Ottilie Colter and the Master of Monsters

by Rhiannon Williams

Ottilie did not move. Was she right to wait for help? Or was she just too scared to face it?

  Something changed in the atmosphere. It was soft, but she could hear them coming, footsteps running in their direction. Help was on its way. The only problem was the wyler clearly sensed it too. Like a flaming arrow it shot out from under the bed, scattering the sculkies in all directions.

  It was chaos. Some of them made it out of the room, knocking others to the floor as they stampeded. Maeve pulled the cutlass from the sheath across Ottilie’s back and stood beside her just as Skip had done.

  ‘Get onto the beds!’ said Ottilie, trying to raise her voice above the clamour. She wanted a clear view of the floor.

  As they shifted, Ottilie saw a shape slumped against the back wall. Mousy hair covered the girl’s face, falling across her chest, where it mingled with blood and clumped together like marsh weed down the front of her nightdress.

  Now she had really failed. Ottilie was there, in the room, and she had done nothing. But she couldn’t think about that. She had to focus.

  She saw a shadow shift to her left. Ottilie spun and dived, but the wyler was too quick. She glimpsed it skittering to the left and, anticipating its intention, she threw herself in front of Maeve, who had not jumped onto a bed.

  Ottilie kicked out. Her boot met its horned skull and she grunted in pain as the wyler was thrown across the room. Dizzied by the kick, it slowed. Ignoring her throbbing foot, she nocked an arrow and fired, just a second too slow. The arrow hit the wall as the wyler shot under another bed.

  The sculkies on top of that bed leapt onto another. They had gone silent.

  Ottilie waved Maeve forwards and together they tipped the bed, shoving it to the side. The wyler shot out and pounced like a cat, scattering the sculkies on a nearby bed. Ottilie threw her bow to the side. It was too dangerous to be firing arrows with so many bodies everywhere.

  The footsteps thundered. Igor Thrike raced into the room, followed by Bacon Skitter and Preddy. Bacon went straight for the wyler, which was perched on the bedframe. The wyler leapt at his face. Bacon ducked, creating a springboard for the wyler to leap across the room. Igor swung out with his hammer. He clipped it, managing to knock it off-course. The wyler rolled and righted itself. Ottilie slashed her knife, blade meeting flesh, but not deep enough. For a second the wyler disappeared. The room froze.

  Maeve’s low voice broke the silence. ‘Gracie!’

  The sculkies parted. Gracie Moravec was staring down at her forearm, a look of vague interest in her strange pale eyes, as ribbons of blood slithered from the teeth marks in her arm and dribbled onto the floor.

  The wyler pounced at Maeve. It was slower now, leaking black blood across the room from where Ottilie’s knife had slit its skin. Preddy dived in front of her, his cutlass slashing. There was a hiss and a thud and the wyler’s horned head rolled across the floor to land at Gracie’s feet. It remained whole for a moment before the flesh melted away, leaving only sticky bone and clumps of matted orange fur, which dulled to brown, then grey, then shrivelled to crispy black before their eyes.

  5

  The Dark Hours

  ‘I don’t think night-doubles apply if you’re inside. Bad luck, Noel,’ said Igor Thrike.

  Ottilie looked him square in the eye and spat on the floor. She had never done such a thing, but the image of the sculkie being hoisted onto a stretcher, her chest in tatters, swam in her mind and it seemed the right gesture for the moment.

  ‘Woah, Shovels, not very ladylike,’ Igor sneered. ‘Best put on an apron and clean that up.’

  Ottilie ground her teeth but said nothing. She was distracted by Preddy. He was leaning against the wall, his pale face peppered with inky blood. He seemed sickly, and she was worried he’d been bitten or scratched. Wylers had nasty venom and their bite could be fatal. Bacon and Maeve had rushed Gracie down to the infirmary after the wyler had ripped into her arm.

  Ottilie gripped Preddy’s wrist. His eyes were hooded and heavy.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she said, as if coaxing an animal from its hiding place.

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘Preddy, did you get hurt?’ Her voice wobbled as she spoke.

  He shook his head and swallowed. ‘It’s so different out there … hunting. It’s different to this – protecting people, trying to save them.’

  ‘You did save them,’ she said. ‘You stopped it hurting Maeve.’

  ‘But that girl’ – his eyes darted to the blood smeared against the wall – ‘and the boy out in the hall.’

