by Lian Tanner
It was the cat. The other shadows swarmed around Otte. Some of them ran up his hose to his waiting hands. One perched on his foot and clucked.
‘But that’s good, isn’t it?’ whispered Pummel, relieved that there might be a way out of this after all. ‘Once the grafs and grafines realise the Heir is alive, they will help us.’
Even as he spoke, the war horns blew again. But now there was something different about the sound.
Something frenzied and terrible.
Something that made Pummel’s heart stumble in his chest.
‘The hunt,’ whispered Otte. ‘The hunt has gone wild!’
IF THE REST OF US CREEP QUIETLY AWAY
Through the far gate swept the hunt. The dogs came first, biting at the air, with the horses hard on their heels. As they entered the bailey, their riders threw back their heads and howled like devils.
The burning torches streamed up into the sky, almost as high as the gargoyles. The dogs, horses, grafs and grafines dripped with ice. But it didn’t slow them down or send them to sleep. If anything, it made them seem bigger and more brutal, as if all the humanity had been frozen out of them.
The eyes of the foremost rider burned like coals, and a hawk flew over his head.
‘No!’ whispered Duckling.
Halfway across the bailey, without any apparent signal, the hunt reared to a halt. The Harshman stood up in his stirrups, his eyes scorching the air around him. His head turned from side to side. Sniff sniff sniff. Sniff sniff sniff.
‘He will find us,’ breathed Otte. ‘And then we are dead.’
‘No, I’ll throw the raashk,’ whispered Pummel.
‘And if you miss?’ asked Grandpa very quietly. ‘And cannot find it again in the darkness? Or someone from the hunt picks it up? Then you will have lost your only weapon. But consider this, lad, they are not coming for you. They are coming for the Heir. If the rest of us creep quietly away, we might just—’
Pummel shook his head. ‘No.’
Duckling could hear how final that ‘No’ was. But Grandpa didn’t believe in final. He herded Pummel to one side, so that no one except Duckling could hear what he was saying.
‘Think of all the good you can do if you live, my boy. Why, with your talent, I would not be surprised if you could free the entire Strong-hold. I know you had a small problem with the wall here, but I am sure that was only temporary. Think of the glory—’
‘No.’
Grandpa’s voice grew softer and more persuasive. ‘You want to help the Young Margrave, lad. I understand that. But you must not be selfish. You must think of all the other poor souls trapped helplessly within these walls, waiting for a release that never comes. You could bring that release, my boy. You could see the Margravine and all her people ride out into the world, blinking with amazement—’
‘No!’ said Pummel.
Unfortunately, he was so angry that he forgot to whisper.
The Harshman’s head swivelled towards the Bear Tower. The grafs and grafines, the horses and the dogs turned too, as if they were all on the same icy string. A war horn blew, though no one put their lips to it.
But the hunt did not gallop with its previous frenzy. Instead, it began to trot slowly across the beaten earth towards the small group, as if the Harshman wanted to savour what was coming.
Pummel stepped forward to stand beside the Young Margrave. They had no weapons, except for the raashk and the white sticks. And even if they were armed to the teeth, it would make little difference to the Harshman.
Steel cannot harm him, nor wood nor stone.
Grandpa shook his head in disgust. ‘You may wish to throw your lives away, but I will not be a part of such foolishness. Duckling, come with me. One way or another, we will survive this.’
Duckling stared at the approaching hunt. They looked like one of the glaciers from the frost giant story, and she didn’t see how they could be stopped. Pummel might throw the raashk, and the Harshman might vanish. But the grafs and grafines wouldn’t disappear. And neither would the horses and the dogs.
Would that icy string melt in time? Would they remember who they were? Would they stop for the Young Margrave?
She watched those pitiless faces, and the way they strained forward, as if only the iron will of the Harshman was holding them back. I reckon they’ll run down the lot of us.
And what if Pummel couldn’t throw the raashk? The last time he and Duckling had faced the Harshman together, they’d only just managed to break the spell of the ice. The Harshman had killed at least one guard since then, which meant he was stronger than ever. Once he got close, Duckling’d be lucky if she could think, much less hum.
Grandpa might be a villain, but sometimes he was right. The only sensible thing to do was walk away.
Pummel saw her go, hurrying along the dark line of the wall with Lord Rump’s hand on her shoulder.
It shouldn’t have been a surprise, but it was. One more betrayal. One more reminder that the friendship had been a lie.
But he would not walk away. He couldn’t, not when he had the only weapon that could work against the—
Something nudged his leg, and he looked down. The cat was playing with a small pile of pebbles. Tapping them into place. First one. Then another. And another.
Pummel’s pulse leaped. ‘It’s a Snare. She’s made a Snare!’
