by Sarah Driver
‘Yes,’ agrees Kestrel, Ettler’s round black eyes gleam inside her cloak. ‘My mother used to tell me about night-flying. She sometimes flew too long, too.’
‘Your ma’s a dream-dancer?’ I breathe.
She nods. ‘She flies most nights – I mean, she used to. I wouldn’t know, now. It seemed to me that she grew to prefer the dream-world. You must be careful.’
‘I can handle it.’ But I struggle to sit – it’s like only half of me’s come back. Spots tumble before my eyes.
My sea-hawk splutters out a herring bone and swoops onto my head, talons digging into my scalp. She’s almost heavy enough to push me over, like she’s grown again overnight. Thaw! You ent a nestling no more!
I see Kes looking from me to Thaw with wide eyes and I realise she ent heard my beast-chatter before. She smiles. ‘So many wonders!’
Crow spits out Da’s message, along with a mouthful of ice-worms. I have to pick up the message cos his fingers are still half bent into talons. Thaw’s hunched on my head and won’t budge even when I try to brush her off.
I unroll the crinkled message. It looks like just a ragged, dirty strip of old sailcloth. Triumph floods my chest. That’s all Stag could get the message to be – but my brother can make it into a magyk map.
Drums start to boom nearby, shaking icicles to the floor.
Sparrow tenses, digging his nails into Kestrel’s arm until she yelps.
‘It’s starting again,’ she whispers.
‘What?’ asks Crow nervously. Sweat gleams on his forehead and he sways on his feet. The shape-change must’ve drained him.
‘Yapok told me about it. It’s a debauch,’ she replies. ‘A Wilderwitch feast.’ The music grows louder, making the iceberg throb.
‘Maybe we should read this somewhere safer, if Witches are on the prowl,’ I suggest, pocketing Da’s message. The others nod.
We make our way back to the hearth and stand in a circle around the battered black kettle. But when I reach to find the switch to transport us into the Skybrary, nothing happens. The wall behind the hearth is smooth and cold, and I can’t find anything to press. Crow and Kestrel try, but don’t have any luck either. Then we stare at each other helplessly.
‘He must’ve locked it for a while, to venture deeper among the books,’ says Kestrel uncertainly.
Crows eyes darken, and he curls his lip.
‘We’ll be all right in here,’ I tell them, stepping off the hearth. ‘Let’s just get the map working and leave Yapok to it.’
But then a voice breaks into the cave and rattles off the walls.
‘Told you I heard a commotion,’ a woman croons, outside the window.
‘I told you I sniffed a draggle, but you said I was too drunk to be believed!’ drawls a man’s voice.
Bad-blubbers, warbles Thaw as two wild-haired strangers climb into the iceberg and grin toothily at us. Their teeth are too long and pointed. They belong to wolves.
‘How did you find the heart of our forest?’ barks the woman. She’s all straggling purple hair and bulging green eyes.
‘I was sent by the Protector of the Mountain,’ says Kestrel fiercely.
My heart plops into my belly. Is she using this for a chance to bargain with them?
The other stranger is a skinny man with a fat middle, grey skin and a scar down his left cheek. He stares round at us without blinking, then starts to laugh. ‘You must be even dafter than you look, admitting that right to our whiskers! Come on with you, then. Come to greet the King!’
My heart thumps against my ribs. None of us move. Then the man grabs Crow’s arm. He twists, yelling, Kestrel shouts, and I race towards them and start kicking the man with my skate blade. ‘Let go of him!’
The woman weaves closer to us, yipping, and the man yelps back to her. Fur has sprouted on his cheeks. ‘Wouldn’t fight if I were you,’ says the woman. Her mouth and nose have lengthened into a snout. Sparrow starts to cry. I bare my teeth.
They bundle us outside, onto the roof of the iceberg. I grab Sparrow’s hand and he makes a fuss, but when I try to calm him he cries harder. Then we’re angling our skates down the slope and my heart’s in my mouth as I teeter and plunge downwards. There’s a shelf of ice halfway down the berg and even with Kestrel’s help I smack into it, jarring my ankles and wrists. Then we pick our way down to a bridge between the icebergs, carved from a gleaming ribbon of ice.