  ‘You couldn’t have done anything. You weren’t even in the room when …’ Ottilie couldn’t finish the sentence. She had been in the room and done nothing. The chamber reeled, her vision clouded, but she snapped herself back. Preddy wasn’t coping. She had to help him.

  It occurred to her that Preddy had never seen anyone badly hurt by a dredretch. She remembered the shock of Christopher Crow’s horrific death and took Preddy’s hand in hers. She had nearly stifled the impulse, a habit from days past.

  ‘But how did it get into the bedchamber?’ said Wrangler Voilies’ voice from the corridor.

  Ottilie was more interested in finding out how it had got past the boundary walls. She looked to the doorway, as if Voilies would announce it upon entering the room.

  Captain Lyre strode in, Wrangler Voilies just a step behind. Voilies was very pink in the face, and his skin looked shiny, as if he had been sweating nervously for hours. Captain Lyre looked much more composed. He was wearing his usual blue coat, and behind his neat black beard his mouth was a thin line, his normal cheery grin far from present.

  ‘I can tell you how it got into the room,’ said Maeve Moth, entering behind them. She looked to be in a terrible temper, which wasn’t unusual, but Ottilie did wonder why she hadn’t stayed in the infirmary with Gracie.

  ‘You can?’ said Wrangler Voilies, his voice pitching high and cutting out.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, eyes flashing. She didn’t seem to be the slightest bit nervous about addressing a wrangler and a director. The directors were almost the highest authorities – only Conductor Edderfed, the Fiory Cardinal Conductor, ranked above them – and Captain Lyre was one of three Fiory directors. He went by Captain because he was captain of ceremonies – a title, Ottilie suspected, he may have given himself.

  Captain Lyre fixed his gaze on Maeve. ‘What happened?’ he said evenly.

  ‘Tommy came in to check on Fawn,’ said Maeve. ‘After he left we heard something out in the corridor, so Fawn opened the door to look. She found him on the floor and ran back and shut it, but that thing must have snuck in while it was open.’ Her voice was heavy with accusation.

  ‘Who is Faw–’ began Wrangler Voilies.

  ‘Fawn and Tommy Mogue are cousins,’ said Captain Lyre, cutting him off. ‘They were separated at a young age and reunited by chance here at Fiory.’ His voice was calm, but his eyes were heavy.

  Ottilie was taken aback – not because of the unlikely story, but because Captain Lyre knew such personal details about them. She had been under the impression that the directors, and many of the wranglers, thought themselves above knowing even the names of the custodians.

  Ottilie glanced over to the corner where most of the uninjured girls were gathered. Montie Kit and the burly custodian chieftess, their supervisor, were talking with the girls. Montie’s arm was around a girl with shaking shoulders. Ottilie couldn’t see her face, but a tangle of coppery hair hung down her back.

  Wrangler Voilies pursed his lips. ‘Tommy shouldn’t have been out of his room,’ he said callously. ‘The non-elites were instructed to stay out of the way.’ His eyes fell upon Ottilie. He opened his mouth to speak but Maeve got in first.

  ‘If they hadn’t come, it would have been a massacre,’ she said.

  Ottilie couldn’t believe her ears. Could Maeve Moth be standing up for her? Preddy had saved her life. She was undoubtedly speaking for him rather than for Ottilie.

  ‘In
deed,’ said Captain Lyre. ‘I think in this instance they can be forgiven for disobeying orders.’

  Ottilie could tell Wrangler Voilies did not agree, but it was clearly unacceptable for a wrangler to question a director. An unpleasant smile stretched his lips, as if pulled by two fish hooks. His tiny, watery eyes didn’t leave her face and Ottilie had a feeling that had Preddy not been involved, Wrangler Voilies would have pushed much harder for punishment.

  Preddy’s bedchamber was in one of the elite towers. Having spent the first part of the year at Fort Richter, Preddy had missed out on a fledgling room. His was just off the spiral staircase, and twice the size of Ottilie’s.

  Scoot was outraged by it – he insisted that Wrangler Voilies had assigned Preddy a better bedchamber because, in Scoot’s words, he was ‘a slimy old bootlicker’.

  Knowing that there were plenty of other spare rooms in the fort, Ottilie was inclined to agree. Everyone knew Preddy came from a wealthy family and Voilies seemed to think that was something worth rewarding.

