Ottilie Colter and the Master of Monsters

by Rhiannon Williams

  ‘The one that Maeve stole from you?’ said Gully.

  ‘Yes. It’s different. It was written by witches – not the people who buried them. It says that no woman, especially a woman capable of channelling magic, would ever do something so against nature.’

  ‘How come I’ve never heard about this before?’ said Preddy.

  ‘Because people don’t like to talk about it,’ said Alba.

  ‘Particularly your kind of people, I would think,’ said Skip. ‘You have heard about it, though, Preddy, you just don’t know it. It’s in the lightning song.’

  ‘The what?’ said Preddy.

  ‘Wail, whine, dinnertime, sleeper comes for none,’ Skip chanted.

  ‘Oh, you mean “The Sleeper Stars”,’ said Preddy. ‘That’s just an old nonsense rhyme. What’s it got to do with witches?’

  Everyone looked to Alba.

  ‘It’s “The Sleepless Stars”, not “Sleeper”. It’s an old rhyme, different from the lightning song,’ she said patiently. ‘All in a row, the glowing guide, from sleepless stars it cannot hide …’

  ‘Oh, yes, that’s what I was thinking of,’ said Preddy, pushing his glasses higher up his nose.

  Ottilie had never heard it before.

  ‘It’s lesser known,’ said Alba. ‘But for some reason people link them. They might have originated from the same area.’

  ‘But the lightning song?’ said Ottilie, eager to get back on topic. ‘It’s about witches?’ Scoot had told her that once, but she hadn’t wanted to believe it.

  Alba nodded. ‘The lightning part is about knowing where the burial sites are – flash, smack and crackle, lightning knows the spot. Hiss, flick and sputter, three will mark it hot.’ She shrugged. ‘Then wail, whine, dinnertime, sleeper comes for none. That’s the eating part. Then crunch, thud, dig deep down, pay for what you’ve done. That bit’s obvious. In some parts they sing it differently. There’s a line about resting or …’ She frowned, trying to remember.

  ‘No more rest for Mum,’ said Gully, with a smile.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Alba.

  Ottilie and Gully looked at each other. With every blink, Ottilie saw their old home. The sunnytree. Longwood. The Swamp Hollows. They had been arguing for years about the final line of the lightning song. As it turned out, both lines belonged, but neither were the last. They had always just thought it was about lightning … nothing more. Well, perhaps a superstition that it could bring on a storm, but that was it. Never about witches and iron coffins … and …

  ‘But … all right, like Skip said, Maeve hasn’t had a baby,’ said Ottilie, twitching in her seat. ‘She can’t have done that ritual. So why would they bury her in an iron box? She’s not immortal.’ Ottilie had never cared for small spaces. Being buried alive was just about the most horrible thing she could think of.

  ‘Sleepless,’ said Skip. ‘Isn’t that what they called them – not immortal, but sleepless witches?’

  Alba nodded. ‘I think people decided that sounded less scary. But sleepless or not, live burials are just what they do with witches, and iron coffins because iron supposedly repels magic – that’s how they restrained the ones they caught, with iron manacles.’

  Alarm bells clanged.

  They all jumped. There was a moment of silence, a breath between the bells, and then Gully cried, ‘Not again!’

  They heard shouts.

  ‘FLEDGES AND SCULKIES TO YOUR CHAMBERS!’

  Ottilie leapt to her feet.

  ‘WYLERS IN THE GROUNDS!’

  ‘M-more than one?’ said Preddy.

  Ottilie drew the cutlass that she now always kept strapped to her back. Alba and Skip gripped their knives. Ottilie looked between the two. ‘We need more weapons,’ she said. ‘There are some girls who don’t have any.’

  ‘There’s that emergency supply down the corridor,’ said Preddy, swaying as he got to his feet.

  ‘We’ll get them.’ Ottilie gestured to Alba and Skip.

  Preddy and Gully charged off. To their chambers, or in search of the wylers, Ottilie didn’t know which.

  The nearest weapon store was a hidden cupboard just down the corridor from the dining room. With sweaty palms Ottilie pressed a stone, and a chunk of the wall slid inwards.

  Skip slipped through the crack in the wall. ‘Argh!’ she cried out, jumping back. Hot air flooded the gap.

  ‘What, Skip?’ Arms shaking, Ottilie pushed the door open further.

  She gasped.

