Ottilie Colter and the Master of Monsters

by Rhiannon Williams

  Ottilie ignored him. Her elation was like a shield.

  The new flyers didn’t wait around, but Gully and Scoot hadn’t been called yet, so there was no doubt they would be footmen. Gully would be happy. She knew that, like Ned, he preferred to be on the ground, in the thick of it.

  Wrangler Kinney led the new flyers down to the lower grounds, where six wingerslinks were waiting in the paddock. He assigned one wingerslink to each flyer, leaving Ottilie for last.

  The only remaining wingerslink was small, far smaller than Maestro. She looked like she might once have had black fur, but it had dulled to a grizzled charcoal, and where it might have been thick and shiny, it was now coarse and clumped in odd tufts.

  ‘Colter, this is Nox,’ said Kinney, with a smirk. ‘She’s been retired for years, but we keep her around for training. We were going to send her away this year, but I decided she’s the one for you.’ His tone was gleeful. ‘Careful around her mouth, she’s lost a few teeth, but she’s a mean-tempered old harpy, and she loves to bite.’

  Ottilie could imagine his scathing smile, gold tooth glinting, but she didn’t look. Instead, she approached Nox and held out her hand for the old wingerslink to sniff. Nox looked into Ottilie’s face. There was strength in her pale green eyes. Ottilie took a step closer, and Nox bared her teeth in a snarl.

  33

  Nox

  The footmen and mounts only had one day before things moved forward, but the flyers were granted a little more time, and Ottilie was thankful for it. She headed for the wingerslink sanctuary at dawn. The end of winter had not brought the end of frost. Ottilie’s breath puffed into mist as she carefully descended the icy steps to the lower grounds.

  The first time she tried to climb into the saddle, Nox growled and pitched into a brutal roll. Ottilie had to scramble out of the way on her stomach to avoid being flattened like dough under a rolling pin.

  When she finally managed to clamber onto her back and ask Nox simply to walk forwards, the wingerslink bent her legs, tucked in her wings, and gripped the ground with her claws. Frustrated, Ottilie dug her heels in, and Nox responded to the pressure by leaping into the air and launching into a dangerously tight circle. Ottilie was caught off-guard, and flung sideways onto the grass.

  She could hear cackling in the distance, and looked over to see Wrangler Kinney laughing like a madman.

  ‘Kept her for training,’ Ottilie muttered under her breath. It was obvious that Nox hadn’t been ridden by anyone for a very long time.

  The next day, refusing to give in, she looked for a fresh angle. She marched into the sanctuary to get Nox’s brush, but it was missing from the hook in her pen. She checked the sanctuary was empty before whispering, ‘Bill.’

  ‘In here,’ said Bill’s voice from nearby.

  Ottilie found him around the corner, gently brushing a golden wingerslink called Glory. She was lying on her side, emitting rumbling purrs as Bill tended to her coat.

  ‘You’re spoiling them,’ she said, with a smile. ‘I need Nox’s brush.’

  Bill stopped brushing Glory and held it out to her. The golden wingerslink growled, rolled abruptly into a more upright position, and beheld Ottilie with accusing eyes.

  ‘Eel is her favourite,’ said Bill, reaching back to offer Glory a consoling pat.

  ‘Eel?’

  ‘Nox. You should give her some dried eel. She loves it.’

  ‘Thanks, Bill.’ Ottilie grabbed three crusting eels from the nearest barrel. She was willing to try anything at this point.

  By midday, Nox allowed Ottilie to climb onto her back again, but still refused to move. By mid-afternoon, she would walk and run but not fly. By dusk, she finally stretched her scraggy wings, and beat them unevenly in the air. Ottilie dug in with her heels. Nox was doing this on purpose. The old wingerslink was perfectly capable of flying.

  On the third day, when Ottilie reached to greet her, Nox lashed out, her fangs snapping over the thin air where Ottilie’s hand had been only seconds before. Ottilie responded by baring her own far less impressive teeth and shoving the wingerslink with her elbow. For a little while, it seemed they were even, until Ottilie tried to saddle her and Nox swung sideways, pinning her to the wall of the pen.

  That set the tone for the entire day’s work. It was as if they had never worked together before and Nox simply locked her bones and refused to move. She was running out of time. Tomorrow Ottilie would be hunting alone and if Nox didn’t behave she would doom them both.

