar sat up and said, “Ah!” Nia smiled, hurried to the cliff, and looked down at the ocean. Podo, however, groaned and shook his head, then crossed to the far side of the clearing and into the forest. Janner had no time to wonder at this because by then he’d seen them.

The other dragons wheeled into formation around the one bearing the great dog, their long, graceful necks still arched as they sang. They brought their noses close to Nugget’s wet, battered body. Together they lifted the dog into the air so that he appeared to float atop the streams of a fountain, and then they bore him below the surface.

Grandpa,” he said, and Podo fixed him with a blazing eye. Janner resisted the urge to cower and apologize. He had to say something. He stood up straight and clenched his fists. “Grandpa, the dragon spoke to me.” Podo’s face was hard. “Aye?” he rumbled after a moment. “And what did the dragon say, boy?” “It said that Gnag the Nameless was near. It said he had sailed across the sea and they could smell him. It said, ‘Beware.’” “Gnag the Nameless.” Podo snorted. “A sea dragon said Gnag himself was close by. Is that what you’re tellin’ me?” The old pirate crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. Janner pointed at Tink and Leeli. “Ask them! They heard it too! Or—they didn’t exactly hear it, but—but they saw things and felt things. Didn’t you?” “Yes sir,” Tink said. “I saw them. Up close.” “And I felt them, Grandpa,” Leeli said. Podo and Nia exchanged a glance, and Podo waved a hand in the air. “Well, did the sea dragon also tell ye that his whole race is a bunch of scaly liars? Did he tell ye that they manipulate and confuse for the thrill of it? Sea dragons watch the doings of men with a wicked eye and would just as soon see you run off the cliff as run from Gnag the Nameless.” What? Janner thought about the rush of emotions he always felt on Dragon Day. The sea dragons were frightening, fascinating, even haunting—but not evil. It was Leeli’s song that had beckoned them, and Leeli certainly wasn’t evil. And then there was Nugget’s body. The dragons had carried him away with such care—there was nothing evil about that. But how could Janner argue with a pirate? Podo knew more about everything than Janner, especially the sea. “That’s what it said. I just—I just thought you should know,” Janner said quietly, unable to meet Podo’s eyes. If he had looked up, he would’ve seen that Podo wasn’t able to meet his eyes either. “Boys, see to setting up the tent like your grandfather told you,” Nia said after a moment. “We can talk about the sea dragons in a little while. Gnag the Nameless or not, we all need a meal and a rest. Maker only knows when we’ll have another.” “Food?” Tink asked. Nia nodded. “We’ll eat the dried diggle that Artham made us.” “Food,” Tink repeated. 17

You’ll be glad to know that your precious ‘jewels’ have escaped once more,” Zouzab had said. He sat cross-legged by a fire and shoveled a handful of sugarberries into his mouth, then passed the basket to the other ridgerunner. The red stains around their mouths looked like blood.

As Peet screamed on the road to Lamendron, morning birds chirped in the clearing where the Igibys slept. Cold blue light crept through the slit in the tent door. Janner stretched, forcing his eyes open and shaking the cobwebs from his mind. To his left, Podo snored so loudly that Janner wondered how it hadn’t woken him sooner. Oskar didn’t snore, but with every long exhale of breath, his lips made a windy pfffffhhhhhhh.

He had been too busy to think much about the real Anniera. It hovered in the distance of his best dreams but remained a dream only.

A real island where there had once been real towns, where there stood a real castle—the castle where he was born.

He imagined lying in the warm wind of a heathery slope, eyes closed so he could feel the heartbeat of his land. He was only twelve, but he knew enough to realize that the way before him would be hard. Is it worth it? he asked himself. Was it worth losing his old life in order to learn the truth of who he was and who he was becoming? Yes. Like the pluck of a stringed instrument, the first edge of the sun broke loose and poured light over the world. The rest of the company was awake, grateful for the promise of a proper breakfast. Podo, who had assured the family that in daylight a small fire would be safe enough, sat on a rock rearranging the bacon that sizzled in the frying pan. With his other hand, Podo absentmindedly scratched at the stub below his knee where the rest of his leg had once been.

