Maestro appeared at Leo’s shoulder. His ears flattened forwards. He reached tentatively with his paw, making a vague swatting motion, then lunged forwards, crushing the leaves with his two front paws. Maeve woke with a yelp. She looked up at them all and narrowed her eyes. ‘What?’
‘You were making the leaves dance,’ said Gully, grinning while he picked at the apple.
‘Shouldn’t we be going?’ she snapped, clearly trying to shift the attention away from anything strange she may have been doing in her sleep.
Silence fell. They had to go. There would be no more stopping. They would fly directly north – over Wikric, along the River Hook – straight for the iron coffin buried beneath the sunnytree.
23
The Corpse
Ottilie had never seen so much of the world, and she had never been in a worse state to appreciate it. They stuck to the wilds as best they could manage, but there was no time to lose, and the straightest route north took them over some areas of civilisation.
She wondered what the townsfolk would think of the two mighty wingerslinks flying high above. She couldn’t imagine how she would have reacted if she had seen such a thing. Would she have thought them monsters? It was highly likely. After all, she had never heard of a wingerslink before she met Maestro. They were not native to the Uskler Islands. The Hunt sourced their wingerslinks from the highlands of Southern Triptiquery.
Her breath caught as they flew by a sprawling mass of grey buildings, sliced down the middle by the River Hook – Wikric Town. She looked over to see Skip gazing over Maestro’s side at her old home. Scoot’s, too, she remembered.
They passed over rolling hills on the outskirts of town, and Ottilie saw lofty manors perched up high, far beyond the crowded city. She wondered if that was where Preddy was from. It seemed likely. Were his cruel parents and five siblings just now waking up inside one of those palatial buildings?
Leaving Wikric behind, Ottilie could see the very tips of Longwood’s fingers, thickening and branching out into the vast forest that ran all the way to the northern mouth of the river and to Scarpy Village, where Montie and Alba had lived. And halfway between here and there was the Brakkerswamp – her old home.
The flight was far quicker than Ottilie’s first journey between Wikric and the Swamp Hollows. Before she knew how to feel about it, Nox was landing in the field of krippygrass, her hefty paws sinking into the soil. She lifted them one after the other with a rumble of distaste. Maestro landed beside her, sending watery mud flying in every direction. Nox swung her head and snarled.
‘Shh,’ said Ottilie, nudging the wingerslink with her foot.
Nox snapped at her boot, but Ottilie barely noticed. She was looking ahead. She and Gully had stopped visiting the sunnytree after lightning had struck it. They had never come back for their treasure. She didn’t know a lot about trees, but she was quite sure that a lightning-struck tree should be merely a stump, if that, seven years after the impact.
The tree was dead – there was no denying that. It was split down the centre, but the halved trunk had not fallen, or even diminished in breadth. The branches still stretched out just as before, but its bark was black as night, with no golden flowers in sight. It reminded her, horribly, of the Withering Wood.
Ottilie jumped off Nox and hurried towards it. There was no black oil dripping, no rotting dredretch stench. Cautiously, she pressed her hand to the singed bark, but it was not slimy or spongy – just a dried-out corpse. Around its base was a circle of mud, with sparse spears of krippygrass that were shorter and darker than those in the rest of the field.
She considered what was buried beneath her feet. Not their treasure, but something deeper, darker … She took a few steps back, her heart pounding.
She turned to find Gully behind her, scooping back mud with his hands.
‘What are you doing?’ called Leo in alarm.
‘It’s nearly midday, we need to get into position,’ said Skip.
‘Gully, come on,’ said Ottilie, pulling him backwards.
‘I just want to see if our stuff’s still there!’
‘We don’t have time!’
Gully shook her off. Ottilie was about to give in, let him dig it up, but she felt the bone necklace humming in her pocket. ‘She’s coming!’ She wrenched Gully backwards.
Maeve soared out of the trees, finally making Gully pay attention. She had been scouting, hoping to get an idea of which direction Whistler would come from.
‘They’re on foot,’ said Maeve breathlessly, stepping out of the air. ‘Coming from the southwest. They’re not far – they’ll be here right on midday.’