  ‘You’ll be fine, Ottilie, don’t worry,’ said Gully.

  He was splayed on the end of her bed, one leg hanging over the side, too tired to move.

  ‘It’s not like the footmen,’ said Ottilie. ‘I’ll be on my own. What if we get out there and she flies off over the ocean, or just dumps me into a gorge? She doesn’t listen to me at all! She just does what she wants.’

  Gully laughed. ‘Maybe you should let her take you somewhere else. Anywhere would be safer than here, with Gracie and that witch running around, making packs and bloodbeasts and everything.’

  Ottilie sat up. She always kept Gully filled in, but he had never talked about leaving before, not since before Christopher Crow. ‘That’s not funny.’ She would never leave him behind. She grabbed his arm. ‘Unless you came too? We could just take some glow sticks and go. Right now.’

  Gully smiled sleepily and closed his eyes. It was strange remembering how much they had wanted to run away; now neither of them would think of it. Not seriously.

  ‘How was it out there without Ned?’ she asked.

  Gully had just finished his first proper hunt as a second-tier footman. He’d been rostered on with three others – fourth and fifth tiers who Ottilie didn’t know. He lifted his arms and let them flop beside him, his eyes still closed. ‘Not as fun,’ he huffed.

  ‘Could he ask to be rostered with you? They might let him.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Gully with a loud yawn.

  She wanted to keep asking questions, to keep Ned in the conversation, but she couldn’t think of anything else and Gully was being unhelpful.

  When sleep came to claim him, Ottilie nudged him awake and sent him off to his own room. After he left, she stared at the arched ceiling, her thoughts divided. One part of her was fretting over Nox, worrying that tomorrow would be even worse than today. The other part was still thinking about Ned. Would she ever see him now that he was no longer Gully’s guardian, and Leo wasn’t hers? She hated the thought.

  She rolled over and buried her head in the pillow. What a strange thing to be worrying over. She would stop: that was what she decided. She would stop thinking about it.

  But that didn’t work, and Ottilie lay awake far longer than made any sense.

  Her last day with Nox started better. Bill greeted her at the sanctuary by holding out a dried eel. With a tired laugh, Ottilie took his offering and marched into Nox’s pen. The wingerslink greeted her with a snort rather than a snarl. It was a definite improvement.

  Once in the air, Nox would occasionally dive with no warning, or swing her head around and snap at Ottilie’s ankle, but Ottilie refused to give in. They worked well into the night, until finally the stubborn wingerslink seemed to accept her. She circled and dived, sped and slowed, leapt and rolled, almost always at Ottilie’s command.

  She trekked back to the upper grounds feeling worn out but pleased with herself. She had finished just in time to catch the end of training in the haunted stables, and tell Leo of her triumph.

  Ottilie was halfway there when she saw activity at the boundary wall ahead. Tensing, she rushed over, frightened of what she’d see. The gate was thrown open and three horses galloped in. Ottilie’s stomach twisted into knots. Preddy was on one of them.

  There were two riders, each holding an injured huntsman slumped in front of him. Ottilie was swimming with guilty relief: Preddy was not one of the injured. She hurried over as they were helped down. The third horse, with no rider, moved timidly towards one of the injured
boys, and began sniffing at his face.

  One of the boys was able to walk with some assistance, but the other remained motionless, hanging over Preddy’s horse like a lumpy blanket.

  ‘He’s all right, I think,’ she heard one of them say. ‘Just unconscious. We lost his horse – the wylers … t-tore it all up.’ The speaker was very white.

  ‘That’s not all they did,’ said the other boy shakily. ‘That white one, the big one … it … it ate the heart. I saw it!’

  Ottilie stood frozen, her heart beating hard. There it was – proof. The white wyler was doing what no dredretch was supposed to do. It was eating, consuming … the wyler was a bloodbeast, bound to Gracie, bound to the living world.

  ‘She was there,’ said the first boy. ‘That little sculkie witch! She had knives!’

  So they were back. After her escape, Gracie had lain low. But the wylers were on the prowl again, seemingly intent on picking off the huntsmen one by one, and, united under Gracie’s command, they were more dangerous than ever.

