Accidental Heroes

by Lian Tanner

  Somewhere on Duckling’s left, the same voice as before shouted, ‘Prove it. Trial by hunt!’

  That was all it took. The cry was picked up immediately, from one side of the chamber to the other. ‘Hunt! Hunt! Trial by hunt!’

  ‘What?’ said Grandpa, and now his shock was genuine. ‘No, that’s not right. The boy must be taken to the dungeons.’ He raised his voice. ‘To the dungeons!’

  That was a mistake. Another voice shouted, ‘And Lord Rump also! He brought the boy here. Trial by hunt!’

  The Margravine nodded. ‘Give them a small start. Then set the hunt on them.’

  And just like that, Pummel and Grandpa were hustled out of the chamber for trial by hunt, which was not a trial at all. They would be pursued through the Strong-hold by women and men, horses and dogs. If they were caught and killed, they were guilty. If they managed to hide, they were still guilty, and as soon as they came out of hiding, they’d be hunted again.

  People were already dragging wooden torches from their brackets. Flames flared on every side. Duckling’s heart was beating so hard that she could barely hear herself think. Any moment now someone would remember her, and decide that she should be hunted too. It was no use trying to hide – that was the sort of thing that roused people’s suspicions.

  So once again she fitted in. When the grafs and grafines surged forward, thumping their chests and shouting, she surged with them. When they roared, she roared just as loudly. She shouted for the horses to be brought; she bellowed, ‘Heel!’ at the nearest dog; she demanded justice, as bloody as possible.

  She did it all so well that no one remembered that Lord Rump had a granddaughter. She was one of them, right up until the huge horses began to arrive, stamping and snorting.

  Then, while everyone else was busy tightening girths, grabbing axes from the walls and blowing war horns, Duckling ran out of the Great Chamber.

  THE VERGESSEN

  ‘My dear boy,’ panted Lord Rump, as the two of them hurried across the dark, deserted bailey. ‘I do not know who changed your letter. If you say it is not what you wrote, then of course I believe you. I would have said so to the Margravine, but I was so shocked—’

  He was as convincing as ever, but Pummel wasn’t going to be fooled again. He’s not my friend, he’s my enemy.

  And besides, there were more important things to worry about.

  ‘I have to find Otte and the Young Margrave,’ he said, speeding up.

  ‘No need,’ said Lord Rump, galumphing along beside him. ‘Arms-mistress Krieg and her people are already searching for them.’

  ‘She thinks they’re dead. She’ll be looking down wells.’

  ‘She is probably right,’ panted Lord Rump. ‘We must face the truth, dear boy, however unpleasant. And the most important truth is that we are doomed if we stay in the Strong-hold. We must find Duckling, and then you can take us through the outer walls—’

  Pummel stopped, right in the middle of the bailey. ‘What do you mean, take you through the outer walls?’

  ‘Did Duckling forget to mention it? We are stuck in the Strong-hold, just like everyone else. We tried to get out the main gate and couldn’t. But you could—’

  ‘We don’t know they’re dead,’ said Pummel, setting off again. ‘They might be alive, and if they are we have to find them.’

  A war horn blew, and a thrill of horror ran up his back. But he refused to give in to it. If Otte and the Young Margrave were alive, he would find them. And then the hunt would stop.

  ‘We’ll have to confuse the dogs,’ he said, thinking aloud. ‘Put them off our scent. We could go down one of the privies …’

  ‘Privies?’ said Lord Rump. ‘Surely you do not expect me to—’

  ‘Or the kitchen!’ Pummel broke into a run.

  ‘My heart,’ cried Lord Rump.

  I don’t care about his heart, thought Pummel. But he slowed down a little all the same. Lord Rump might be his enemy, but he didn’t want the old man torn to pieces by the hunt.

  The kitchens had not been deserted for long. But with no spit boy to turn them, the enormous roasts of beef were already beginning to blacken. On the hobs, pots boiled over and the smell of burned custard was everywhere.

  Pummel ran to a row of casks set along the wall and tipped the lid off each one. When he began to sneeze, he grabbed a bowl from the bench and scooped fistfuls of pepper into it.