Ottilie, Leo and Gully spoke together:
‘Is he all right –’
‘How did he look –’
‘Is he hurt –’
‘He’s not himself,’ said Maeve. ‘He’s like the walking dea–’ She paused, noting their horror. ‘But unharmed, from what I could see,’ she added quickly. ‘She must have done something to make him stay asleep – she’s tied herself to him with a bit of rope. She’s on her own, no bone singers or Gracie or anyone.’
‘Good,’ said Ottilie, feeling slightly relieved. But her hand shook as she pulled her bow from her back. Whistler on her own still outmatched them. Their only hope was surprising her again.
Quickly, they got into position. Maeve changed back and led the wingerslinks, unable to hide anywhere close, to the distant Brakkerbend Hill. Skip and Leo slid into a ditch, finding extra cover beneath the high grasses. Ottilie and Gully crouched in the mud behind the sunnytree itself.
Ottilie could hear her heart beating as they waited. She could see the little X she had carved on a branch so many years ago, and tried not to think of what was buried beneath it.
Finally, after what seemed like an age, Ned appeared, wandering into the field of krippygrass as if he were in a dream. Behind him was Whistler with her uneven gait.
Ottilie felt Gully twitch beside her. ‘Wait,’ she whispered.
As Whistler came closer and closer, Ottilie lost sight of her through the cracks in the tree trunk. She would wait for Leo’s call. He had a full view – Leo would see when Ned was out of the way.
Wait, wait, wait …
Something didn’t feel right.
Too much time had passed. The shard of bone hummed in her pocket and Ottilie realised her mistake too late.
A swish of krippygrass.
A hand snatched.
‘Too slow!’ Whistler hissed as her fingernails dug into Ottilie’s arm, and she pulled her sideways into the mush.
24
Dig Deep Down
Ottilie couldn’t think. Her eyes snapped to Gully; charred roots had burst from the mud, twisting up, pulling him down, leaving only one arm free. She recoiled as rough fingers curled around her limbs, dragging her lower. Her legs sank into the mud. She was sprawled on her stomach, the roots lashing her down. She couldn’t breathe.
Whistler was standing above them.
She must have known – sensed that Ottilie was there because of the bone necklace. With a groan, Ottilie remembered it was a direct link. She could feel when Whistler was near, but it went both ways. Everyone had told her to get rid of it and she hadn’t listened and now she was sinking, drowning. She had ruined their only chance, doomed them all …
Leo hadn’t given the signal. What had happened to him and the others? What had Whistler done? Ottilie looked up at the witch, terror and hatred blazing. Her vision swam. She was panicking, but something caught her attention. Behind Whistler, she could see Ned. The light had returned to his eyes.
Whistler didn’t know – she thought he was still sleepwalking. He shook his head at Ottilie, warning her not to give him away. So quick it made her twitch, he snatched at the rope that bound him to Whistler, wrenching the witch off her feet.
Gully tossed his cutlass to Ned, who was already lunging forwards. Catching it in one hand, he plunged the blade. It was a whisker from her heart when the bla
de turned to dust.
Whistler flicked her sleeve and Ned was blasted backwards into the ground. Ottilie couldn’t see him through the grass. Terror engulfed her. She didn’t know if he was alive – if any of them were. Only Gully, breathing beside her. He gasped as the roots whipped up to snatch his free hand and Whistler staggered upright, her eyes rolling and flashing like a billowing storm.
Ottilie’s legs sank lower. The pressure was more than she could bear. Fear clouded her vision. Something scratched at her fingertips. She managed to turn her head just enough to see Gully straining to reach out, touching his hand to hers.
Maeve was their only hope. But where was she? She was supposed to tie up the wingerslinks and follow Whistler.
‘Relentless.’ The pointed tips of Whistler’s boots appeared in front of Ottilie’s nose.
Ottilie didn’t look up. She didn’t want that hateful witch to be the last thing she saw.
‘You’re here for your friend, I assume?’
Ottilie pressed her fingertips more firmly into Gully’s.