  Preddy moved over to Ottilie’s side. ‘There was someone else,’ he whispered. His voice was steady. She recalled his reaction to the first wyler attack. How changed he was. She didn’t know if that was good or bad. ‘I don’t think they saw,’ he added, tipping his head towards the other boys, who were already making their way to the infirmary. ‘But there was someone in a hood, watching from far off.’

  Ottilie swallowed. ‘If they think there’s a second witch they’ll start suspecting us all again. They’ll start building iron coffins right now.’ She didn’t even want to think about what might happen to Maeve.

  ‘Do you want me not to tell them?’ said Preddy.

  Ottilie shook her head. ‘They need to know.’

  Last time, Whistler’s prediction had come true. But there was no avoiding it; the Hunt needed to know that there was someone worse than Gracie out there, a true witch. Everyone needed to be on guard.

  34

  Bill’s Warning

  Ottilie had spent the night in Gully’s room. She had that horrible fear again, the fear of separation. Seeing those boys injured reminded her just how dangerous it was out there, and today she would be facing it alone.

  She didn’t care if people thought she was weak or afraid. She was afraid and she wasn’t the only one. Word had spread quickly about the attack, and that morning Ottilie saw a notice on the dining room door, informing the huntsmen that their schedules would be revised to include fewer general patrols and more witching shifts.

  Preddy had informed the directorate about his sighting of the hooded witch, and Ottilie was awaiting the ramifications. She had found Maeve late the night before and warned her to be on guard. Thankfully, Maeve said she had gained some control over her transformations, and was doing better at keeping her magic in check.

  But Ottilie was still worried. The Hunt had been willing to lock Maeve up solely on the evidence of bones and a shaky accusation about a flaming tapestry. With everyone so on edge, the directorate might condemn any girl who didn’t act in the way they expected. Ottilie herself could easily be accused and carted off to the Laklands.

  She was considering paying Whistler a visit, to ask more questions. Things had changed since they’d been caught in her tower: she couldn’t help feeling that Whistler was on her side. She’d never reported their break-in or spoken up about the witch book. And it was Whistler who had warned her not to talk about witches in the first place.

  Ottilie couldn’t spend another night in the dark. She resolved to visit Whistler after her hunt that afternoon – if she made it to the afternoon. Her insides knotted, she reached for the dining room door.

  ‘HEY!’

  It was Scoot.

  Heart in her throat, Ottilie opened the door just in time to see Skip punching Igor Thrike in the face.

  ‘Skip!’ She hurried over.

  Scoot was pulling Skip away, pinning her arms to her sides, and Leo was helping someone off the floor. Igor’s nose was bleeding. For a moment he was preoccupied with wiping the blood away, but he quickly recovered. His face beetroot red, he advanced upon Skip, who was still struggling against Scoot.

  Just in time, Ottilie stuck out her foot, tripping Igor. He looked up at her from the floor, rage warping his features, but before he could do anything Montie Kit bellowed, ‘ENOUGH!’

  Everyone froze. Montie stormed out of the kitchen stairway to stand between Igor and Ottilie.

  Igor scrambled to his feet. ‘SHE –’

  ‘I saw it, Igor.’

  He raised his blood-covered hand and pointed at Skip. ‘Then you saw she –’

  ‘I saw it all! Come with me,’ snapped Montie. ‘Isla, report to the custodian chieftess. You tell her what happened and mind you be truthful. I’ll meet you in her chambers when I’m done here.’

  Skip finally stopped struggling against Scoot. She glared at Igor one last time and then turned for the door.

  ‘Take her to the infirmary, would you, Ottilie,’ said Montie, gesturing to someone behind her. Ottilie turned and saw Maeve, held up between Leo and Scoot. Her eyes were half closed and her head was drooping.

  Montie grabbed Igor and pulled him bodily out of the room. As she passed, Ottilie heard her say, ‘Wrangler Morse can decide what to do with you.’

  She hurried over to Maeve. ‘What happened?’

  Leo was pale, regarding Maeve with deep concern. On her other side, Scoot was fuming, his jaw jutting out.

  ‘Are you right to walk?’ said Leo.

  Maeve managed a dazed nod, but Scoot and Leo helped her across the room. Ottilie hurried along with them as Scoot explained what she had missed.

