Leo backed slowly towards the riverbank. He stepped into the water and it rushed over his boots, but he kept his balance, backing further and further, whistling for Maestro to come.
The wingerslink looked like he wanted to tear Leo’s head off, but, slowly, shaking with every step, he followed. Finally, chest-deep, Leo had to hold onto the hulking wingerslink to keep his footing in the current. He coaxed Maestro to lower himself, and gently began pouring water over his injured neck and wing.
Maestro shuddered and growled as dark steam spiralled from the wounds. It was working! He stepped deeper, almost completely submerged.
Ottilie felt the promise of a smile as Meastro leapt to the shallows and shook himself out. Water sprayed like rubies and diamonds and Leo, glowing with relief, laughed out loud and pressed his face into Maestro’s fur.
Nox and Maestro soared over the wetlands at the base of Fiory’s hill. There were no stingers. No olligogs. The krippygrass stood still, the puddles perfect blue mirrors. Pure and undisturbed but for the echoes of horror that tumbled down the slope.
Ottilie tore her eyes from the ground, following the line of trees up to the fort on the hill. Even at a distance it was clear – the dredretches had breached the boundary walls.
As they approached, Ottilie could make out Montie on the parapets with a group of liberated bone singers. They were dropping chunks of rock from the broken wall onto monsters emerging from the wilderness.
Leo and Ottilie split apart, the battle calling them in different directions. He had given her half of his remaining stock of arrows, but it wasn’t enough. Ottilie was down to one again as she landed, using it to shoot a wyler that was creeping up behind Captain Lyre.
His thin blade glinted in the glaring afternoon sun and his blue coat was spattered with black blood. It flared out as he spun and shot her a grim smile. Unable to return it, Ottilie jumped down from Nox’s back and hurried straight for the weapons stored in a bunker behind him.
‘I’ll guard for you,’ he said as Ottilie threw open the hatch and jumped inside.
‘I thought you were at Arko?’ she called to him.
‘I was on my way. But then the wagoner and one of my guards fell asleep.’
Of course, she thought, as she stuffed her quiver with arrows. Captain Lyre was a Sol – he would have been immune.
‘I knew something big must be happening, so I left the other guards to watch over them, took one of their horses and came straight back to Fiory. Almost as soon as I got here, everyone was waking up.’
‘We made Whistler wake them.’ She climbed out of the bunker. ‘She’s dead,’ she added with a frown. It felt so strange to say. Whistler, who was behind all this violence, was gone, but the damage was too deep for her absence to mend.
Captain Lyre blinked at the news. ‘What of Varrio?’
‘I don’t know.’
Ottilie turned to see Ramona galloping past on Billow. A shank somersaulted by, its narrow body curled into a wheel, spines poised to spear skin. Alba jumped out from around the corner. She tripped up the shank and pinned it with a knife.
Ottilie strapped on her weapons and scanned the upper grounds for any sign of the rest of her friends. She didn’t have long to look. A pack of lycoats prowled across the grass, their shell-like armour catching the light. Ottilie readied her arrows but needn’t have bothered. Nox pounced, sending three flying with one swipe of her claws, and from behind the pack, Scoot and Gully advanced, seeking out the monsters’ weak spots with an accuracy that awed her.
Behind Ottilie, Captain Lyre battled an oxie as if he were in a fencing match – glowing antlers against gleaming blade. Nox was occupied in the air with a trick of flares and Ottilie fought her way eastward on the ground with Gully and Scoot.
She found Skip with Fawn and the rest of the Devil-Slayers, fighting their way up the hill towards the training yards. Skip twirled her spear, knocking back a scorver. Toxic gloop sprayed from greyish skin as its barbed back pierced the mud. Four rows of teeth were visible in its lolling mouth, and those yellow fangs fell like melting icicles as the scorver split into shadow and bone.
There was a great bellow from behind. Hot air whipped Ottilie’s hair and the hill seemed to tremble as a barrogaul thumped to the ground like a boulder. Tucking in its scaly wings, it bared its sabre-fangs and lunged. Ottilie had to dive and roll down the slope. Steadying her fall, she choked on her fear as the barrogaul braced, humpback rising, black fur prickling, and fixed its bloody eyes on Gully.