Long, spindly legs reached out of a hole in the rear of the den and waved around like a cluster of shiny black broomsticks. They were attached to what looked like a cross between a cricket, a beetle, and a slug.

Janner gasped as its mouth stretched open and gobbled up a full-grown toothy cow. The cow mooed helplessly as it was worked deeper and deeper into the rock-roach’s maw by the hundreds of little black mandibles. Janner couldn’t bear to watch. He turned away as the cow’s head disappeared and the moo was cut short.

The horned hound hopped on its three good legs toward Janner, not to attack him but to escape the giant insect. The gargan rockroach gathered itself and heaved its bulk the rest of the way out of the hole, revealing itself to be as long and thick as a house. With its spindly legs, it snatched up the horned hound and swallowed it with a great, hissing slurp.

Peet crouched in the far corner of the den among a pile of animal bones. He lifted a bone the size of a club and whacked at something in the pile. The quill diggle and the family of cave blats wobbled out, clearly in a panic but slowed by the rockroach’s poisonous vapor. The rockroach tossed the quill diggle into its mushy black pucker.

The Strander stepped from behind the tree. She was a girl not much older than Janner, covered from head to foot with black dirt that made her eyes and teeth bright. Tattered clothes hung from her skinny frame. In her hand was a dagger, and the way she held it made it clear she knew how to use it.

Fine,” Podo said. “The toothy cow’s a half day’s walk behind us. You’ll find the remains of a campfire we were foolish enough to light, and yer cow—or what’s left of it—is nearby.

Without a word, one of the boys chose five children, and they slipped into the forest as silent as shadows.

At a nod from Podo, the Igibys and Oskar followed. If Podo was taking orders, then these Strander children were dangerous indeed, Janner thought.

Janner admired Tink’s restraint. He knew his little brother could make ugly faces with the best of them, but he chose to stare at the fire instead. Two of the men erected a spit above the fire, flashing black-toothed grins at the children. Janner noticed hundreds of bones in the dirt around the fire pit, some of them tiny fishbones, some of them as long as his arm. It explained why the animals in the forest had been so scarce. He saw the skulls of bumpy digtoads, toothy cows, and daggerfish half buried in the ashes and dirt. There were no human skulls, but with the hungry way the Stranders looked at them, he wouldn’t have been surprised.

No, son,” said Nia. “They know these woods. We wouldn’t stand a chance.

Podo considered the man for a moment and said, “Aye. Well. We’ve got food. We’ve got weapons, as you can see. I’m willin’ to let ye have the lot of it if you let us go safe and hale, Claxton Weaver.” Then the old pirate’s voice deepened and his nostrils flared like a mad horse’s. “But if you decide that’s not enough, then ye need to know that my name’s Podo Helmer, and I roved the Strand before you were born, with the likes of Growlfist and the Pounders. Don’t look so surprised, laddie. I crept the West Redoubt with Yule Borron by the light of the Hanger Moon. I’ve sailed the Mighty Blapp a hundred times, from here to the edge of the map, and I can fight with hands, teeth, and even me eyebrows if it comes to it. Do you understand what I’m sayin’?” Claxton Weaver stood aghast, his face so wretched and alarming that even Tink stopped chewing his meat. Nia pulled Leeli close. Janner’s body tensed, and he wished his sword were at hand because he feared he would soon need it. The Stranders around the fire sat still as stone. Podo stood and looked into Claxton’s eyes. “But listen here, Weaver. I can see you rule this bend in the river. I’m old and one-legged, but I’m no fool. If it’s strangers ye don’t like, then save it for the next ones that scrape into yer bend. I’m as much a Strander as you are, I’m no Fang, and I’ve offered you everything we have. If that’s not enough, then me boys and I’ll fight like dragons.” Podo took a step nearer the tall man. “And you’re the first one I aim to lay me teeth and me bushy eyebrows on.