Suddenly we’re hurled into a world of creaking leather skates and clouds of jewel-bright dragonflies. Wilderwitches skate at high speed across the bridges connecting the icebergs, calling to each other. I join the stream of skaters. Now I’m closer I can see that most of them are changed part-way to wolf and fright knocks against my ribs. They sniff the air, watching us keenly.
A fierce wind presses bony fingers into my mouth and eyes. The orcas sing far below, their voices bouncing strangely off the sides of the giant bergs.
We reach the other side of the bridge and go through a jagged doorway in the side of another iceberg. Inside is a vast hall of ice, set up as a market. The din of trading is deafening. We’re shoved past throngs of Wilderwitches selling food, garb and skate blades, and through another jagged doorway in the other side.
We emerge deeper inside the forest, beneath a flickering canopy of silver ghostways. Soon there’s naught but white blizzard; a blurred world of sky and cloud. I blink and spit, wipe my face, wishing for snow-goggles.
There ent hardly any other folks around by the time we reach the next great iceberg. It’s crisscrossed with deep cracks like old skin. There are imprints in the ice of faces and runes. I shudder as a strange twilight crawls over my skin like an eclipse.
Smaller icebergs groan as they’re carved apart into the sea far below. Ice and waves smash against each other so loud I can’t hear my breath, and I can only feel my heartbeat in my neck.
‘Get a move on!’ shouts the woman. She pushes us inside the ancient berg.
As the stars blink out I stand still, listening to the blood in my ears and the sea in the distance. Light drifts in from a hole in the roof, swirling in colours of amber, green and blue. The fire spirits? Owls are burrowed into the cave walls, watching us. There’s a crunch and a huge clump of ice smashes near my feet.
I press my fingers against the rough, icy wall to slow myself as we wind deeper and deeper down a wide spiral into the heart of the iceberg. At the bottom, the close, thick walls make me sweat in my furs and suck away all the sound, leaving our voices heavy and dead. Are we under the sea? I remember Grandma’s teaching about icebergs; how the biggest chunk of them lies underwater.
We’re led along a tunnel cut through the bottom of the berg. ‘Weapons!’ barks the scarred man. The woman searches us, and throws our daggers onto the ice. Then we’re pushed into a sprawling ice-cave.
Three thrones stand against the back wall, piled with slumped, drunken Wilderwitches. Behind them hangs a tapestry of flying sky-wolves. On either side are tapestries, too. On the right is a picture of mountains and to the left, a shark leaping from the sea to take a bite from the moon. Sea, Sky and Land.
Wilderwitches wrestle, belch and guffaw. Full-growns watch witch-kids hurl bread loaves at each other’s heads. They goad them on, cheering.
Wolf muzzles twitch to stare as we’re prodded forwards. Some are a ghoulish mixture, like they’ve forgotten how to change back.
At the head of a huge oak table slumps a bored-looking man with long tangles of purple hair. His doughy skin is riddled with deep crags. He combs the grey fur on his cheeks with claw-like fingernails. Dead black butterflies with golden spots adorn his knuckles.
‘Wilder-King,’ calls one of the guards, and the man gazes towards the speaker idly. ‘We bring captives.’
The woman sitting by the King’s side claps her hands in delight. She wears a necklace of blue feathers and long, pointed orca teeth. Her face is mostly human, except for a twitching pair of grey-brown ears that poke through her fall of dark hair.
The King gives a dagger-tip stare, and sniffs deeply. With a sick pang I realise his nose is lengthening into a black muzzle. ‘I detect stinks of bowstrings, tar and tallow,’ creaks his old crackled voice. Owls rustle and hoot. ‘And stenches of sweat and salt, mud, and sun-baked seaweed. Where have they crept from?’
Ahead of me, I see Kestrel shudder. I chew my lips, sucking off the salt of my snot.
‘The long girl says she’s been sent by the Protector of the Mountain, sire.’
I swallow. All along the table, Wilderwitches flick their ears back and sink their heads low. They growl and hiss, and tear at their tangled ropes of hair.
The King’s lips peel back in a grimace. His eyes shine as they fix on my friend, like she’s an ingot of gold.
Kestrel flinches and wraps her arms around her middle.
‘Let the captives feast with us,’ declares the King.
The guards push us towards the far end of the table. We duck under flying chunks of bread. A loaf hits a man and his owl-feather crown falls to the floor with a snap of quills. A witch skates past wearing a silver platter full of steaming goblets balanced on her head.