  Meanwhile, Lord Rump was dragging the spits off their hooks so that the beef fell to the floor. ‘That might distract the dogs for a few minutes,’ he said. Then he ran out the far door, sucking his scorched fingers.

  Pummel followed, strewing a trail of pepper.

  They were only just in time. The war horns sounded again, and now they were louder.

  Lord Rump whipped his fingers out of his mouth. ‘They are coming! Quickly!’ And he bolted across the bailey towards the nearest tower.

  The Harshman was talking to himself in the darkness. ‘Which … One … Is … The … Heir? How … Can … I…Tell?

  ‘We are b-both the Heir,’ said Otte. He was shivering uncontrollably now. ‘We were b-born t-ten minutes apart.’ That was the truth. ‘We are b-brothers. Twins.’ That was not the truth, but Otte had been lying since the day he learned to talk, and he knew how to make people believe him.

  ‘Then … I … Can … Kill … Either … Of …You.’

  ‘No! The p-person who summoned you meant one p-particular Heir. If you k-kill the wrong one, he might be angry. He might— He will send you b-back to your grave. And then you will be dead again.’

  ‘You will be d-dead forever,’ added Brun.

  Those burning eyes blinked. Otte held his breath. He was not sure what he was hoping for; just something that would buy them a little time.

  ‘I …Will … Not … Be … Sent … Back,’ said that awful voice. There was a shuffle of feet and a crackling sound – and the burning eyes vanished.

  Otte and Brun dived for the cord around their wrists at the same time, and bumped heads.

  Brun swore. ‘You do it. Quickly. We must find a way out before he gets back.’

  Otte tugged at the first knot, and the second. He dug his fingernails into the third, the fourth and the fifth. He used his teeth on the sixth, seventh and eighth—

  ‘Done,’ he said.

  Brun leaped to his feet and helped Otte up. In the pitch blackness above them, something moved.

  The boys froze. Brun whispered, ‘Is he still here?’

  ‘I think maybe it is his bird,’ breathed Otte. ‘The hawk.’

  ‘Will it attack us?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  They stood very still, but the hawk did not move again. At last Brun whispered, ‘Where are we?’

  ‘I do not know that either. Underground, perhaps? The dungeons?’

  ‘We must find a wall, and search for a door. Put your arm across my shoulders.’

  The earthen floor was covered in dry sticks, which cracked so loudly under their feet that Otte was sure the hawk would descend upon them in fury. Or perhaps the Harshman would hear them and return. But the only sound, apart from the sticks, was the drip drip drip of water.

  The wall they came to was damp, and slick with moss. Otte braced himself against it, and began to hop along it in the opposite direction from Brun. He soon discovered that, unlike most of the rooms in the Strong-hold, this one was circular.

  Which gave him a very bad feeling.

  ‘There is a door just ahead of me,’ he whispered to himself. ‘I will come to it in three more hops … No, five more … No, another three.’

  But the wall continued as solid as ever.

  ‘Anything?’ called Brun from out of the darkness.

  At the sound of his voice, the bird ruffled its feathers again.

  ‘Not yet.’

  …

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘Not yet – wait, did you feel that? There is a breeze coming from somewh— No, it is gone.’

  …r />
  ‘Anything?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  And then they were face to face again. They had gone right around the walls without finding a single door.

  Which meant that the very bad feeling was right.

  Otte tried to swallow the lump of terror that was crawling up his throat. ‘Brun, I think we are in the vergessen.’

  ‘Where they used to—?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So there is no—?’

  ‘No.’

  Brun swallowed too. Then he said, ‘But there must be an entrance somewhere. Or they could not have—’

  ‘There is a hole above us, in the ceiling,’ whispered Otte, remembering what he had read in one of the old scrolls. ‘The Margraves and Margravines used to drop their worst enemies in here to die. The ceiling was so high that no one could reach it. And the walls too smooth to climb.’

  Brun shifted his feet, and another stick cracked.

  Except, if this was the vergessen, it was not a stick.

  ‘Bones,’ whispered Otte. ‘We are treading on the bones of those who were thrown in here and forgotten. Brun, there is no escape.’