Janner’s skin prickled with pride, and he curled his fingers into fists. He knew they were nothing like Podo’s weathered hands, but they would have to do. Claxton’s eyes flitted to Janner and Tink, then Oskar, considering Podo’s threat. “Ye crept the West Redoubt?” he asked. “Really?” “By the light of the Hanger Moon.” Claxton’s eyes narrowed and burned with a cold light. Such a fierce look passed between the two men that Janner cringed, as if all the darkness in each man’s soul poured out and fought a great battle in the space between them. It wasn’t clear who won, but Claxton appeared satisfied that Podo was at least a worthy enemy, if not a comrade. The tension faded from the bearded man’s face, and he smiled. “Then I’ve found a reason to allow ye to live, Podo Helmer. You’re gonna tell us a tale—an account of the Strand in the days of yer youth. Me clan and I will sleep tonight with the thrill of old stories in our bones.” Claxton’s smile vanished and he lowered his voice. “But if what ye have to give ain’t good enough, old man, then it’ll be the Blapp or my blade for you and your company. We Stranders can fight like dragons too, remember.” Claxton turned to his clan. “Can’t we?” The Stranders bared their teeth and hissed. In one deadly motion, the men, women, and children around the fire drew their knives, ready to leap over the fire at Claxton’s order. 23 Growlfist the Strander King Podo stood before the Stranders, shifting his weight from his good leg to his stump and back again. Claxton sat on a log in the center of his clan, his arms folded across his chest. The Igibys and Oskar gathered behind Podo. The fire had burned down to a steady red glow that turned the air the color of a bad dream.

Podo Helmer,” Claxton said, “proceed.

Janner looked at his grandfather in a new light; it seemed the old man had no end of secrets. But as much as Podo hated his past, and as much as Janner hated to imagine his dear grandfather running with such a wretched band, there was a chance it might save all their lives. He knew his grandfather had a story in mind, but he had serious doubts that Claxton and his hissing, knife-wielding people would turn them loose no matter how rousing the tale. Podo closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath before he began. “Stranders! I stand before you with but one leg, me hair white with age, and me belly full of yer good meat. This fire here burnin’ low sends me thinkin’ about Growlfist the Strander King on the night I first met ‘im.” The Stranders murmured and nodded their heads. “Aye, I met ‘im, all right. Fierce he was, and a full head taller even than Claxton here. It was said his eyes were so mean he could cook a fish just starin’ at it, and I’m here to tell ye it’s true. Saw ‘im do it any number of times.

All day the company traveled through the wood, and except for the persistent worry that around every tree hid a toothy cow or horned hound, the trip was oddly enjoyable. Janner relaxed for the first time since they had left Peet’s castle, as if a cold river inside him was finally in thaw. Still, the words the old gray dragon had spoken haunted him. “He is near you. Beware.” It occurred to him that the dragon hadn’t actually said Gnag the Nameless was nearby. But who else could it have meant? Who else would “seek the young ones to use them for his own ends”? The dragon probably meant the leader of the Fangs at Miller’s Bridge. Or it might have been talking about Zouzab Koit—but why would a little ridgerunner be of any concern to the sea dragons? Podo was probably right—the sea dragon was lying, manipulating Janner for the fun of it. But somehow that didn’t seem right either.

Mister Reteep?” he said. “Is it true that Gnag the Nameless only came to Skree because of us? because he wanted the Jewels of Anniera?

You remember your history, don’t you, son? How many times did a wicked man come to power and suddenly find his kingdom too small? The Praxons did it in the Third Epoch. The Shriveners did it when Tilmus the Bent took the throne, and look what happened to the Furrows of Shreve. There’s nothing left but the Woes, a terrible waste where there was once a garden the size of an ocean.” Oskar stepped over a fallen branch. “No, when a king forgets who he is, he looks for himself in the rubble of conquered cities. He is haunted by a bottomless pit in his soul, and he will pour the blood of nations into it until the pit swallows the man himself.