  Gracie Moravec was inside. She was sitting cross-legged against the wall. Her eyes were wide open and glowing black and red, like rings of flowing lava. Her arms were stretched out over her legs, palms up, and the scar from the wyler bite cracked and sparked, a crescent of burning embers on her golden skin.

  25

  Moth and Moravec

  Skip’s face twisted with curiosity and horror. ‘What’s wrong with her?’

  Ottilie inched into the cupboard. The stench of the hot air turned her stomach. She pressed her hand over her nose and mouth, trying to keep down her breakfast. Gracie didn’t seem to know that anyone was there. Ottilie waved a hand in front of her eyes. No reaction.

  ‘Is she hurt?’ said Alba. Her face was half covered by the blue handkerchief she’d pressed over her nose. ‘Did a wyler get her?’

  ‘She’s not hurt,’ said Ottilie, staring down at the bite on her arm. ‘She’s doing something.’ There were wylers in the fort again, and here was Gracie, locked in a secret store cupboard, her bite glowing. It couldn’t be a coincidence.

  It had been Gracie all along.

  Was she the hooded figure who had stalked Ottilie through the Narroway? Was she the witch who hexed the king? Ottilie didn’t know what was possible when it came to witches. Could they lengthen their lives without becoming sleepless? Could they choose the age they wished to appear? Perhaps Gracie was much older than she looked.

  ‘Alba.’ Ottilie stared at the bite on Gracie’s arm. ‘Have you read anything about wyler venom, about it making a … some sort of … link?’

  Alba shook her head, handkerchief fluttering. ‘No. I’ve … no.’

  ‘You think she’s controlling the wylers?’ said Skip, her eyes narrowing.

  ‘Look at her! She’s doing something,’ said Ottilie. ‘It’s like she’s not here. She’s in a trance, and her bite, look at it. It’s glowing.’ There wasn’t time to figure it all out, but this did prove one thing. ‘They’ve got the wrong person!’

  ‘Ottilie, you don’t know that! They could be working together,’ said Skip.

  It didn’t matter. ‘They’re going to the Laklands now! What if it’s all Gracie, and Maeve has nothing to do with it?’

  ‘Go, Ottilie,’ said Alba, lowering the handkerchief – she looked very green. ‘We’ll stay with Gracie. You go, get them to bring Maeve back!’

  Without another word, Ottilie dashed through the corridors, down the stairs, and out into the mostly deserted grounds. The world was eerily still.

  A deathly screech tore through the silence. Panicked, Ottilie whipped around and smacked into something hard.

  She and Preddy both fell to the ground.

  ‘Ottilie, what –’

  ‘It’s Gracie Moravec,’ she said, barely catching her breath. ‘She’s controlling them. We have to get Maeve back.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Come on, Preddy!’ She pulled him up and, both a little wobbly, they ran towards the main gate.

  There were four horses tethered to a tree nearby, snorting and twitching. The huntsmen obviously hadn’t had time to take them back to the stables when the alarms sounded.

  ‘Ottilie!’ Preddy panted, pointing to the horses.

  She scrambled up into the saddle of a black mare. Preddy jumped onto another and they galloped frantically towards the main gate. Her heart raced. She had only galloped once before, and that was under Ramona’s supervision.

  Approaching the gate, she pulled back hard on the reins. Her horse
skipped and stamped backwards and Ottilie nearly lost her seat. Gripping hard with her legs, she forced her breath back into her lungs and demanded, ‘Let us through!’

  ‘The fort’s in lockdown. No-one leaves,’ called a huntsman from above.

  Ottilie clenched her fists over the reins. ‘It’s urgent!’

  ‘You fledges should be in your chambers!’

  ‘Let them through!’

  It was Ned. The huntsmen on the wall froze, unsure of what to do. Ned was an elite; under normal circumstances they were supposed to defer to him.

  ‘Open the gate,’ said Ned calmly.

  Slowly, the gate rose. Ottilie ground her teeth. One day she would be an elite and the other huntsmen would listen to her.

  Ned looked to Ottilie, questions written all over his face.

  ‘They’ve got the wrong person. It’s Gracie Moravec,’ she said, speaking so fast she barely understood herself.

  His eyes flicked to the horse and back to Ottilie. ‘How are you at riding?’

  ‘New to it.’

  ‘Sit back as far as you can,’ said Ned.