  Ottilie took a deep breath. She was finding it difficult to form words. ‘Drink,’ she managed to say, pressing a cup of water into Preddy’s clammy hands. He raised the cup and paused, as if he had forgotten what to do. Ottilie placed her hands over his and lifted the cup to his lips. He took a small sip and lowered it, his eyes unfocused.

  In her concern, she found her voice. ‘Are you sure you weren’t hurt? Maybe I should get the patchies to check you over, just in case.’

  He shook his head and said quietly, ‘I think I just need to sleep.’

  Ottilie waited on his bed while he scrubbed himself off in the washroom. Her head was spinning and every time she thought of the fallen sculkie and Tommy her heart seemed to stick mid-beat. Joely Wrecker, she realised – that was the girl’s name. She felt ashamed for not remembering it earlier.

  What was happening here? How had that wyler got in? And the knopoes by the sea, the dead animals, that creeper in the shadows – the hooded figure that always appeared before disaster struck. A witch? Ottilie had considered it before. The witches were supposed to be gone, dead and buried – or alive and buried, as some believed.

  She shuddered but couldn’t shake the thought. She and Alba suspected that a witch had hexed the king so that he couldn’t defend his lands with armies of men. That was why the Narroway Hunt existed, why children were kidnapped and trained to hunt monsters.

  She had wondered before if the same witch might be setting the monsters on them. Why? She couldn’t even guess. But if a witch really was behind it, if that hooded figure had somehow snuck the wyler into the grounds, then this was surely just the beginning. But who was it? Who was the witch beneath the hood?

  Ottilie’s heart beat wildly. Her ribs seemed to press in around it, straining her breath. She lurched up and paced the room, counting her steps. An unwelcome image formed. Gracie Moravec. She’d had such a peculiar expression on her face after she’d been bitten. There had been no hint of fear or pain – just curiosity.

  There was something not right about Gracie, unsettling, even fox-like. She never said much, but she put Ottilie on edge. She still remembered the time, months ago, that she had woken up to find Gracie staring at her, smiling in the dark.

  Preddy emerged in his nightclothes with a little more colour in his cheeks. Ottilie found that she didn’t want to leave him. In truth, she was scared of how she might feel on her own. Before she could consider her options the door swung open. Preddy jumped so violently he almost lost his footing. Ottilie took his elbow to steady him.

  Scoot was standing in the doorway, an odd expression on his face. ‘What are you doing in here?’ he whispered, his eyes darting between Ottilie and Preddy.

  ‘I’m …’ She wasn’t sure what to say – looking after Preddy? That was what she was doing, but it seemed a strange thing to say. ‘I’m just talking to Preddy.’

  Scoot raised his eyebrows. She didn’t understand his problem. Scoot was always in her room.

  ‘What are you doing in here?’ she said.

  Scoot slid the door shut behind him. ‘I heard Preddy snagged the wyler,’ he said, a triumphant grin taking over his face.

  ‘He did.’

  ‘Nice one!’ said Scoot, doing a celebratory jig across the room. As he approached, his grin faded and his movements slowed. ‘You didn’t get bit, did you, Preddy?’

  ‘No, I’m fine.’

  ‘You don’t look fine,’ said Scoot, narrowing his eyes.

  ‘He’s tired,’ Ottilie said.

  Scoot jumped onto the bed. ‘Come on, give us the story. I heard Igor and Bacon were there – how’d you get in before the elites? They would have hated that!’ He hooted with glee.

  Preddy seemed on the verge of tears.

  ‘Come on, Scoot, let him sleep,’ said Ottilie quickly, pulling Scoot towards the door.

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’ he said, taking no care to keep Preddy from hearing.

  ‘He needs to rest. Come on.’ She steered him out the door and shut it behind them.

  ‘What are you two doing up here?’

  Ottilie sighed and turned to face Leo, who was coming up the stairs, Ned just behind him. A familiar feeling settled in, a weight that reminded her of her old home in the Swamp Hollows and the people she had left behind: her mother, Freddie, and her neighbours, Old Moss and Mr Parch. She felt older and stretched thin, as if invisible ropes tethered her to the people she cared for.

  ‘We were just talking to Preddy. Now we’re going to bed,’ she said wearily.