All children of the Shining Isle, rejoice! A hero strides the field, the hill, the sand With raven hair and shining blade in hand. The wicked quake when lifts the Warden’s voice! So fleet his mount and fierce his mighty band! So fair his word and fine his happy roar That breezes o’er the Isle from peak to shore! So tender burns his love for king and land!

Who wrote that?” Tink asked.

I don’t know,” Oskar said. “I found it in a book of Annieran poems. Very valuable.

Nia smiled. “You have no need to apologize, Oskar. Remembering Alma is good for my heart. Do you know any more of her poems?

The company stopped for lunch, and since they had seen no animals bigger than a meep, Podo risked a fire.

Oskar recited every strand of Annieran poetry he could remember.

Oskar pushed his spectacles to the bridge of his nose and eyed the tree. “Ah! Well! Let’s see…I can’t think of any forest creatures more dangerous than a toothy cow or a hound that are known to be good climbers. Of course, there could be snakes or snickbuzzards—we are closer to the mountains now, though not much. And then there are bugs. Stinging bugs like the—” “All right, then. That’s the plan.” Janner and Tink fetched firewood while Leeli and Nia rummaged through the packs to find pots and pans and the spices needed to make the dried diggle meat taste more like a pot roast. Once the fire was crackling nicely, they sat around it with nervous eyes on the forest.

For a long time they sat and ate (too long, Podo insisted), and the conversation led to the three gifts the children had received from Anniera. Leeli and Tink showed Oskar the ancient whistleharp and the sketchbook. He fussed over the whistleharp, his eyes wide and boyish as he recalled to himself its significance in Annieran history. Oskar was speechless as he tilted the pages of their father’s sketchbook into better light and gazed at them through his spectacles. His eyes gleamed with emotion. “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.

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.

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

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

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?

As the company moved on, most of the mud farmers—as Podo called them, though not without pity—ignored them, but some stood up from the fields where they were unearthing stones in the way of the plow, or stopped hammering a rotten plank to a rotten structure with a rusty nail, or peered out their windows to watch the Igibys as they passed. “Has it always been like this?” Leeli asked.

Someone should do something,” Leeli said quietly. “What would they do?” Janner asked. “It seems like the whole world is as awful as it is here.” “Things weren’t this bad in Glipwood,” Tink said. “No, but it didn’t take much to tip the scales,” Janner said. “In just a few days, the town was deserted and the Fangs moved in. Everything in Skree is as bad as it is for these mud farmers. It’s just that here we can see it for what it is.

He bolted into the house where the old man slept on the porch. Chickens scattered. Oskar, Nia, and the children hurried after Podo into the shadowy old building. The old man stirred and muttered a few garbled words but kept sleeping. Once inside, Janner could see nothing. He could hear Podo’s familiar tap-clunk and his raspy gripe: “Been so long I can scarce remember how to find the…” Janner heard the rattle and clomp outside of armored Fangs on the march. It didn’t sound like a large unit, but it was enough to make him tremble. “Papa, they’ve stopped,” Nia whispered.

Grandpa, look.” “Eh?” Janner pointed.

Podo sucked in a breath. “Fangs!” he said. “Follow me!

Fingap Falls arrayed before them. To the right flowed the white water of the Mighty Blapp, snaking into the mist of the upper falls. Below it jutted the shelf that caught the waters in its giant palm. The bridges spanning the five towers looked as thin as ribbons. At the fourth, of course, there was no longer a bridge, and the surface of the tower was clogged with the tiny movements of Fangs in retreat.

Of course, my dear,” said Oskar. “I’ll write of brave Nugget, whose bark shook the trees, Nugget, whose love for Leeli Wingfeather sent him flying to meet a troll twice his size, whose might shattered Miller’s Bridge and saved the Wingfeathers from a Fang horde.” Janner braced himself for more of Leeli’s tears, but she didn’t cry. She worked her way to her feet and rummaged around in her pack for her ancient whistleharp. “Mama, will you get my crutch? I want to see the ocean.” Leeli limped to the precipice above the bank and sat. She took a deep breath and looked out over the Dark Sea of Darkness with a smile. The sky in the east blushed at the coming darkness. Leeli brought the whistleharp to her lips and played.