‘It’s rude not to look at someone when they’re speaking to you,’ snapped Whistler. She sighed. ‘Oh, all right then.’ The roots withdrew an inch or two and Ottilie’s panic eased. Whistler bent down and clutched Ottilie’s chin, her fingernails like claws beneath the sleeve. ‘I do hate to hurt you, my hatchling.’
Ottilie wrenched her chin out of Whistler’s grip.
‘But you do insist on fighting me. A rumbler. But you’re aiming your wrath in the wrong direction.’ Whistler stood upright and leaned against the blackened tree trunk. She paused, meeting Ottilie’s gaze. ‘You’ve met him now, I know. What did you think of my charming nephew?’
‘He’s yet to turn one of my friends to stone.’
Whistler’s face darkened, and with it the sun itself seemed to dim. ‘How much clearer do I need to make it?’ She growled. ‘He is the cause of it all. Everything. Your friend is stone because of Varrio Sol.’
‘My friend is stone because of you.’
‘Varrio Sol destroys innocents. He made an army of children so he could keep his crown.’
‘To battle monsters that you control!’
‘Enough!’
Ottilie had crossed the line, and she knew it.
‘You had your chance,’ said Whistler. ‘I tried to save you, but time’s up. I have none left to waste. Three circles, circles, circles past … such a helpful rhyme. I let Gracie pick the guide to mark. She’d been watching closely – knew you all best.
‘I did hope Bill would tell me where to go much sooner, but he couldn’t remember, poor beetle. Disturbing memories ... But Ned here did very well.’ She waved her sleeve backwards to where Ned was hidden beneath the krippygrass.
‘It was an interesting choice. I worried he was too sensible, but I was pleasantly surprised. So helpful of him not to make a fuss about the burns and the dreams. And you, dear, so good at keeping secrets. If word got out that he was dreamwalking I’d have had to snatch him much sooner, and I don’t much fancy keeping prisoners if I can avoid it. It’s not my style.’
Why was Whistler saying all this? It must have been to hurt Ned. That meant he was still conscious, still alive, perhaps just lashed to the ground like her and Gully. Ottilie’s thoughts buzzed. She needed to keep Whistler talking – anything to keep her from freeing the sleepless witch. Or at least to distract her until Maeve came. Surely Maeve would come.
Ottilie tried to steady her nerves. ‘Why do you hate the king so much? What did he do?’
Whistler ducked to the ground and leaned in close. Ottilie could taste the misery on her breath. It was like flowers ripped from their roots and left in water too long – sharp, dead waste.
‘Maia was his daughter’s name.’ Her eyes flared as if daring Ottilie to speak it. ‘She was neglected. Ignored. I raised her like my own until she was six years old. She had a sore throat when he sent me away. A mere cough. I thought it would pass.
‘I wanted to stay in Varrio’s favour, so I went to the North Island – to Rupimoon Rock, as instructed – to lend my services as Royal Mystic to his cousin. I began to suspect something was amiss when Odilo kept me longer than necessary. But I returned too late. When I arrived back at All Kings’ Hill, she was gone.’
Whistler snapped upright and paced back and forth. Tendrils of chilled air curled through the midday warmth. ‘Maia had developed a dangerous fever and was sent westward, they said, to a famed healer. But I didn’t believe it. There were no healers better than those at the Hill – none better than myself. I left immediately, following them west, catching up to them on the road to the Laklands.’
Her expression shifted. There was something fresh, an urgency, almost like she was pleading for Ottilie to understand how truly terrible the king was.
‘That was his plan, you see.’ She wrung her hands beneath her sleeves. ‘Fearful of the Vanquisher’s bane, the curse of the Sol daughters, he wanted to let her die of this natural fever and bury her body far, far away, as far from All Kings’ Hill as horses could take her.’ Darkness veiled Whistler’s eyes, and bitterness sharpened her words. ‘No-one thought anything of it. She was going to see this fictitious healer. If she died on the road … well … what could he do?’
Ottilie’s gut twisted. The king had sent his own daughter away to die?
‘And she did,’ said Whistler, blankly. She seemed to pull backwards, curving in on herself. ‘I don’t know when. By the state of her body I would assume it was two or three days before I caught up. They were halfway through the Narroway by then, nearly at the Laklands. I believe she was going to be taken all the way – dumped in the Laklands to rot with the rest of my family’s shame.
