No-one moved. Not a twitch.
Whistler waited.
There was only silence, and then, in the silence, the beat of bodies. Weight falling. Running. The pounding of hooves. The rattle of wagons. Ottilie stood up in the saddle and craned her neck to look through a gap in the wall.
The Fiory footmen had arrived.
They charged up the field towards the trapped huntsmen. Ottilie saw Hero bounding, a streak of white, and Billow thundering just behind with Ramona on his back. At least fifty Fiory girls sprinted in her wake. Skip was at the head, her cutlass raised to the sky. Somewhere in the throng Ottilie saw Alba’s braids flying as she ran. Soaring above them was a black owl. Maeve.
The canopy of jivvies lifted and tore down to meet the reinforcements. The dredretches surrounding the trapped huntsmen followed.
Nox leapt. Ottilie gripped her fur tight as she scaled the chunk of wall behind them. Reaching the top, she launched into the air and soared out over the field, ready to defend the new arrivals. Below, a wagon burst open and Captain Lyre jumped out.
‘What are you doing?’ Ottilie heard Wrangler Voilies shriek. ‘Don’t stop here, take us in to safety!’
Ottilie landed beside the wagon and yelled inside. ‘You can hurt them. It was all a lie. You can help!’
Captain Lyre nodded darkly, and drew the sword sheathed within his cane. Wrangler Morse burst from the wagon, picked up a fallen spear and bounded into the fray. Behind him, Wrangler Voilies slammed the door shut and locked the bolt.
Ottilie circled above the girls, taking down any flying dredretch she could see. Below her, Skip and Alba tackled a cleaver and Fawn shot an arrow through the skull of a pobe.
Scoot took a great running leap, diving on top of a giffersnak and pinning it with his spear. Something drew his gaze up. Ottilie knew what it was. Maestro flew overhead, casting him in shadow. When the light returned, Ottilie could see Scoot smiling. He’d seen Ned, rescued, flying with Leo.
Time moved strangely.
The black clouds swallowed the sky but were yet to yield a drop of rain. For what might have been hours, it felt like nothing had changed. The mounts from Arko arrived but, still, for every dredretch they felled, there was always another. Ottilie would have welcomed a storm, but there had been no thunder since the first crack.
Then, something shifted. Ottilie could smell it. Nox spiralled into the sky and, above the blood and horror and festering dredretch flesh, she could smell rain. She looked down and for the first time realised they were winning.
Nox circled low. A scorver was barrelling through the footmen; Ottilie shot it without blinking. A great reddish shape zoomed past. It was unfamiliar, and too fast to distinguish, but she could sense it straight away – another bloodbeast.
Preddy was nearby. He had come off his horse and was fighting a lycoat on foot. A fat raindrop landed on Ottilie’s cheek, but it almost didn’t matter anymore. The huntsmen were beating them back. They were going to win!
‘PREDDY!’ cried Scoot.
Ottilie’s head whipped around so fast her neck burned. She watched in horror as a learie pounced at Preddy, but he was grappling with the lycoat. There was no escaping it. Scoot leapt and, knocking Preddy sideways, disappeared beneath the learie.
Nox dived. Grasping the learie in her jaws, the wingerslink tossed it aside. From above, Leo shot down the lycoat. Preddy lay panting, staring in panic at Scoot, who was sprawled, unmoving, on the grass.
Ottilie jumped from the saddle while Nox was still in the air, landing hard on the ground. Her knees throbbed as she crawled to where Scoot lay.
‘Scoot?’
He saw her. She ran her hands over his wounds, trying to close them, trying to help. Scoot was deathly pale. Preddy was beside her, gripping his hand. Ottilie didn’t know what to do. She had to get him inside, to safety. She had to find Richter’s healers.
Wings flapped and air beat across her face. The world darkened and Whistler appeared. ‘Oh dear,’ she clucked.
Ottilie jumped to her feet and pointed her cutlass at Whistler. Her mind was set on a single purpose. ‘Fix him!’ she demanded, her arm shaking. ‘You can do magic. Fix him!’
‘Now why would I do that?’
Ottilie took a step closer, without a lick of fear. Whistler waved her hand and the cutlass burned so hot Ottilie cried out and dropped it.