The sea dragons. Far below, the dragons danced on the surface of the ocean, tiny, glimmering worms on a gray floor. Their voices rang through the air, across the great distance and over the roar of Fingap Falls. The dragon song mingled with Leeli’s, and the music pulsed with joy and then sadness. Janner blinked with wonder when he focused again on the images swirling before him. He no longer saw Nugget but a spray of giant waves, then something red and gold—the dragons. He had only ever seen the creatures from the heights of the cliff, but now he could see them as if he floated just above the surface of the sea, a stone’s throw away. They were as beautiful as they were fearsome. Their bodies shimmered with metallic scales that swirled with color. The dragon closest to him glittered orange and gold, like the strikes of a thousand matchsticks, but its winglike fins cycled between shades of blue. Its head was sleek and graceful, perfect for slicing through the water, and its eyes—big and deep and serene—sent a chill down to Janner’s toes, because it was suddenly clear the dragon knew it was being watched. The eyes rolled back, and translucent lids slid over them as the dragon opened its mouth and sang. Teeth lined its mouth, but not in the crooked, yellow way of the Fangs or the toothy cows; these were straight and bright and sharp as needles. Janner pushed his mind through the image and looked again at his brother and sister. Leeli’s eyes were closed, and though she smiled, tears wet her cheeks while she played. Wind stirred Tink’s hair, and he stared at the empty air before him; his eyes flicked back and forth as if studying a drawing that hung a few feet before his face. The song changed to a gentle hum, and Janner turned his mind again to the floating image. A dragon rose from the waves bearing something

Leeli’s song came to an end, and Janner ached for her to keep playing. Whatever power the song had awakened in the three Wingfeather children would leave a terrible emptiness when it was gone.

Janner rubbed his eyes and shook his head, still not sure whether or not he was dreaming. “What just happened?” he asked. “I don’t know,” Tink said, “but they’re taking Nugget to a cave.” “How do you know that?” Leeli asked in a quiet voice. “I’m not sure. They showed me. I saw them carry his body deep into the sea and into a cave, where they laid Nugget on a pile of rocks. The cave was full of bones, and the bones were covered with some kind of markings. Writing, maybe.” “I asked them to take care of Nugget,” Leeli said, “with my song. I told them who he was, what he did for us.” “I can’t remember what they looked like anymore,” Janner said. Tink stared out at the horizon. “I can still see them. Their fins—did you see the fins? They were huge. Eight sea dragons. Three silver, two reddish gold, an orange, and a blue. Then that last one—the old gray one.” He paused. “And I saw other things, Janner. Awful things.” He shuddered. “What? What did you see? Was it Gnag the Nameless?” Janner asked. “Gnag? No…I don’t know.” Tink shook his head and closed his eyes. A short distance away, Nia cried out. “Where’s your grandfather? Papa!” Podo emerged from the trees. The old man was winded, his limp more pronounced than usual as he made his way toward them. His eyes were downcast. “Boys, set up the tent. It’ll soon be too dark to see.” “Grandpa, something weird just happened,” Janner said. “The dragons—

Podo and Nia exchanged a glance, and Podo waved a hand in the air. “Well, did the sea dragon also tell ye that his whole race is a bunch of scaly liars? Did he tell ye that they manipulate and confuse for the thrill of it? Sea dragons watch the doings of men with a wicked eye and would just as soon see you run off the cliff as run from Gnag the Nameless.