  She jerked her feet out of the stirrups and slid to the very back of the saddle. Ned clambered up in front and she hoped he couldn’t feel her pulse quicken as she wrapped her arms tight around his middle.

  They galloped out across the fields and through the trees. Ottilie had never ridden so fast. It was an entirely different sensation to flying. She clung on to Ned for dear life as the two horses leapt over logs and hurtled around tight bends. The ride was heavier, louder and, to her, much more frightening than flying.

  They had just crossed into the Richter zone when Ottilie saw dust kicked up ahead.

  ‘There!’ she said.

  The horses skirted off the path, leaping through the scrub to circle around in front of the travellers. There were two wagons pulled by mountain bucks, four mounts with them, and Ottilie heard the whoosh of wings as a russet wingerslink passed overhead. Igor Thrike was circling above.

  ‘Eddy? Noel? What are you doing here?’ said Wrangler Voilies, sticking his head out of the first wagon.

  Ottilie jumped down from behind Ned. Her legs were shakier than she anticipated and she stumbled sideways, stubbing her toe hard on a rock.

  Voilies ignored her. ‘What is the meaning of this?’

  ‘You’ve got the wrong person,’ she said, shaking out her foot.

  The sallow-skinned Director Yaist stepped gingerly out of the wagon. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘It’s Gracie Moravec controlling the wylers,’ said Ottilie, still catching her breath.

  Yaist sniffed. ‘This girl was convicted of witchcraft.’

  ‘You don’t know the whole story!’ Her voice was shaking with frustration. ‘You rushed to decide because you’re scared. You wanted to get rid of her!’

  ‘How dare you!’ snarled Yaist, his yellowish lips pulling back from his teeth.

  Whistler dropped out of the second wagon. ‘Do you have proof, Ottilie?’

  ‘Of course she doesn’t!’ shrieked Voilies from inside. ‘She’s probably colluding with the witch! This is a diversion to help her escape!’

  ‘Pipe down, you warbling hog,’ said Whistler, waving her sleeves about. ‘Ottilie, from where have these wild conclusions emerged?’

  ‘There are wylers in the fort right now,’ said Ottilie feverishly, ‘and Gracie’s locked herself in a cupboard. She’s in some sort of trance and the bite on her arm is glowing.’

  ‘Wrong,’ said a soft voice from Ottilie’s left.

  Ottilie jumped. Gracie Moravec stepped delicately over a fallen branch and out onto the path. Her eyes had returned to normal, but the bite on her arm still glinted.

  Ottilie raised her cutlass. ‘How did you get here so fast?’ Her voice was thin and she knew her face betrayed her fear.

  Gracie glanced at the second wagon – the one that must have held Maeve, chained up inside.

  ‘I’m a witch,’ said Gracie with a smile.

  The huntsmen pointed their weapons at her.

  ‘Careful now,’ Gracie crooned.

  From everywhere, all around, wylers prowled out of the trees. The white one came last. It had grown to the size of a pony. It stood at Gracie’s side, black fangs bared, red eyes glowing.

  Bloodbeast – that’s what Captain Lyre had said. In that moment Ottilie knew: the white wyler had been eating the hearts. Perhaps not the white wyler alone. There could be more, she realised, many more. Jungle Bay … the knopoes. Her mind ticked and ticked, determined to remember. She thought that perhaps one of them, the first one, had been bigger than the others. It hadn’t been white. She knew that for sure. But it might have looked different from the rest of the troop.

  ‘No need to be frightened,’ said Gracie sweetly. ‘They won’t attack unless I ask them to.’

  ‘What happened to you?’ said Ottilie, her tone more helpless than she liked.

  ‘I told you, Ott. I’m the witch,’ Gracie said, sounding a little bored.

  Was this it, the answer she had been seeking?

  ‘Maeve Moth is innocent,’ Gracie continued, raising her eyes to Director Yaist.

  ‘Then what was she doing past the boundary wall?’ he demanded.

  ‘She was looking for me,’ said Gracie. ‘She found out what I was, and she was trying to stop me. She was too late, of course.’ A cruel smile twisted her face. ‘Bring her out. I want to see her.’

  ‘We do not take orders from little girls,’ said Director Yaist.

  Gracie’s eyes flashed red and the white wyler lunged at Yaist, snapped its jaws and nipped off his left thumb.