‘Fix him, please. Just fix him!’ she begged.
Whistler sighed. ‘Well, why not?’ she said with a lazy wave of her sleeve.
Ottilie couldn’t believe what she was seeing. The wounds were glowing with a pale light; the flesh was knitting together. Scoot’s breathing eased. He looked merely asleep.
‘You just remember this, Ottilie,’ said Whistler, reaching out to grip Ottilie’s chin, her fingers like claws beneath the sleeve. ‘You remember this mercy.’
She didn’t know what to think. What had just happened? Why would Whistler do that? She opened her mouth to thank her. To say thank you to the witch who had caused all this misery. But before she could speak, a cruel smile twisted Whistler’s face.
‘Oh, I’m not finished yet,’ she said and, dropping her hand, she muttered something under her breath.
Ottilie whipped back to Scoot and cried out in horror. From the top of his head, grey flint started creeping across his skin. He was turning to stone!
‘Stop!’ Ottilie cried. ‘Please stop! STOP!’
But it was done.
‘WHY?’ she shrieked with more malice than she had ever conjured.
‘I fixed him for you, dear – where’s the gratitude?’ said Whistler.
‘He’s stone! Turn him back!’ She flung herself at Whistler, begging, clutching at her clothes.
‘He’d be no use to me if I turned him back,’ she said, prising Ottilie’s fingers from her jacket. ‘But heartstone. That’s very useful.’ She stepped towards him, but Ottilie shoved her aside and flung herself over the statue that was Scoot. ‘Don’t you dare touch him!’ she growled, the words cutting up her throat.
Around her, she felt others emerge, encircling Scoot, pointing their weapons at Whistler. The witch could have shifted them with a mere blink, Ottilie could sense it, but instead she just smiled. ‘You can keep him for now. But don’t forget, Ottilie, you’re in my debt.’
With a flash, the monstrous bird launched into the air. She felt the wind from her beating wings but didn’t watch where she flew. She was searching Scoot, looking for any tiny part of him that was still flesh.
Hours might have passed. Days even. Someone took her hand, pulling her gently back. Ned was there. He pulled his shirt loose and pressed it carefully over her hands, wiping away the blood.
‘It’s not mine,’ she said, in a daze.
‘I know,’ he said gently.
Ottilie looked down and saw Preddy rocking back and forth in Skip’s arms. Alba was beside him, holding his hand, tears streaming down her face.
Leo dismounted and stood by her side. Ottilie looked up and around in a panic. The dredretches! Gracie! Where were they?
As if hearing her thoughts, Leo looked at her.
‘They fled,’ he said blankly.
41
Victory
Ottilie stared at the ceiling. She had a bandage wrapped around her head, covering the severed tip of her ear, which had been cleaned and stitched up by the patchies. Gully was beside her, curled into a ball. He had barely moved from that position over the last two days. Preddy was sitting by the window, staring at the closed shutters, and Ned was on the floor at the end of the bed, knees bent, his head resting on his arms.
Scoot was in the infirmary. No-one knew what to do; the healers were flummoxed. Only magic would save him, Ottilie knew. Maeve had vowed to try, but she was still getting her bearings, with no-one to teach her.
Ottilie refused to believe that he was gone. She would find a way. If Maeve couldn’t do it, she would make Whistler fix him. Somehow. Some day.
Whistler and Gracie had disappeare
d and so, it seemed, had most of the bone singers. The few that remained at Fiory insisted on their innocence, but were locked up in the burrows for the time being. The directorate wanted information from them. Ottilie, too, wanted to understand more about them. There was so much she wanted to know. And she would find out soon enough, she didn’t doubt that. The battle of Fort Richter was not the end.
Richter was already in the process of restoration. Things were settling, but everything was different. They knew now. Word had spread. Everyone knew that the rule of innocence was a lie. They didn’t have to do this anymore; the king’s army could do it. That was the logic. But no-one offered it. Conductor Edderfed didn’t suggest it when he welcomed them back and congratulated them on their victory. Because he knew, they all knew, that no-one would take up the offer to leave. No-one who had lived through that battle, who got a taste of what Whistler had in store for the Usklers, could walk away now. No-one who had stood around the funeral pyres and mourned their fallen brothers and sisters wanted to be anywhere else. They wanted to be in the thick of it, on the frontlines. They wanted justice to be served. They wanted Whistler vanquished and Gracie Moravec to pay for her crimes.
