Free The Kingdom of Kevin Malone by Suzy McKee Charnas

tucked one club into his waistband, and dipping into his pouch he brought out a small, squirmy creature that he cuddled against his cheek.
    The animal looked at us with little red eyes, its pointy snout twitching. The Brangleman whispered to it, then stooped and let the creature leap from his hand into the brush, giving me a quick view of a body like a very miniature greyhound. There was the faintest rustling sound, and it was gone.
    The Brangleman straightened up. “That way,” he said, pointing with his throwing stick.
    Kevin said, “Man of the Brangle, I am Kavian the Promised—”
    â€œThat way!” The Brangleman bared brownish teeth at us, and he was not smiling.
    I grabbed Kevin’s torn sleeve and steered him “that way,” into a tunnel. We had to walk bent nearly double, the roof of the passage was so low. There hardly seemed to be any air. All around us the brush seethed softly with tiny sounds.
    The Brangleman moved so quietly at our backs that I had to look a couple of times to make sure he was still there. He was, showing his teeth and making threatening movements with the throwing sticks now.
    Once he stopped us with a warning grunt and we stood there while he sniffed at the stuffy air. I did a little sniffing myself: smoke.
    â€œThat way,” said the Brangleman, and off we went again.
    â€œHey,” I whispered to Kevin. “There’s a fire burning somewhere in this stuff!”
    â€œThe White One’s men are always trying to burn it off and flush the Branglemen out,” Kevin whispered back.
    â€œOh,” I answered faintly, and let the subject drop. I could not talk about the prospect of being fried alive without freaking completely.
    Our tunnel took a sudden turn to the right, and the ground angled down in front of us like a steep dirt driveway into a cellar. We both stopped dead. As we teetered at the top of the incline, the Brangleman gave us each a shove in the back. We staggered down, clunking into each other and making the exclamations appropriate to the situation. Kevin’s language was even more raw than usual.
    We fell into a shallow underground room hacked into the dirt. A sort of gate made of woven vines—with the thorns still on, of course—slid down behind us. The sharp stakes of the gate’s bottom edge thumped home into deep holes in the floor.
    â€œMan of the Brangle!” Kevin shouted. “Go tell your chiefs how you have treated the Promised Champion and his companion! They will punish you, this I swear!”
    There was no answer. The Brangleman had gone. “Where did you learn to talk like that?” I said.
    He peered out through the thorn gate. “I bet I’ve read more books than you. I know how nobles talk.”
    I moved cautiously around our prison. Floor, walls, and ceiling were made of packed, polished earth as hard as stone. Little sharp edges stuck out all over where roots and rootlets had been clipped off. They bit into me when I sat down and leaned back. There was a dusty smell that made me think of live burials.
    â€œMaybe we can dig our way out,” I said, running my hands over the wall beside the thorn gate.
    â€œWith what?” Kevin said. “They cut these rooms and tunnels in the clay, stuff the spaces with brush, and set it afire. The walls bake into brick. You can’t dig through it with your fingernails.”
    I said, “So are you just going to sit here?”
    He took off his dirty green vest, folded it, and stuck it between his back and the wall. “I am,” he said. “And you might do the same. One thing I’ve learned this side of the arches: when you get a chance to rest, take it.”
    â€œWill that Brangle-guy come back?” I asked.
    â€œSure,” he said. “I’m the Promised Champion, the hero of the story. They need me.”
    â€œSeems to me you need them , for the prophecy,” I said. “Not to mention helping get