  Something must have shown on her face because Ned said, ‘Is he all right?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t he be?’ said Leo. ‘Tell him congratulations from me,’ he added, grinning. ‘For showing up Thrike.’

  ‘He doesn’t want your congratulations,’ muttered Ottilie, her head spinning again.

  ‘What was that, Ott?’ said Leo, cupping his hand to his ear. ‘I thought I got you out of your bad mood.’

  ‘Two people died, mate,’ said Ned, softly.

  Beside her, Ottilie sensed Scoot stiffen. He hadn’t known.

  Something flickered across Leo’s face, and his smile faltered. He hitched it back up. ‘Well, thanks to Noel it wasn’t more, that’s all I’m saying.’ His voice changed. ‘Tell him well done,’ he said, more seriously. ‘He did good.’

  6

  Feathers

  The next morning, Ottilie felt strange leaving the safety of her weapon-stocked bedchamber. For the first time she wondered if she should have armed herself for breakfast. She almost considered turning back for her cutlass, but something stopped her. What would people say if she arrived armed and in her daywear clothes? She was ashamed to admit it, but she couldn’t face the judgement. She knew what they would think. That she was a frightened girl. That it was proof she was unfit to be a huntsman. That girls were cowardly and weak. Leo had once called her a weak little witch and Ottilie had never forgotten it.

  Scoot was leaning across a table at the far end of the dining room. He was frowning and talking fast. Opposite him, Preddy looked pale but steady. He must have managed to get some sleep. Ottilie hadn’t been so lucky. Every time she closed her eyes she pictured Joely Wrecker slumped against the wall.

  A pall hung over the space. The clinks and scrapes of dishes seemed uncommonly loud and Ottilie realised it was because hardly anyone was talking. When she looked closely, she caught glimpses of swollen eyes and clenched jaws. She wondered if they were afraid. If one wyler could get in, then couldn’t another?

  It shouldn’t have happened that way. Ottilie shouldn’t have been the only armed and trained girl in that bedchamber. Was anyone else thinking the same? She wasn’t sure what to do, but it was time to do something.

  ‘Morning, Ott,’ said Bayo Amadory, rising from a table to her left. Bayo was Scoot’s guardian. He had very broad shoulders and a usually cheerful face with a crooked nose, which Ottilie suspected had been broken during a struggle with a dredretch.

&n
bsp; This morning his smile was strained. She didn’t know him very well, but he was always friendly, even back when she was a shovelie. ‘I wanted to say well done, for last night. I heard what happened. You and Preddy really stepped up,’ he said. His words were kind, but his voice was grave.

  ‘Thank you,’ Ottilie mumbled, looking at her boots. It was difficult to talk about. Silence fell between them and she felt a strange need to mention Tommy and Joely, as if discussing the night without mentioning them was somehow wrong – but what words were there to say?

  She met Bayo’s gaze and saw the same hopeless confusion. She wondered how many huntsmen they had lost in the three years Bayo had been at Fiory. When Christopher Crow had died, Captain Lyre had suggested that deaths were not at all common, but Ottilie didn’t know how to ask anyone without trivialising the loss. Also, there was a very big part of her that didn’t actually want to know.

  Finally, Bayo said quietly, ‘Horrible night.’ He shook his head. ‘The directorate’s still trying to figure out how it got in. It’s all really …’ He couldn’t seem to find the word. Giving up, he said, ‘Did you hear about that bone singer?’ ‘No, what happened? Was someone hurt?’ said Ottilie, her heart rattling. She didn’t think she could cope if she heard one more person had been hurt.

  ‘Apparently one of them had a sort of fit. It was before the attack. No-one seems to know what happened, if it had something to do with the wyler or what … But who knows what the bone singers get up to,’ he said, with a forced shrug. ‘I’m guessing he’s all right now, but they keep to themselves, don’t they? Anyway’ – he clapped her on the shoulder with one large hand – ‘praying for a normal day.’ Bayo shot Scoot a stiff wave across the room, and strode out the door.

  The bone singers were a mystery to everyone. They tracked the dredretch fells, marked the ranking walls, and performed some sort of ritual on the remains. Ottilie had worked with them a fair bit when she was a shovelie.

  She remembered Bonnie and Nicolai humming and sprinkling glittering salt on the dredretch bones. She could only assume it was a ritual to make sure the dredretches stayed dead, although dead wasn’t quite the right word; gone was perhaps better.