The king could send his soldiers – Ottilie assumed he would – but they were trained to fight men, and out of practice at even that. The huntsmen knew how to handle dredretches. They were still the best hope for the Usklers.
Leo entered the room without knocking, and without looking at her. Ever since they had returned, whenever Ottilie’s tears fell, his were triggered within seconds. And since the battle her eyes were rarely dry. So he had developed a habit of staring at her good ear and nowhere else.
Ottilie was glad of it. She couldn’t look into his face without drowning in memories of the funerals. She remembered the pyre flames reflected in his eyes and the unfamiliar look of uncertainty, of fear. Leo usually shone with confidence, so sure of everything. Now that it was gone, Ottilie realised it was this quality that had helped make her feel safe in this dangerous world. As they said goodbye to the fallen, Leo had looked like a lost little boy, and Ottilie’s rock had crumbled to dust.
She remembered Preddy with his arm across Gully’s shoulders, so racked with grief he was barely able to stand. She had felt it herself. There was a hollowness, as if she had no bones anymore, only flesh and no way to prop it up, just strangled breath, trapped inside. Alba’s face had been buried in her mother’s arms. Skip was statuesque and dry-eyed, moving only to twitch when Captain Lyre spoke each name.
Ottilie could still see the smoke spiralling up from the pyre, and the bright flames dancing beneath. She saw it when the lights dimmed, when she closed her eyes, sometimes just when she breathed.
Leo moved out of the doorway to sit beside Ned at the end of her bed, and there they waited.
The door banged open. Skip was standing there, her eyes alight. ‘Why is it so dark in here?’
‘We were waiting to hear –’ said Ottilie.
Skip snorted, as if unable to muster a real laugh. ‘Why do you need to do that in the dark?’
There was a scrape of flint and Skip lit the lantern by the doorway. Ottilie pulled herself off the bed and lit another. Everyone was staring at Skip.
‘What did they say?’ said Gully, unfurling his limbs.
‘They gathered us all. Everyone here who’s not already a huntsman. Custodians, shovelies, even the adults – the cooks, wagoners, blacksmiths … Captain Lyre did the talking. He said we here in the Narroway are the first defence, all of us, that the huntsmen will be Whistler’s downfall, and that regardless of Usklerian law, and the names on the wall, anyone in the Narroway who wants to bring Whistler down will be trained to help do it.’
Leo turned to Ottilie, lantern light flickering in his eyes and a small smile on his face. She met his gaze and felt her own face lift. This little thing, which should have been so easy but had been so hard, this tiny step that had grown to the size of a mountain … they were going to train the girls. They were going to let them fight! There would be no more hiding, sneaking or lying. This was too important. Defeating Whistler was the only thing that mattered, and they had to do it together.
‘He’s not hurt,’ said Maeve.
Ottilie whirled around. Maeve was walking up the empty corridor behind her, not far from where she had pulled Ottilie and Scoot into the cupboard, months ago. Her chest hurt to think of Scoot hammering on the door.
‘Bill?’ said Ottilie, breathlessly.
‘I tried calling out to him in my head,’ said Maeve, ‘like he does with other birds sometimes, and I found him.’
‘You talked to him?’
Maeve shook her head sadly. ‘Just a sense, that he’s not hurt, and he’s not too frightened. I think they’re looking after him. They must need him for something.’
‘Like what?’ said Ottilie, her voice rough.
‘I couldn’t make the connection strong enough to get more. I’m still learning – trying to teach myself. I can choose to turn now, but it still happens when I’m sleeping, and the other things, the witch stuff, I can sort of squash it, but I can’t make anything happen on purpose. I’ve tried, for Scoot … and I wanted to at the battle, but I was most use as a bird,’ said Maeve, the memories dimming her bright eyes.
‘What is that thing Whistler can turn into?’ Ottilie asked, remembering the monstrous bird clinging to the turrets. ‘Gracie said she’s a fiorn, like you, but that thing is a monster.’