Gully sliced a yicker clean in half and raised his cutlass to face the barrogaul towering above. Ottilie struggled to her feet and fired an arrow up the hill. It pierced the beast’s neck, but was little more than a splinter. She nocked another arrow, but it was going to be too late.
Its muscles rolled. It was about to spring. Gully’s eyes widened. There was no time for escape.
But then the beast shuddered, and out boomed a broken roar as its back leg collapsed. Murphy Graves ducked out from behind it, spinning knives in his palms. Ottilie drew another arrow and fired, piercing its blood-red eye.
Murphy shot her a half smile, tucked one knife away, and gripped Gully’s arm. ‘Close one.’
‘Thank you,’ said Gully, as the barrogaul came apart at his feet.
There was barely time for a breath.
Penguin bolted past with three other shepherds and Ottilie spotted Ned over by Floodwood, a pack of wylers backing him towards the trees.
She whipped out her cutlass and looked around in horror. Where was Gracie? She must be near. Sure enough, the white wyler prowled out from between the trees, Gracie just behind.
Ned was trapped between the pack and the bloodbeast.
Ottilie’s heart was in her throat. She, Gully, Murphy and Scoot bolted towards Ned as the pack moved in, black fangs bared.
The white wyler bent to spring, but just as it pounced a great pale shape shot out of the sky. Maestro dipped low. Ned grabbed Leo’s outstretched arm and swung up behind him.
Ottilie clutched her side, winded with relief.
She, Gully, Murphy and Scoot met the pack of wylers, with Skip and the Devil-Slayers just a beat behind. For once, the wylers were outnumbered. They were falling one by one. Ottilie swung her cutlass, a wyler thumped to the ground, and she looked up to see Scoot running at Gracie.
Baring her teeth, Gracie drew two familiar knives: one that Leo had given her, and one she’d taken from Scoot’s guardian, Bayo Amadory.
Ottilie couldn’t tear her eyes away. Scoot swung his cutlass, clashing with her knives. The clatter of blades cut through the wylers’ yowls.
Scoot was staggering, exhausted, but fighting hard. He jumped backwards and swung low, catching Gracie off-guard just long enough to knock Bayo’s knife from her hand. He let out a triumphant, ‘HA!’
Gracie’s eyes flashed, first merely with rage, and then brighter, burning beyond red to Whistler’s impossible black light.
She stepped back from Scoot. He looked confused.
Ottilie saw it coming before he did. ‘SCOOT!’
The white wyler pounced.
Ottilie’s heart stopped.
Scoot ducked low, and Hero leapt over his head. The leopard shepherd knocked the white wyler out of the air, pinned it to the ground, and tore into its throat with a guttural growl.
Gracie shrieked and stumbled. Nothing touched her. She just went down – like a child tripping in the mud.
She and the white wyler didn’t crumble like the other dredretches. Gracie hit the ground in one piece, and her skin seemed to burn and then blacken like a log in a dying fire.
43
The Song
The wylers scattered, no longer a united force, and the Devil-Slayers picked them off one by one. Ned and Leo were on the ground, retrieving arrows from piles of bone. Scoot was gripping his ribs, his strength nearly spent. Beyond them, Murphy and a group of huntsmen were beating back a horde of horrahogs.
Ottilie didn’t know what they were
going to do. The dredretches were relentless. There was no-one left to control them, to pull them out if their numbers were depleting. They would simply attack and attack until the end. But there were too many of them. The huntsmen couldn’t win.
‘Ottilie!’
She turned. It was Alba, calling from further into Floodwood. She beckoned Ottilie over. Ned followed and Leo and Skip hurried after him.
Maeve was waiting for them beneath the twisted trunk of a viperspine tree.
The moment she set eyes upon Maeve, Ottilie’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Bill?’ she hissed through her fingers. There hadn’t been a second to think, and she realised she didn’t know what had happened to him.
Maeve offered a small smile and pointed upwards. Bill was in the branches, clinging on for dear life. ‘He’s a bit distressed,’ she said. ‘He didn’t take well to riding on the back of Skip’s horse.’
‘She rides fast,’ said Bill.
Ottilie watched him twisting his hands around a scaly branch, and released the breath she hadn’t realised she was holding.