The King rises and skates over to us. He reaches down and grips Kestrel’s hands roughly in his. I want to kick him away from her, cos I can smell her stink of fear. ‘I know you, girl. Now you have fledged, and fate has delivered you to my forest. Here is the birth of an iceberg,’ he rasps, pressing her hand over his heart.
It’s a friendly greeting, uttered in a murderous tone.
‘And here is the birth of a mountain,’ whispers Kestrel tightly, bringing his fist to her heart.
‘May swift-feathers bear your Sky-Tribe glad tidings,’ they say together, the King’s voice steely, Kestrel’s fluttering in fright.
Across the cave, the wolf-eared woman begins to growl, spit dangling from her gums. ‘She is a draggle-rider,’ she crackles, voice half beast, half human. ‘I will not suffer her in my presence!’
The King freezes. ‘You may be my newest queen,’ he mutters calmly. ‘But you shall make no demands of me.’ Then his hand delves into his cloak and with a flash of silver he flicks a throwing arrow at the wall behind her. It grazes her ear. She yelps, pressing her hand to her head. Blood puddles between her fingers. A great noise of sniffing fills the iceberg as snouts lengthen, questing the air for blood. The queen pushes back her chair and hurries from the cave, skirts crackling with ice.
‘Fill your cauldrons well, and feast!’ roars the King, fixing us with his cold stare until we obey, sitting down stiffly in high-backed wooden chairs. Sparrow whimpers, Kes’s hands tremble and Crow twitches his glare from side to side, muttering under his breath.
The Wilderwitches are gobbling so much food I feel my eyes bulge. There are baked owls’ eggs sitting in cream, and pickled herrings, and mooncakes decorated with patterns of feathers. Piles of squid-ink noodles shiver on platters and rolled pancakes seep grease. Wolves dip their muzzles into bowls of gold stars that float in pink goo.
I put my head close to the table. ‘Reckon we’d better go along with this for now.’
My friends hesitate, but I take pancakes for me and Sparrow and put one in his hand. He tears into it greedily. Crow helps himself to noodles, looking dazed.
But Kes’s face is taut with heart-worry, and I feel sick. It’s like we’ve been invited to feast at our own sea-burials. How am I gonna get us out of here?
The King’s eyes linger on Kestrel’s face. ‘Is something wrong with my feast?’ he asks, softly.
‘No,’ she says quickly. ‘It’s just—’
Crow kicks her under the table. ‘It’s perfect.’
‘It’s just what?’ asks the King, wet nose twitching. ‘I am all ears.’
She glares at Crow. ‘My belly’s writhing with the terrible things I’ve heard, Wilder-King. Folk are suffering, all across the sea, sky and land.’
The King’s eyes brighten like blue fire. Wolf-teeth lurk in his gums. ‘I wish I could do something to help, I really do. But as you see, I have my paws full being a king to my own kind. Besides . . .’ He shifts on his cushion and turns towards a guard, holding out his goblet for more wine. Then he whips back around, purple liquid sloshing over his bejewelled fingers. ‘You won’t be here for long, so your belly needn’t writhe so.’ He grins.
Sparrow’s been stuffing his face with as much sickly grub as I can help him lay his good hand on. But now he looks up, chin wobbling. ‘Why?’
‘Quiet!’ howls the Wilder-King, sending owls rustling for cover in pits on the ceiling. ‘You will speak when spoken to. You will feast yourselves sick if I command it. And you will tell me your Protector’s war-plans, or be dashed on the ice.’
Kestrel swallows loudly. ‘We don’t know her plans. And we seek – we need – unity.’
The King’s ears flicker. ‘Lies. Your Protector does not seek unity.’ He leans across the table and takes another witch’s flagon of ale from their hand, tipping it back to drain it down his throat. Then he belches.
‘But the young do!’ says Kes. ‘We do not fight her fight. We wish to talk peace.’
The King hunches over his wine cup, shuddering. It takes me a breath to realise he’s laughing. ‘Wilderwitches never use words when they can wield weapons. And the wishes of puny younglings are of no insignificance. Now tell me – when is she next planning to attack?’
‘I don’t know,’ says Kes miserably. ‘She never tells me anything.’