  MAY THEIR SOULS FIND REST

  The hunt came pouring out of the Keep far sooner than Duckling had expected. The dogs raced towards her, the horns blew, the torches flared high in the night air.

  Duckling leaped out of the way just in time.

  The dogs ignored her. So did the horses, though some of their riders raised their torches and stared at her.

  Then they turned away again and followed the hounds.

  Duckling ran after them, knowing she was too late. She couldn’t possibly catch Pummel and Grandpa before the hunt did. And without the raashk, they had little chance of escape.

  But then two things happened.

  First, her breeze found her. It wafted the stink of mould and mustiness past her nose; it tickled her ear with the sound of water dripping, and the whisper of voices.

  Anythingnotyetwaitdidyoufeelthat.

  Duckling’s heart leaped. ‘They’re alive!’ She cupped her hands in front of her mouth and screamed after the hunt, ‘They’re alive, you idiots! The Heir’s alive! And so’s Otte!’

  It was no use. The yelping of the dogs and the thunder of hooves drowned out her voice and left her stamping her feet in frustration.

  She was about to try the same trick she’d done on the stairs, scooping up dust and dirt and anything else that might slow the horses down, when the second thing happened.

  The hunt fell apart.

  Duckling didn’t know why. All she could hear was the riders shouting and the dogs howling, followed a moment later by a tidal wave of sneezing.

  In her hand, the raashk twitched violently.

  Duckling ran across the bailey and around the kitchen huts, wishing she was faster. Whatever was holding the hunt wouldn’t last long. And if the raashk was pulling her in the right direction, Pummel and Grandpa were somewhere in the Hawk Tower.

  She had to reach them before the hunt did.

  ‘They will be searching for us,’ whispered Otte. ‘Your mother and mine will tear down every building in the Strong-hold if they have to. They will find us in the end.’

  ‘But not before the Harshman comes back.’ Brun thumped his fist against the wall. ‘We cannot just wait for him to kill us, Otte. We must fight him.’ He lowered his voice. ‘And the bird too.’

  ‘How? We have no weapons. We have nothing. And even if we did, we would fall asleep when he came.’

  ‘We might not,’ said Brun. ‘We were not asleep when he left. As for weapons—’ He bent down.

  ‘Brun, you cannot!’

  ‘They are dead and will not care. We are alive, and want to stay that way.’

  ‘But bones—’

  ‘We have nothing else, Otte. And we are sworn to defend each other. Heir and Heir’s Friend, yes?’

  Otte drew in his breath – and let it out again. ‘Yes.’

  Brun put the leg bone into his hand, and picked up another. Then the two boys set their backs against the wall and waited for the burning eyes to return.

  Duckling caught up with the fugitives on the third floor of the Hawk Tower. There was a window behind them, and a sliver of moon, and she was just in time to see Pummel walk into a wall.

  By then, the dogs had shaken the pepper from their noses, and although they still yelped and whined, they weren’t far behind her. She could hear the hunt pouring into the tower; she could hear the first set of hoofs hit the stairs.

  She was so scared, as she leaped forward, that she didn’t realise what was happening at first. She saw Pummel grab Grandpa’s hand. She heard Grandpa say, ‘No, my boy! The tooth is not—’

  In one and the same movement, Pummel put the false raashk to his eye and stepped forward.

  He crashed into the wall so hard that he almost knocked himself senseless. His knees crumpled and he sagged against Lord Rump.

  On the floor below them, the dogs began to bay. The grafs and grafines bellowed. Their horses clattered up the stairs behind Duckling.

  All she had to do was open her fingers and let the raashk – the real raashk – go. It flew to Pummel like a homing pigeon, and tucked itself into his hand. But he was too dazed to notice.

  Duckling ran to him and shouted in his ear, ‘Try again. Hold the raashk to your eye! Take us through the wall. Quickly!’

  ‘No – good,’ muttered Pummel. His eyes rolled in his head, and he groaned.

  The dogs poured up the stairs with the horses right behind them. Grandpa raised his cane, and put his finger on the button that would release the rapier.

  ‘Pummel!’ cried Duckling. ‘Stand up—’

  There was no time. She hauled him to his feet. Then she grabbed his fingers, and held the raashk to his eye. ‘Look through it!’ she shouted. ‘Grandpa, hang onto him!’