‘When I found them, my rage was beyond control. I had not hurt anyone since I was a child, not since those days of being imprisoned in my father’s dungeons. When I was done with the six men and the nurse who were ferrying her westward, their remains encircled a great philowood tree. I buried her there, beneath its protective branches. But the wrong that was done to her rotted it through.’
‘The Withering Wood,’ said Ottilie, twisting to watch Whistler pace.
‘I could feel it,’ said Whistler. ‘The potential. In my sorrow and rage I called it forth. A dredretch. An underworld beast to punish him for what he had done, to destroy the Usklers just as my father’s treachery had destroyed the Laklands. That was when the withering sickness took root and began to spread. But it was born of him, of his evil, his neglect, and all seven who saw it through.’
‘Who you murdered,’ wheezed Gully. The roots must have been pressing on his ribs. ‘You don’t think the murder of seven people helped it along?’
Gully was right. Whistler said everything she did was because of the king, but she also said it was her choice. She owned that choice: to become a curse. She had turned herself into a greater monster than the one she wanted to destroy.
‘You answered evil with evil,’ said Ottilie. ‘You’re no better than he is.’
Whistler bared her teeth in a snarl.
‘And now what are you doing?’ said Ottilie. ‘Making an ally of the sleepless witch! Someone responsible for the death of their own child, just like the king – but already punished and locked up where it can’t hurt anyone. And you’re going to free it? That makes no sense!’
To Ottilie’s great surprise, Whistler cracked a smile. ‘How well you understand me,’ she said.
Whistler turned her back. With a great sweeping of her sleeves, the ground began to rumble. Ottilie’s hands shook in the mush. She pictured the creature from the canyon caves: that scaled thing crawling free of the soil, baring its fangs, loose at long last.
The mud drew back like a rolling tide. Ottilie wanted to scurry away, to cover her head, to hide. But something bronze glinted in the sun. It was familiar. She had seen its likeness somewhere else … further south, on the road to Market Town.
Here, beneath the sunnytree, was a bronze hatch. Ottilie strained against
the roots. Her knees breached the mud as she leaned closer. She could just see the engraving of a duck carved in the centre of the circle.
Seika Devil-Slayer’s mark was here. Why?
Whistler was watching her, a smile playing on her lips. ‘Do you want to come and see?’ she said. With a flick of her wrist, the hatch flew open. Sunlight spilled into a narrow stairway.
Ottilie didn’t know what to say. Did she want to come and see the freeing of the sleepless witch? No, she did not. But if she said yes, Whistler would have to unbind her.
She nodded.
Whistler waved her sleeves and the soil seemed to pushed Ottilie upwards, until she was birthed from the earth. The roots uncoiled and withdrew, leaving only her hands tied behind her back. Ottilie gasped and struggled to her feet, her mud-blackened legs visibly shaking. With a hiss that reminded her of an aggressive goose, she felt a lifting and lightness as every weapon she carried seemed to implode, leaving little trails of ash leaking from her clothes. She glanced at Gully, still bound to the ground, but Whistler said, ‘Invitation only.’
‘Don’t go with her,’ Gully pleaded.
But she had to. She was free now, apart from her hands. She might get a chance to stop it – somehow. ‘I’ll be back.’ Her words wobbled. ‘I promise!’
‘Come on, my walking map,’ barked Whistler, turning back to Ned.
Ned struggled to his feet, his hands bound like Ottilie’s.
‘Keys first,’ said Whistler.
Ottilie and Ned looked at each other, neither knowing what she meant.
‘That’s you,’ Whistler whispered, looking pointedly at Ned.
A key? Ned was a key? He was going to open something? Maybe the iron coffin. Ned was clearly drawing the same conclusion. He grounded his feet and glared at Whistler, silently refusing to move.
A wide smile spread across the witch’s face. ‘You both do exactly as I say or I plant him like a seed.’ She clicked her fingers and Gully was sucked chest-deep into the ground.
Ottilie yelped and Ned immediately took the first four stairs in one jump.
Ottilie Colter and the Withering World Page 12