On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness (15 page)

30

The Untimely Death of Vop

A
s Nia and Podo bade one another good night, Slarb limped back to the jail with a swollen face and a large bleeding wound on his leg. He had woken in the forest clearing with an awful headache and a ratbadger chewing on his leg. Slarb had snatched it up, sunk his fangs into its neck with a growl, and tossed the limp creature into the woods. Several seconds had passed before he even remembered what he had been doing there in the forest. But as he staggered back toward town, Slarb imagined himself eating the Igiby children one by one, along with their little dog.

The
clop
of hoofbeats coming toward him interrupted the reverie. Slarb dropped into the high grass just in time to spy Podo Helmer trot by in the direction from which he had just come. When he saw Nugget beside the horse, Slarb nearly sprang from his cover. By now, his hatred for the indestructible little dog equaled his hatred for the children who had humiliated him so.

But the humiliation for Slarb the Fang was just beginning.

The Fangs of Dang, it was widely known, were rarely injured. They certainly weren't in much danger from the Skreeans, who had no weapons and who seemed to have very little courage. The only time a Fang was ever hurt was when a fellow soldier inflicted the wound during a scuffle over a gold bracelet or a bowl of booger gruel.
¹

Slarb limped up the steps to the jail, hoping to find a bandage for his wound. The other Fangs stopped what they were doing and gaped as he passed. Slarb's face was horribly swollen, he was covered with dirt, and his leg was bleeding steadily from the ratbadger bite. The Fangs burst out laughing and asked him what had happened.

Slarb the Fang sat in the front room of the jail and dressed his wound beneath an onslaught of scorn from fellow Fangs. He could only bear the derision for so long, however. He finished applying the bandage to his leg, and without warning he lashed out at the closest Fang, a brute named Vop.

They tumbled and snarled and broke every piece of what little furniture there was in the front room of the jail. They rolled on the floor, punching and scratching and biting one another while the others watched and cheered for Vop.

With a yell, Vop flipped Slarb over his head and slammed him into the wall at the target where the many throwing daggers were stuck. Several daggers clattered to the floor.

Slarb pulled himself to his feet, insane with anger, and grabbed one of the daggers. He flung one at Vop, who was receiving congratulations from the watching soldiers for winning the scuffle. With a sickening crunch, the knife buried itself in Vop's back. The Fangs stopped laughing and watched in shock as he fell lifeless to the floor.

Slarb stood alone, breathing hard with a smirk on his face.

The Fangs disliked Slarb already. Now he had stabbed one of them in the back.

“He killed ol' Vop, he did,” said one, looking down at Vop with surprise.

“Vop was a fine Fang to have around for a good chuckle,” said another.

“An' he didn't exactly ssstart the tussle either,” said Brak, who narrowed his eyes at Slarb. “It was Slarb what started it, and ol' Slarb there went an' got 'im when he weren't lookin'.”

“I've knowed Vop sssince we come over from Dang,” said one, sniffing. “We burned lots of villages down together, me an' him. Tossed me first kid ssscreamin' into the Carriage with him, I did.”

“Commander Gnorm took a ssspecial liking to ol' Vop. Said he was like the nephew he never had,” said another, sliding his sword from its sheath.

The more they glared at Slarb, the more he stared at the door. The gang of angry Fangs took a collective step toward him, hands outstretched, weapons drawn, as Slarb sprang for the door. But it was too late. The Fangs groped, but Slarb wriggled, screamed, and in a moment was shocked to find himself bounding down the steps of the jail amidst a hail of insults and curses.

Slarb ran and ran, out of Glipwood and up the long road toward Torrboro, though he didn't know where he was going. He no longer felt the ratbadger wound on his leg or the bulge on the side of his head where Peet the Sock Man had kicked him. He knew that Commander Gnorm would order his execution when he returned to find Vop stabbed in the back. But Slarb no longer cared about that either.

The cold, white moon shone on him with disdain as Slarb ran, grinning madly, his twisted mind thinking of nothing at all.

Except, that is, for his hatred of the Igibys.

31

Khrak's Medallion

O
ver a breakfast of bacon and fried totatoes the next morning, Janner had a feeling for the first time in a week that everything was going to be all right. The breakfast was good, the sun was shining, no one was hurt, and he had three new books to read. Hopefully, Slarb had gotten the message that interfering with the Igiby children wasn't a good idea. In the past few days, as far as Janner knew, Slarb had been knocked unconscious by a rock, clouted by Commander Gnorm, and nearly strangled by Peet the Sock Man. He may even have been eaten whole by some hungry beast of the forest.