Janner propped himself on one elbow and rubbed his eyes. In the faint light he could see Tink asleep with his head on Podo’s leg and Leeli curled up beside Nia with her backpack cuddled to her chest the way she used to hold Nugget. Janner crept from the tent. The clearing was soft with dewy mist. Chunks of rubble rose out of the fog like gravestones, but the effect wasn’t unpleasant. He had been awake for many sunrises before, but never so close to the cliffs that he could watch the fiery ball lift itself from the sea. He walked through wet grass and sat with his feet dangling over the cliff. The Dark Sea of Darkness wasn’t dark at all at this hour. Feathery clouds at the edge of the world glowed orange and savage yellow. Birds wheeled in the bright air far below. Janner thought of his life only weeks ago, in the dregs of summer, when hay needed baling, the hogpig needed feeding, the garden needed weeding, and life was boring. So much had happened to the Janner he used to be. His life had been in danger countless times. More tears had been shed in these last weeks than in his whole life before.

He was only twelve, but he knew enough to realize that the way before him would be hard. Is it worth it? he asked himself. Was it worth losing his old life in order to learn the truth of who he was and who he was becoming? Yes.

Like the pluck of a stringed instrument, the first edge of the sun broke loose and poured light over the world.

The rest of the company was awake, grateful for the promise of a proper breakfast. Podo, who had assured the family that in daylight a small fire would be safe enough, sat on a rock rearranging the bacon that sizzled in the frying pan. With his other hand, Podo absentmindedly scratched at the stub below his knee where the rest of his leg had

Janner knew that at night his grandfather often unbuckled the harness that bound the wooden peg to his leg, but it was rare to see him in broad daylight without it. It was unsettling to see him now, vulnerable and— “You’re starin’ like you’ve never seen me stubby leg before, lad,” Podo said, squinting at Janner. “Sorry,” Janner said. “It’s just—why won’t you tell us how you lost it?” “Oh, I will, lad. One of these days.” Podo took a deep breath. “It’s not a fun story for yer Podo to tell, but I’m startin’ to think I should dig it up sooner rather than later. There’s things you lot should know.” “What things?” Tink asked quietly. Janner thought he saw Podo and Tink exchange an odd look, and the old pirate’s eyebrows bunched together like a cloud at the front of his head. “Can we just eat breakfast?” Leeli asked.

Janner looked at the others. He had done his best to apologize and had even gone one step further with a compliment. “What was that all about?” he asked under his breath. “Just let him be,” Nia said. “He’ll be fine.” The tent was rolled and tied to Podo’s pack, and in minutes the company was ready to go. After all that had happened the day before, Janner felt ready for anything. His pack had lost its stiffness and hung from his shoulders in a way that fit him. He had wielded his sword in battle, and its weight no longer burdened him but gave him courage. He recalled the heft of the bow in his hand, the tension and release when he drew it and loosed the arrows. The calluses on his palms felt good, and he imagined his hands one day being as tough and capable as Podo’s. “Say the word, King Kalmar,” Podo said with a slight bow of his head. Tink looked like a mouse in a trap. Then he loosed a belch that rivaled one of Podo’s, and in a fit of laughter, the company set off into the forest.

Through the forest they ran. Behind them, like an invisible storm blowing through the trees, came the howls and moans and stomping feet of the Fang army. The donkey needed no prodding from Janner to quicken its pace. Peet the Sock Man was nowhere to be seen, but his screech occasionally cut through the darker sounds behind them.

Podo drove them onward, and even with his peglegged limp, he had to check his speed to allow the rest to keep up. Janner and his mother ran with the wild-eyed donkey between them, and Oskar huffed and wheezed in the rear.

As they ran, Janner looked over his shoulder and saw a line of Fangs weaving in and out of the trees, and among them, three lumbering trolls, which broke fat limbs like twigs. Janner felt a combination of horror and fascination and wished he could somehow stop the pursuit so he could get a better look at one of the smelly hulks. “Janner, watch where you’re going,” Nia said, and he just had time to dance around a small tree. Ahead, Nugget trotted beside Podo, choosing his path with care so that Leeli was safe from low branches. With each troll bellow, Nugget’s ears flattened against his head and he whined.