The King slams his fist onto the table. His pupils swell into wide black pools. He pulls a throwing arrow from the depths of his cloak and twirls it between furred fingers. ‘It doesn’t matter if you speak now, or not. The ending will be the same.’
His threat sends a crackle down my spine, and I’m sick of the feeling of fright.
Kestrel stares into her lap, tears on her cheeks.
‘Don’t take your sails down just yet,’ I whisper in her ear, while the King glugs another flagon. ‘Look how sozzled they’re getting.’
She answers through the corner of her mouth. ‘So?’
‘So we need to keep the King talking and drinking until I can sneak us a way out of here.’ The King sniffs suddenly in my direction and his ears twitch. I tighten my breath. My mouth grows sharkskin-scratchy. The King’s lips draw back. Through the fur on his cheeks, thick whiskers begin to sprout.
‘I know what to do,’ huffs Sparrow, as he clambers to his feet and grips the edge of the table for balance. He tips back his head and starts to sing at the top of his lungs.
‘I’ll sing you a tale of a bunch of stupid tails, wagging and stenching like feet! ’
The King shakes his head roughly and his whiskers sink back into his cheeks. He slams his fist onto the table, making berry-wine slosh over the edge of his flagon. I’m about to tug Sparrow back into his seat when the King’s muzzle splits into a bloodstained grin. ‘A singer has graced us! Sing, boy! Sing as though your life depended on it.’ He hiccups and slaps his thigh with laughing so hard.
Then I see again how much Sparrow has been through and how he don’t need me the same way he used to. Cos the King’s words don’t faze him. He just grins and keeps singing, faster and louder, and the King drains another flagon, slapping the table for more even as he swallows.
‘You’re a great lumpy wolf with a big rolling belly,
And foul dripping teeth all covered with jelly!
Oh you belch and you stink and your gut’s heaped and smelly,
Oh, gift me a silver for your goblets of puke! ’
The wolves lift their heads and join in, some still able to make human words, others just howling. ‘Gift me a silver for your goblets of puke! ’ they slur.
‘World’s gone topsy,’ murmurs Crow.
The King slumps to one side. He props his head in his hands and peers gleefully at Sparrow, through dizzily swimming eyes.
Wilderwitches shriek with laughter, duck flying handfuls of food and clutch their heaving bellies. One wipes her muzzle wit
h the tail of the wolf sitting next to her. Then they snap and growl at each other, muzzles wrinkling.
Crow pushes his chair back an inch, gripping it hard. ‘Now what?’ he husks.
Kestrel murmurs softly under the cloak of Sparrow’s singing. ‘We have to get out of here before he’s swallowed the next flagon. But we need the draggles, and I don’t know where they’re roosting . . .’ Dismay gobbles the rest of her words.
‘One thing at a time,’ says Crow, eyeing the King and then glancing at the door. ‘How will we distract them?’
‘A brawl,’ I whisper. ‘If they turn on each other, they won’t notice us – and we have to keep Sparrow singing until the very last beat.’
‘A brawl’s no problem,’ says Crow. He bends close to a drunken old Wilderwitch to the left of him and whispers something to her. Then he whispers to another wine-addled witch across from him. I watch, amazed, as they each gabble in the ears of the witches next to them, and Crow’s whisper spreads around the room like a starved flame.
The King glugs another cup of wine and his head crashes down into his platter. Then he jerks upright, guffawing, arms sprouting thick grey fur.
As the first punches are thrown, the King dives into the fight, roaring. We creep towards the door. Sparrow keeps singing. The strands of whale-song quiver around the room, skimming the tops of the Wilderwitches’ heads. It’s different from how I’ve ever seen it before, though. It’s like my brother’s putting his will into the song, threading it with crackling power. It feels like time pulls and thickens as we move closer to the door. The Wilderwitches’ pride and the whale-song gift us a pocket of air to fly away inside.
‘Don’t you wanna hear the words I spread?’ asks Crow as we move.
‘Not now!’ says Kes.
‘I said that the one to our left said the one to our right had threadbare ears and a rotten pelt. Then I told the one on our left that the other one said they were gonna skin them and sell the pelt to a draggle-rider.’ He chuckles.
‘Shhh!’ I warn. ‘Sparrow, keep singing!’
Sparrow’s voice lifts higher and louder, and under my breath I start a low beast-chatter, reaching for the draggles. Don’t know where you are, cave-beasts, but we need you!