Still, Podo and Nia had decided everyone should stay close to the house for a few days until the dust settled. It had been an eventful week, and neither Podo, Nia, nor Leeli even knew about Janner and Tink's encounter with the horned hounds and the weapons in the cellar of Anklejelly Manor.

Podo was pleased to have collected and delivered five more garden thwaps for his old rival, Buzzard Willie. It was as if the pirate had found a new purpose in collecting and redepositing thwaps in his old age. Though he had repented of his wild days at sea, he cackled with glee while he snuck around to Willie's garden to set loose the thwaps.

The children, under Nia's tutelage, were hard at work on their T.H.A.G.S.

Janner was toiling over a poem Nia had instructed him to compose. The subject matter was the Sea Dragon Festival, and he sat trying to think of something to rhyme with “festival” other than “best of all.”

Tink, barefoot and lounging in the crook of an old tree, was sketching a fazzle dove that had nested in the hollow of a nearby oak. It was his third attempt at getting it just right, and he squinted at the drawing and cocked his head this way and that.

Just outside the back door of the cottage, Leeli practiced her whistleharp while Nugget dozed at her feet.

Life at the Igiby cottage seemed to be returning to normal.

“Ah, ‘Dougan's Reel,'
¹
an ancient tune from the Green Hollows,” Oskar N. Reteep was pleased to inform Leeli from around the corner of the cottage. “Splendid.”

He had come over to check on Leeli and offer profuse apologies for allowing her out of his sight. He carried her little crutch under his arm.

“In the words of the famed shoe burglar Hanwyt Moor, ‘I'm so sorry. It won't happen again.'” He held out the crutch. “And you must be Lizard-kicker, I presume?”

Leeli hugged Mr. Reteep around his sizable waist.

“May I still come over and borrow books sometimes, sir?” she asked.

“Of course! Of course, young princess! More than ever now.”

Nia smiled and welcomed in Oskar for a cup of cider.

Just as they were sitting down, Podo returned from his errand at Buzzard Willie's garden, and he greeted Oskar stiffly.

Oskar squirmed beneath Podo's gaze.

“Podo, you must know how sorry I am,” Oskar said, his eyes downcast. He nervously pressed a stray lock of white hair across his forehead. “Had I known…had I known that the Fang was nearby, I never would have…” He trailed off, trying to think of an author to quote.

Podo softened and shrugged it off with a wave of his hand as he sat down at the table beside Nia. “No harm done,” he said, with what he meant to be a light punch to Oskar's shoulder. It jarred Oskar so that his spectacles were left dangling off one ear. Podo didn't notice.

“The word at Shaggy's Tavern is that Commander Gnorm is back from Torrboro and that he ain't happy,” Podo said. “Blaggus said that he heard 'im yelling at the top of his lizard lungs about somethin' having to do with Slarb. Said he heard that Slarb killed another Fang.”

Oskar rubbed his shoulder and straightened his glasses. “A dead Fang? I don't believe I've ever seen one of those.”

“They're not much to look at,” Podo said. “All dust and bones.”

Oskar raised an eyebrow.

“Or so I've heard,” Podo added.

“And Slomp?” Nia asked.

“Slarb, dear,” corrected Oskar.

“Well, that's the odd bit,” Podo said. “Shaggy says he ain't been seen since he killed the other fella. Said he ran off and never came back. I reckon if he did come back Gnorm would kill 'im as dead as the other one.” Podo looked out the window. “I have a feelin' we might be rid of that stinker once and for good.”

“Until we're certain, I don't want the children going into town alone,” Nia said.

“Aye, we'll lie quiet for a few days,” Podo agreed. “But there's no sense hidin' like cave blats for the rest of our lives, lass. Besides, now that the festival is over all but a few of 'em will be heading back to Torrboro. Things'll be back to normal soon enough.”

“And I assure you,” said Oskar earnestly, “the children will be safe at Books and Crannies—should you choose to trust me with their company again.” He looked at his hands.

“Ol' geezer, didn't ye hear what I said? No harm done! And that's that.” Podo leaned over with a smile and playfully whacked Oskar on the shoulder again, this time sending his glasses clattering to the floor.

Hoping to avoid any further displays of friendship from Podo, Oskar bade them farewell. He stepped out of the cottage and found Tink leaning against the tree drawing on parchment. Oskar waved Tink over to him and whispered, “And this is for you, lad. I found it very helpful, myself.”

He slipped Tink a small book and cleared his throat. With a sympathetic pat to Tink's head, he strolled down the lane.

Tink looked down at the book in his hands.
Homemade Rash Remedies:
A Study in Discomfort.