  Everything happened at once. The four mounts aimed arrows at the white wyler, but Gracie’s eyes flashed again and the circle of wylers snarled, closing in so tight that the huntsmen could barely shift their weight without touching them.

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ she said, reaching down to pick up Yaist’s bronze ring.

  A quick movement caught Ottilie’s eye. Still atop his horse, Preddy was removing his own ring to toss to Yaist. But the gesture caught Gracie’s attention.

  ‘No!’ snapped Gracie. ‘No-one helps him.’

  The white wyler turned its gaze to Preddy and braced to spring. The wylers pressed in on all sides. There were too many of them. If the huntsmen attacked, there was no guaranteeing who would survive.

  No-one moved.

  Ottilie was too scared to breathe, scared that anything she did might cause the enormous wyler, the bloodbeast, to leap at Preddy.

  Not again, she thought desperately. No-one else.

  In front, Director Yaist had fallen to the ground. Creamy bubbles, like sour milk, popped and dribbled out of the corners of his mouth. He clutched his head, whining in pain.

  Sickened and helpless, Ottilie could not tear her eyes away. She felt a strange emptiness – surely seeing this, watching this, should have elicited pain, shrieking, tears, anything … but she felt lost, and very far away. Her mind was a kite, drifting backwards and upwards, tethered to her skeleton by one feeble string.

  Distantly, she heard a sigh. Something glinted in the air and Ottilie realised Gracie had tossed Yaist’s ring onto the ground. Inclining her head, she said, ‘Go on, then.’

  Two mounts leapt from their horses, one of them sliding the ring onto Yaist’s right thumb, the other helping him to his feet. It seemed Gracie was going to let the director live, but her point had been made.

  ‘Bring the girl out!’ shrieked Wrangler Voilies, through panicked huffs.

  A footman dragged Maeve from the wagon. She was bound and gagged, her eyes wild. Ottilie blinked back into her body. She wanted to help Maeve.

  Gracie gently removed the gag.

  ‘Have her! Take her. Just let us leave!’ said Voilies in hysterics, his eyes darting back and forth between Gracie and the wyler pack.

  ‘Come with me,’ said Gracie.

  ‘No,’ said Maeve, her voice a mere rasping breath.

  Ottil
ie couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

  Neither, it seemed, could Gracie. ‘What?’ she said, dangerously. ‘They were going to bury you alive. They might still.’

  ‘No,’ said Maeve. ‘I’m not coming with you.’

  Ottilie’s ribs pressed in. Would Gracie set the wylers on her?

  Gracie’s eyes narrowed, but they didn’t flash red. She twirled and leapt onto the back of the white wyler, and in an instant, she and the whole pack turned tail and fled into the forest.

  26

  Sanctuary

  When they arrived back at Fiory, the wylers were gone. Voilies insisted that Ned and Preddy join him in speaking to the directorate, but Ottilie’s presence was apparently not required. She only hoped that it was Voilies snubbing her as usual, and not that he intended to use the meeting to get her into trouble.

  In truth, she was glad. She needed time to settle, to think. So Gracie was the witch who had been controlling the wylers. Why, then, had that first wyler bitten her? Why had she been so sick? Was it all for show? And what of Maeve?

  Alba and Skip were mostly unharmed, but Ramona was checking them over in Montie’s kitchen all the same. The cosy room was a wonderful relief from the bracing cold. The smells of baking bread and simmering soup wrapped around Ottilie like a hug.

  ‘She came to and pulled the knife on me,’ said Skip, filling her in.

  Gracie had slashed her across the ribs, but it was only a scrape. Ramona was cleaning the wound while Montie heated some pumpkin soup left over from lunch. Even after what she had just witnessed Ottilie still found it hard to picture. Gracie Moravec, attacking Skip with a knife. It didn’t seem real. How could people do things like that to one another? How had Gracie’s body let her do it?

  ‘Skip tackled her,’ said Alba, her eyes wide. One of her braids had come loose, and her usually smooth, straight hair was scrunched in a matted knot at the side of her head.

  ‘I had her!’ said Skip, scowling. ‘But then one of the wylers came.’

  ‘It was like she could control it!’ said Alba. ‘They could have killed us, the two of them, but it seemed like she was in a rush to be somewhere – obviously to reach the wagons.’ She nodded her head at Ottilie, who had just finished her own account. ‘So she just fled,’ Alba continued, ‘and the wyler held us there for a bit, and then went after her.’