  And she pushed him forward into the wall.

  To her amazement, it worked. The sound of the hunt vanished. There was a horrible moment of thinking she couldn’t breathe, then the three of them tumbled out the other side into a dark chamber.

  Grandpa fell into a coughing fit. Pummel slumped to the floor again. Duckling fumbled around the chamber until she found a candle, and something that felt like a tinderbox. Her hands were shaking and by the time she got the candle alight she thought she could hear the dogs again.

  ‘Oh, most excellent granddaughter,’ said Grandpa, blinking at the flame. ‘I knew you would come. Now we can leave this cursed place—’

  ‘No,’ said Duckling. ‘We have to find Otte. And the Young Margrave.’

  ‘They’re dead, my dear. May their souls find rest.’

  ‘I expect they’d rather find rescue,’ said Duckling. ‘The Harshman’s got them somewhere musty and dark. Doesn’t smell as if anyone except cockroaches has been there for years. A bit damp too. Something dripping. Where might that be?’

  ‘How do you kn—’

  ‘Never mind how I know. And don’t tell me you haven’t been all over the Strong-hold, poking in corners, seeing what you could discover. I know you, Grandpa.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Lord Rump. ‘It might be the old dungeons.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Under the Bear Tower. But—’

  A shout cut him off. And now Duckling could definitely hear the dogs. ‘Which direction for the Bear Tower?’

  ‘East,’ said Grandpa.

  ‘Where’s that?’

  Grandpa pointed. Duckling grabbed hold of Pummel again. ‘You all right? Can you take us through a few more walls?’

  ‘Yes. No. I – don’t know.’

  ‘His brains are addled,’ muttered Duckling.

  Grandpa unscrewed the cap of his cane, and held a brass vial to Pummel’s lips. ‘Here you are, my boy. A sip or two of best brandy and you’ll feel better in no time.’

  Pummel swallowed, coughed, gulped and spluttered. Duckling took one of his arms, Lord Rump took the other, and between them
they hauled the boy to his feet once again.

  ‘I know this is hard on you, Pummel,’ said Duckling. ‘But I reckon the Harshman’s being a lot harder on Otte and the Young Margrave. We’ve got to find them, right?’

  ‘R-right.’

  ‘We’ll help you, don’t worry. You just make sure you’ve got the raashk to your eye. Now, are you ready?’

  ‘Yes. No. The raashk – it doesn’t work. I tried to walk through the wall—’

  ‘Grandpa swapped it on you,’ said Duckling. ‘But you’ve got the right one now; we just came through the wall behind us. And now we’re going through another one.’

  ‘If we went the other way, my dear,’ said Grandpa, ‘we could be out of the Strong-hold in minutes. Then the poor lad could rest …’

  Duckling scowled. ‘Shut up, Grandpa, or we’ll leave you behind.’

  ‘You would never do such a thing to your own flesh and blood,’ said Lord Rump. But he stopped trying to persuade her, all the same.

  This wall was both easier and harder. The candle stayed alight and Pummel was doing his best, which meant Duckling didn’t have to hold the raashk to his eye. But he was still confused from the blow on the head, and the wall made him worse.

  ‘Are you going to be all right?’ she asked him.

  ‘Mmmph,’ said Pummel. ‘Head … hurts.’

  ‘We have some way to go,’ said Grandpa. ‘I am not sure he can do it.’

  ‘Do we have to go through walls all the way?’ asked Duckling.

  ‘If we could avoid the hunt,’ said Grandpa, ‘we could go straight across the bailey.’

  ‘Right.’ Duckling took a deep breath. ‘We need a staircase. Let’s go.’

  THE HEIGHT OF FIVE MEN

  The old dungeons smelled and sounded almost right to Duckling. There was mould and dripping water, and the missing boys should have been there.

  But they weren’t.

  She held the candle higher so its feeble light shone on Grandpa’s face. ‘Where else might they be?’

  ‘I truly believe,’ said Lord Rump, ‘that Arms-mistress Krieg has found them already. Here we are, still searching, and the two lads are back in the bosoms of their loving families, warm and dry. So, Pummel, if you could take us—’