  ‘Thrike was the first one in there,’ he seethed. ‘She was alone. I came in and he had her by the throat. He was holding her there, talking in her ear. She couldn’t move.’

  ‘Calling me a witch …’ mumbled Maeve.

  ‘They called all the elites in for a meeting late last night,’ Leo explained. ‘Told us there’s another witch.’

  Ottilie ground her teeth. She had been worried about what the directorate would do. It hadn’t even occurred to her that they needed to fear the huntsmen too!

  ‘I yelled out,’ said Scoot. ‘And at the same time Skip and Mrs Kit and a bunch of sculkies came in with the food. He let her go, but shoved her, and her head hit the wall and she fell.’

  ‘Then Skip punched him in the face,’ added Leo, with a slight smile.

  ‘I saw that bit,’ said Ottilie. ‘Are you all right, Maeve?’

  ‘Just dizzy,’ she said. But Ottilie could see red marks on her neck from Igor’s large hands.

  ‘Will Skip get in trouble?’ asked Scoot.

  ‘A bit,’ said Leo. ‘Would have been worse if Voilies saw it, but I think Mrs Kit will help.’

  As soon as the patchies declared Maeve well, Ottilie and Leo had to leave her in the infirmary. The Hunt didn’t consider sitting with a shaken sculkie a good enough reason to be late for a shift. Maeve looked so distressed that Ottilie was reluctant to go, but Scoot promised he would stay as long as he could.

  When they reached the sanctuary, Ottilie and Leo went to their separate pens. Then, meeting in the field, their wingerslinks stood a short distance from each other. Both dominant felines, they weren’t the best of friends. Nox took every opportunity to swipe at Maestro with her claws, and Maestro had a nasty habit of butting into her side.

  Leo and Ottilie looked across at each other. He was off to patrol the alpine regions, and she would be heading north-west to hunt along Flaming River. She had never been beyond the wall without Leo before. Even when she first arrived in the Narroway, Leo had been there, leading the pickings from the guard tower at the Uskler border. The bells tolled. Leo flashed her a grin, and they took off, soaring over the wall in opposite directions.

  It was different, flying Nox beyond the boundary walls. Practising in the grounds was one thing but hunting in the Narroway was quite another. Nox was far better behaved. Although she
did seem to consider Ottilie’s commands more suggestions, the wingerslink wasn’t stupid – she knew this was no place for games.

  When they reached Flaming River, Ottilie had to ask three times before Nox finally slowed. Ottilie closed her eyes and listened, ears probing for anything disturbing the natural sounds of the forest below. She heard it immediately, the jarring call of cleavers not far off.

  Before she had time to ask, Nox descended, skimming the trees, which thinned into a clearing. Cleavers always moved in pairs and, sure enough, she spotted two below. They looked like drawings she had seen of rock sloths of the north, only the cleavers’ elongated arms spread into thin, flesh-like wings, with long claws of yellow bone at the ends, and curved spikes protruding from the joints. Like rock sloths, they had a mask of black fur across their eyes – but they had no eyes, only red gashes, as if their skin had been sliced and their eyeballs had fallen out.

  The cleavers spotted Nox and hooted their piercing call. Leaping from the ground, they flapped their wings and flew at the wingerslink, like a pair of lanky bats, gnashing their teeth as they rose.

  Nox was smaller than Maestro, and Ottilie could feel her movements were less powerful. She was undeniably slower, but something was soon apparent – Nox was exceptionally clever. The shrewd wingerslink knew exactly how to handle these cleavers. Not wholly by choice, Ottilie pulled back and let her take the lead.

  Nox kicked out at the first cleaver. It dodged her and she seemed to know just where it would duck. She tilted to the side, dipping her wing, which smacked into the cleaver, sending it plummeting towards the ground. Nox righted herself in the air in time for Ottilie to shoot the second cleaver down with an arrow. As it fell to pieces, the first recovered itself and shot up like a stone from a slingshot. Nox rolled almost lazily, and before the cleaver had even begun to change its trajectory, Ottilie shot it down.

  Giddy with victory, Ottilie threw herself forwards and hugged Nox. The wingerslink dived into a great looping spiral. She laughed out loud and held on tight. Nox was celebrating. Ottilie could feel her elation as she pulled out of the spiral, throwing her wings wide and drifting with the breeze.