The Tangle Box by Terry Brooks

“I really dislike that dog,” the bird muttered, ruffling his feathers in a show of distaste.

Horris Kew’s lips tightened. “Shut up about the dog.”

“He almost recognized me. Did you see? He’ll remember, sooner or later, mark my words.”

“Consider them marked.” They passed across the bridge that connected the island to the mainland and set out toward the forests west. “What’s the difference if he does? Meeks is dead and gone.”

Biggar had belonged to the wizard in the old days. It was Meeks who had performed the magic that enhanced Biggar’s intelligence, hopeful of using the bird as a spy against his enemies. But Biggar had been as obnoxious and outspoken then as he was now, and Meeks had quickly grown tired of him. When Horris Kew had been exiled to earth by the old King, Meeks had sent the troublesome bird along for the ride.

Biggar hunched down into a black featherball. “If the dog connects me with Meeks, Horris, you can kiss our chances of ever getting back inside those castle walls goodbye.”

Horris tried to look unconcerned. “You’re worrying about nothing.”

“I don’t care. I don’t like the way the dog looked at me. In fact, I don’t like any of this.”

Horris didn’t say so, but he wasn’t sure he liked any of it either. Nothing had gone the way he had expected from the moment he had mouthed “rashun, oblight, surena, whatever” and that thing had come out of the Tangle Box. He shivered just thinking about it, picturing how it had looked when he had turned around on hearing its greeting, thinking of it waiting for them now. It was loathsome beyond description. It was the foulest being he had ever encountered.

And now it had taken charge of his life, ordering him about like a common servant, telling him where to go and what to do. It was his worst nightmare come to life, and Horris Kew didn’t think for a moment that he had better try to cross it.

“Why do you think it sent us to see the King?” Biggar asked suddenly, as if reading his mind. They passed up the hillside and into a meadow fronting the edges of the forest trees.

Horris exhaled wearily. “How would I know? It told me to go make this pitch to Holiday, so I did. It said to do it, so I did it. You think I was going to argue?”

Biggar didn’t have anything to say to that, which was just as well since Horris Kew’s temper was already on edge from the events of the past twenty-four hours. This was all Biggar’s fault anyway, he was thinking. The channeling scheme, the concoction of Skat Mandu (Skat Mandu, what a joke!), the releasing of that thing, and the return to Landover. Horris didn’t know what game it was they were playing, but he knew it was a dangerous one, coming back to the very last place in the universe they should have come, a place where they were anything but welcome. Except, of course, that the old King was dead and this new one, Holiday, at least seemed willing to consider his petition. No matter. What were they doing here? Sure, this was his homeland and all, but it was not a place that held fond memories. It was a place in which he had been born (luck of the draw, that), had grown up, had gotten himself in considerable trouble, been declared persona non grata, and left under duress. He had been perfectly happy in his new world, in the land of milk and honey and believers of Skat Mandu ready to pay him money for a wisp of smoke and a shimmer of light. He had been well settled, content with himself, his surroundings, and his prospects.

Now what did he have? Nothing. And it was all Biggar’s fault.

Except, of course, it really wasn’t. It was as much his fault as Biggar’s, and that made him even madder.

What was going to happen to him now? What did good old Skat Mandu have planned?

“I really don’t like that dog,” Biggar repeated, and finally lapsed into silence.