‘I’ve had an idea,’ said Alba urgently. ‘Do you still have that vial?’
Ottilie nodded. She had completely forgotten that she had that horrible potion with her. She’d been carrying the sleepless witch around in her pocket.
‘Is anybody good at carving?’ said Alba. ‘Wood,’ she added, in response to their confused silence.
‘I am,’ said Ned. ‘But what … is now really the time?’
‘I need you to make something that makes a sound,’ said Alba. ‘Just a whistle is fine. Quick as you can.’
Ottilie caught a glint of amusement in his tired eyes. ‘All right,’ he said. And, asking no questions, he cut a fat twig off the nearest branch, removed the smallest knife strapped to his forearm, and got to work.
‘So … what’s happening?’ said Ottilie, sliding down against the trunk of a tree. She regretted it as soon as she pressed her back to the bark. The full weight of her exhaustion settled upon her like layers of thick mud.
‘We’re making, sort of … a new pipe,’ said Alba. ‘Maeve thinks she can use Whistler’s potion to form … or remake something to control the dredretches.’
Ottilie tried to smile. She was too tired to feel impressed. Her mind was slow, her focus slipping. It was a strange thing, sitting on the edge of a battle, watching Ned carve a whistle.
Skip cleared her throat, staring between the stationary figures. ‘This is very clever and everything,’ she said. ‘But if I’m not needed …’ She waved vaguely back towards the action.
‘What she said,’ said Leo, reaching for his bow.
There was a ghastly shriek from the skies and an enormous shape passed overhead.
Leo ducked down next to Ned. ‘Nice whittling, mate,’ he said, gripping his arm. ‘Might want to hurry up there.’
Ned’s expression danced between irritation and amusement, but he stayed focused on his work and didn’t respond. He rested the twig on a damp log and began knocking on the surface of the bark.
Leo and Skip left Floodwood, but Ottilie stayed – partly because she was so tired she wasn’t sure she could move, but mostly because she knew exactly what to do with the whistle Ned was carving – and it had to be a flyer to do it.
Finally, Ned finished. It looked like a chipped twig, but he blew into the end and a shrill whistle sounded.
‘Perfect,’ said Maeve, taking it from him. She lay it flat on her palm. For a moment nothing happened, but with her exhale, the whistle lifted up to hover in mid-air. Maeve carefully unstoppered the vial and tipped the dark, shimmering contents over the wood. It was not quite liquid – more like vapour or smoke, but weighted.
Maeve’s eyes flicked back and forth under her eyelids and her hands shook as dark tendrils curled around the twig, slithering through the gaps Ned had carved and settling into veins of deepest black.
With a shaky breath, Maeve opened her eyes and said, ‘Do you have your ring?’
Ottilie slipped it from her thumb and passed it over. She remembered Whistler saying no-one could wield something so evil without protection.
Maeve held the ring in one hand and the pipe in the other, closing her eyes. Nothing happened.
There was yelling far off. A mord bellowed. Ottilie heard the crack and rumble of stone as another piece of the wall tumbled down. Her heart beat faster.
‘Maeve?’ she said, trying not to sound impatient.
‘It’s not working!’ said Maeve, clenching her fist over Ottilie’s ring.
Ottilie spotted glowing eyes in the forest behind them. She could hear growls and hissing and thundering hooves. Overhead, she caught the unforgettable shriek of a kappabak, like a thousand bats all screeching at once.
Ottilie got to her feet. She, Ned and Alba gripped their weapons.
Maeve closed her eyes again.
‘Maeve, we have to get out of here!’ said Ottilie.
Above them, Bill disappeared higher up the tree. Ottilie watched his webbed foot slip behind the fish-scale leaves, his pale fur catching the trapped light. She wondered if it would be the last she would ever see of him. Blinking, she banished the thought and reached for the whistle, but Maeve snatched it away.
‘No-one should use it like this. I don’t know what will happen,’ she said, her eyes wild.
Ottilie understood, but there was nothing to be done. ‘I’ll wear my ring,’ she said. ‘It might help.’
‘What are you talking about?’ said Ned, looking between them.