‘Do you know, I’ve been thinking about it,’ said Maeve. ‘I think, when she started meddling with dredretches, she corrupted herself, corrupted her form. I don’t think she chooses to become that thing. I think she wishes she could still be a bird.’
‘How do you know?’ said Ottilie.
‘Because, really, everyone wants to be good, don’t they? They must … Even Gracie, she still saved me, remember? Even after the binding she still came to rescue me and gave me a choice.
‘And Whistler, it’s hard to explain, but turning – apart from being really scary – it feels so right, like you’ve found a part of yourself that was missing. I think she hates herself. Hates what she’s become. I’ve felt that before, not on the same scale, but I’ve felt it. You can get to a point where you hate yourself so much, you think there’s no turning back. She’s old, Whistler. I read up on her after Bill said her name. I asked Alba for the book. Fennix Sol is the daughter of Viago the Vanquisher.’
Ottilie nodded. Gracie had told her that.
‘That makes her King Varrio’s aunt,’ said Maeve. ‘Clearly, she’s found a way to look younger. But that’s what I mean. She’s been around a long time, and she’s obsessed with this game with the king and, by the sounds of it, he’s not going to give up his power for anything. Between them, they’re going to turn the kingdom to ash.’
What was it, Ottilie wondered – why did she hate him so much? Ottilie had no love for the king herself. Villain though she was, Whistler didn’t seem like she was lying about his character. The existence of the Narroway Hunt proved him a selfish coward. Gracie had said all of this was about vengeance: vengeance not for Whistler, but for someone else. But who?
‘We’re going to stop it,’ said Ottilie. ‘We’re going to rescue Bill and we’re going to end this.’ She twisted the ring on her thumb.
Something had happened two days ago. Every ring-wearer had felt something, everyone but Ottilie. Her friends described an icy prickling on the skin beneath the ring. Sitting in the infirmary beside Scoot, she had looked over to see Alba cringe and scratch at her thumb. Across the room, the patchies had done the same. Alba had removed her ring to examine it under the light. Ottilie could still hear her tiny gasp as she beheld the new words scratched on the inside.
Ottilie had pulled hers off immediately, seeing as always: sleeper comes for none.
But Alba’s ring and, it appeared, everyone else’s now read: pay for what you’ve done.
42
Bone and Heartstone
It
was early morning when the idea occurred to her – a way to help Scoot. She felt so stupid for not thinking of it before. Without even bothering to change from her nightclothes, Ottilie pulled on her boots and hurried to find Alba.
Outside the communal springs, behind a statue of three sea eagles, Alba showed her the hidden passage that led to a dark corner of the burrows. There were no dredretches down there anymore. Not since the bone singers had revealed themselves as Whistler’s allies. Even though the guilty had fled, and those who claimed innocence were being closely monitored, the Hunt decided that keeping any dredretches within the boundary walls was too risky.
Wall watches had tripled, much to Leo’s displeasure. Huntsmen now patrolled every inch of the boundary, day and night. From the interrogations they discovered the bone singers had secret entrances to the grounds. This, the bone singers suggested, was how the wylers got in. The first, Ottilie assumed, had been guided by Whistler, perhaps with the particular purpose of wounding Gracie, preparing her for the binding. The others, Ottilie knew, Gracie herself had let in.
She still didn’t like to think about the night she had spent down in the burrows, all alone with the dredretches. But the Hunt had made things more comfortable for the bone singers, providing them with straw beds and meals twice a day.
She stepped into the flickering torchlight. There were rustlings of straw as the bone singers peeked through the bars to see who had disturbed their miserable silence. They still insisted they knew nothing of what Whistler was really up to, but Ottilie couldn’t believe it. They had been performing rituals on the bones of the dredretches, under Whistler’s instruction. How ignorant could they have been?
Ottilie and Alba hopped over a dark puddle in the centre of the floor, no doubt some foul fluid the dredretches had left behind. Peering into a cell on her left, Ottilie found Bonnie. The bone singer’s dark hair was braided neatly to one side. She supposed she didn’t have much else to occupy her hands. The straw, too, was knotted and braided into patterns here and there, or arranged into letters.
Ottilie Colter and the Master of Monsters Page 23