General Khrak was tired of meeting with Fang commanders. All week he had suffered their impudence, their whining, and their groveling, though the groveling pleased him and eased his suffering considerably. The sun was getting low in Torrboro, and he was staring at the rain out the high window of the Castle Torr, ignoring Commander Plube, a Fang with a habit of laughing at his own jokes. Khrak was considering having him executed for his bad sense of humor.

“So this human walks into a tavern and says to the two-headed hogpig, ‘Who let out the goats?' And the hogpig, he says, ‘I did, and what of it?' And so the human, he says, ‘Oh, nothing,' and he takes the hogpig by the tail and—”

Plube stopped midsentence as Khrak rose from his throne and descended the steps, fixing him with an alarming gaze. The chamber was empty but for General Khrak and Plube. The greasy smile on his face melted away as Khrak approached until their noses were nearly touching. Plube was quivering in his armor. Never once during one of their meetings had Khrak left his throne, much less climbed down the steps.

Plube closed his eyes and awaited the death that was sure to come. He had always fancied that Khrak enjoyed his jokes and stories. In his opinion, they made reporting on his boring precinct of Skree much less drab, and Khrak always seemed so humorless. He was only trying to help.

General Khrak said nothing. He merely stared, waiting for Plube to open his eyes. One eyelid eased open, then the other. Plube relaxed a little, chuckling warily.

“Go. And I don't ever want to hear another story about a hogpig in a tavern. Ever.”

“Y-yesss, lord,” Plube stammered feebly as he backed away. He tripped over himself in his haste, and when he fell, General Khrak laughed for the first time all week. The door thudded shut behind him and Khrak yawned. He was hungry.

“SSSlave!” he said, and an old woman in tattered clothes shuffled into the room, bowing all the while. “Have a bowlful of ratbadger-tail salad brought to my chambers. And make sssure the lettuce is perfectly brown this time!” She bowed out of the room in a flurry of mumbles and apologies, and the Fang made his way through filth-strewn hallways to his chambers.

He slunk into a chair and waited for his meal. He would be leaving the next new moon for the Castle Throg, and he always had to prepare his mind for that journey. Gnag had summoned him, which meant that he would spend four weeks crossing the Dark Sea of Darkness; then a long, dry trek across the barren Woes of Shreve to the Killridge Mountains, where the Nameless One made his home. He dreaded the journey. Here in Skree he was General Khrak, ruler of the land; but in the Castle Throg, he was the one groveling, he was the slave. No matter. It was a small price to pay for the power he wielded in Skree.

Gnag had plans to widen his kingdom, to build a larger army, and if Gnag remained pleased with his service then it would be he, General Khrak, who led the great army into the Far West. He closed his eyes and reveled in the destruction he would visit on the peoples beyond the maps. He wanted that command. He was a Fang of Dang, made for war, yet here he was in Torrboro wasting his days with fools like Plube.

True, he enjoyed the food and the fine filth of the place, and he enjoyed the groveling he received. But he felt that if he had to spend much more time listening to precinct commanders babbling on about the humans in their measly towns, he would gnaw off his own foot. Khrak stood up and paced. If only he could find the Jewels of Anniera. That would change everything. Gnag would let him do whatever he pleased.

The old woman entered with a bowl of still-wriggling ratbadger tails on a brown, slimy bed of lettuce. The ratbadger tails were like living, hairy noodles, as fat as fingers. Khrak grabbed the bowl, held it to his face, and breathed in the rank aroma.

“And your favorite sweat sauce, lord,” the woman said, her voice quavering slightly. That Khrak had let her go without injury was a sign that he was pleased with the meal.

Khrak sat and slurped up his first ratbadger tail and sighed, slouching back in his chair again.

Out of habit, his hand wandered to the medallion hanging around his neck. His newest piece of jewelry, courtesy of…who was it? Ah. Commander Gnorm, the fat one, a few days earlier. From Glipwood.

Khrak dipped another tail in the sweat sauce and chewed on it thoughtfully while he toyed with the medallion. He looked at it closely for the first time, admiring the rubies that adorned its edges, caressing it with his scaly fingers. He gobbled another tail while he flipped the medallion over and examined the back—and choked.

Khrak leapt from his chair and spat the ratbadger tail to the floor. He moved across the room to a lantern that burned in a sconce on the wall and held the medallion up to the light. There, engraved on the back of the medallion, was a dragon with wings.

The Seal of Anniera.

Could it be?
he wondered, his mind whirling.
In Glipwood? After all these years?

General Khrak laughed for the second time that day.