Janner tried not to look back, but he couldn’t help himself. He saw even more Fangs and trolls, close enough that he could make out looks of vicious glee on their faces. He could also smell them. A sharp, bitter odor polluted the air, and with the smell came memories of Slarb, of Gnorm and the Black Carriage, of cold, damp Fang flesh. With the memories came deep and overpowering fear. Since Oskar had burst into the clearing, Janner had felt tension and urgency—but now that he remembered the iron grip of a Fang claw and the ooze of venom from a Fang tooth, he was truly afraid.

Janner saw the old man stagger, teetering like a pile of dishes about to collapse. When Oskar reached out to steady himself on the nearest tree, Janner saw with alarm that the old man’s hand was bright with blood. Oskar’s knees buckled, and he crumpled to the ground.

Podo rushed back to his friend and pulled him to his feet.

Tink blinked twice and came back to himself. He drew the bow and loosed the arrow, and the hound collapsed in a burst of leaves.

Podo didn’t need to give the order to run like mad. Nugget leapt into motion so fast that Tink nearly toppled from his back. Nia ran beside the braying donkey and steadied Oskar, who moaned as he jiggled along.

Janner knew Peet was no match against so many Fangs, but his sudden presence was like a cool wind on a hot day. A Throne Warden of Anniera occupied the space between the Igibys and their enemies.

When Janner and Podo reached the bottom of the gully where the others waited, Janner took one last look up at the terrified donkey. He felt sorry for it and wondered if the Fangs would put it to work or if they would eat it.

Nugget should have crawled up the other side by now, but he stood motionless in the bottom of the gully. Leeli pleaded with her dog to awaken from his trance. Tink had dismounted and stood in front of Nugget with his hands on the sides of the big dog’s face, calling his name.

Then Tink screamed and struggled with something at his feet. Janner scrambled over fallen limbs to his brother before anyone else had time to react. When he saw the source of Tink’s distress, Janner screamed too.

The commotion jarred Nugget out of his trance. The great dog barked and tensed his body, taking in the situation as if he had just woken from a dream. When Nugget saw the cow, he pounced at the opening in the floor, which nearly sent Leeli flying from his back. When he landed, the patchwork of branches where they stood shifted and revealed more of the toothy cow’s head. The brothers and their grandfather looked at one another long enough to share the realization that they were about to fall—and then they did. Nugget crashed to the ground. Leeli landed in the soft fur of her dog’s flank, and Janner, Tink, and Podo followed, head over heels, slamming

There were four toothy cows; a hissing, flapping family of cave blats; a horned hound, wounded so that it stood on only three of its legs; and a diggle staggering about, flashing its quills. Piles of animal bones littered the floor, and the skulls of all manner of forest creatures gazed at the Igibys.

Nugget lay where he had fallen, a heap of black fur. The dog panted, his eyes glazed, like he was lazing by the fire on the verge of happy sleep. The rockroach’s poison was stronger here. Leeli scooted to Nugget’s head, heedless of the beasts so near, and called his name again.

When Janner drew his sword, Tink overcame his disgust and drew his own. The two boys stood side by side, just behind Podo. The horned hound shook its head, and its eyes regained some energy. It seemed to be willing itself to attack, to come awake long enough to wreak some violence before the rockroach ended its life. The toothy cows mooed and shook their mighty flanks to wake from their stupor.

The horned hound growled. Its lips curled back in a snarl, and a tendril of drool dangled from one of its longer teeth.

The hound pounced on the quill diggle. The cave blats squealed and hopped about, the cows mooed, and finally, Nugget came back to himself. He yawned and scratched behind his ear with one of his giant rear legs.

Nugget, wake up!” Leeli cried, and wake up he did—but only enough to stand, yawn, and stretch. The cows and the cave blats circled one another. They crashed into the walls and loosed a shower of leaves and twigs.

Janner spotted a speckle of sunlight breaking through the branched roof. The animals blocked the way. Before Janner could wonder about Podo’s plan, his grandfather cried out and leapt into the fray, sword whirling.

Tink winced but obeyed and flung his sister atop Nugget. Janner tugged the dog forward, into the chaos where Podo fought the beasts.