But Ottilie didn’t explain. There was no time to argue. Something jumped out of the undergrowth and Ned gripped his knife and dived.
Ottilie grabbed the whistle and, this time, Maeve didn’t stop her.
Whistler had wanted to punish the king. Everyone else was just collateral damage. But the dredretches … Voilies had said it, when they were training for the fledgling trials: it is their primary instinct to attempt to tear us apart. Monsters from the underworld, called to the surface by acts of true evil. Their only purpose: to destroy, to rip out hearts.
It had to end.
Ottilie lifted her fingers to her lips and whistled loudly for Nox. Maeve stepped back, offering a blink that Ottilie knew meant, good luck. Alba’s wide eyes had filled with tears. Ottilie hugged her and whispered, ‘You’re a genius,’ before hurrying out of Floodwood.
The wingerslink appeared from beyond a turret and landed with a great spraying of mud. Ottilie leapt into the saddle, lifted the whistle to her lips and blew.
Pain flared, like ashes flicked in her face. It was wrong. She felt sick all the way to the tips of her fingers, which twitched on the whistle, aching to drop it.
The sound that came out was not the thin squeal Ned had made, but the otherworldly song of the dredretches. It wasn’t loud, but it thrummed through her veins, filling her head and weaving in and out of a dance with her breath. Above the beat, air shrieked and scraped like claws on steel.
They flew south, across the lower grounds and over the boundary wall. Ottilie didn’t need to look. She blew again and could feel them following. They were tethered to her by the song. She felt stretched and weighted, as if she might crack open and leak the sickness into the sky.
They passed between snowy peaks and veils of mountain mist stained blossom-pink. Nox settled on the edge of the cliffs looking out over the sea. The sun was sinking low in the west. Squinting against the golden spears, Ottilie blew again into the whistle. The pain worsened. She felt unsteady in the saddle, but held herself upright.
They were gathering around her. She could see their shadows out of the corner of her eye. Ottilie fixed her foggy gaze upon the sea, watching the water darken to midnight as dusk folded in.
She tore her eyes from the ocean and twisted to watch them come, like distorted shadows crawling, flying and slithering along the coast, across pebbled beaches and towards the edge of the cliff. They were as quick as ever, but absent somehow – lost in a dreamy trance.
&n
bsp; She waited until the approaching numbers thinned to near nothing. She knew it could not be all of them. Some were slower, or perhaps too far away to hear the call. She shut her eyes and prayed that this would work. It had to work. She blew again, nudging Nox to leap.
Nox arced over the edge of the cliff, plummeting towards the crashing waves. It felt like freefalling. Ottilie clutched the saddle, clinging on for dear life. Air roared in her ears. Nox spread her wings wide and pulled out of the dive a whisker from the dark sea.
Ottilie gasped and flattened forwards as Nox shot upwards and curled in a vast circle to face the beasts behind. She stared at the clifftop, transfixed by the dark shapes tumbling over the edge.
Ottilie felt a tug and slipped into blackness. A strange knowing came over her. She had more control because the whistle was not limited by the protective charm. She could reach more of them – call them into the waves from far away.
She cast out her sight and saw them entering the ocean over the cliffs at Richter and Jungle Bay. Ottilie didn’t know if she was witnessing or commanding, but felt sure it would come to pass.
She blew the whistle once more and this time felt a dreadful lightness. She seemed to disconnect from her own body, but she could still feel them … Step by step they entered the ocean: some slipping in from the beaches, some leaping from the cliffs. Few of the winged dredretches took flight. Most just dropped into the sea, lost in the call of the song.
A scattering of jagged shapes approached in the air, drifting in like visible nightmares. Nox circled and swept low, her claws dragging in the water, and behind, low over the salty sea, the dredretches began to flail. They tipped and dragged. The waves tossed and snatched, tearing them from the sky.
Twilight veiled the coastline, but Ottilie knew there were more to come. She lifted the whistle, but it was a struggle to hold it steady. The sickness had her.
Nox flew higher again, circling back towards land. Ottilie’s head spun. Something seemed to close around her throat. Her shoulders shuddered and her neck bent under the weight of her skull. Her head lolled. She felt the whistle slip from her grip and plummet into the waves.
Ottilie Colter and the Withering World Page 21