‘Folllloww,’ said the cat. And she stepped between the pebbles – and vanished.
Otte gasped. The Young Margrave stared at the spot where the cat had been.
Pummel’s heart was pounding so hard that he could hear nothing else. He raised the raashk. He looked through the hole—
And there was the cat-shadow, strolling along a silver thread towards the second bailey.
Pummel remembered Captain Rabid’s words. If some-one steps into a Snare, they seem to vanish. All that is left is their voice crying for help, getting weaker and weaker as the days pass…
If there had been any other way of escaping from the Strong-hold, Pummel would have taken it.
But the Harshman was coming, and so was the hunt. He must get the Young Margrave to safety.
Pummel lowered the raashk and whispered, ‘Take my arm again, Ser. You too, Otte. Don’t let go, no matter what.’ ‘Where is the cat?’ asked the Young Margrave. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Into the Snare. I think – I hope it’ll take us through the main gate.’
Pummel raised the raashk once again—
And the cold hit him.
Ice crystals sprang up on his ears and nose. His eyes began to close, and when he tried to drag Otte and the Young Margrave between the pebbles, his legs would not obey him.
He had hesitated for too long.
The Harshman rode towards them like a blizzard, his iron teeth clattering. Above his head flew the hawk, and behind him came the hunt, ablaze with fire and ice.
The raashk burned in Pummel’s hand, but it was no longer enough to free him. All it did was allow him to keep his eyes open, so he could see death approaching.
The Harshman’s armour was pitted with rust, but he rode like a man who had led armies. A man who would not be stopped by anything less than another army.
Pummel tried to drag his companions into the Snare. He tried to raise his hand and throw the raashk. He thought of the old woman who had given it to him, so he could save the Heir. He thought of Ma, and the farm, and the stubborn strength of the old bull.
It wasn’t enough. Even though he fought with every ounce of his being, the ice still bound him.
The hunt circled around the fugitives. The eyes of the grafs and grafines glowed with reflected fire.
The Harshman dismounted and drew his sword.
Duckling was counting her paces. Sixty-three. Sixty-four. Sixty-five…
Beside her, Grandpa was congratulating himself on staying ahead of trouble yet again. ‘Timing is the most important skill, my dear. We might not be out of the Strong-hold, but at least we are alive. Whereas those fo
ols behind us …’
‘Why was the Young Margrave hanging onto those white sticks?’ asked Duckling.
‘They are not sticks, but bones, which he brought out of the vergessen. He nearly poked out my eye in the process. Why do you ask?’
‘No reason. I was just wonderi—’
It was then that the ice hit them, snapping Duckling’s words in half and stiffening her hair. But Grandpa was right, timing was important. And seventy-one paces had taken them just far enough to escape the worst effects.
‘He has them,’ said Grandpa, looking over his shoulder. ‘What a loss! What I could have made of young Pummel in the outside world! Unfortunately, the boy has no sense of self-preservation. Whereas you and I, my dear, are survivors.’
It’s not what I am, thought Duckling. It’s what I want to be.
And she turned around and began to hum.
Or at least, she tried.
It wasn’t the ice that stopped her, not this time. It was her own sudden terror. A moment ago she had felt almost calm. Now she was trembling so hard that the shiny little tune sounded like a bad case of hiccups.
‘Duckling?’ said Grandpa. ‘What are you doing?’
She ignored him. If she got this wrong, Pummel would die. What’s more, he would die hating her.
She tried again. It was more like a tune this time, and the breeze answered.
Who can I trust? she thought.
But apart from Pummel and Otte, there was no one she could be completely sure of.
All right, who can I almost trust?
The name came to her in a flash. She didn’t have anything belonging to that person, so she pictured their face, and whispered a brief, desperate message. She thought Skitch ’em and Go find and Fetch, all in a jumble. And she sent the breeze on its way.
When she hummed again, a second breeze came – at least, Duckling hoped it was a second one, and not the first one pulled from its task. She wrapped it around herself like a shield.
Then, still humming, she began to run.
THE SNARE
Pummel saw Duckling out of the corner of his eye, and thought he was imagining things. She’d gone. She’d saved herself. Why would she come back?
But there she was, diving between the giant horses so quickly that the grafs didn’t have time to raise their axes.
She ran straight up to Pummel— No, she ran straight up to the Young Margrave and snatched one of the leg bones from his frozen hand. Then she turned to face the Harshman, holding the bone as if it was a rapier, and humming loudly.
A warm breeze swept around Pummel. His legs came unstuck. So did his arms and his thoughts. Beside him, Otte stumbled, as if only the ice had been holding him upright, and the Young Margrave caught him before he fell.
The mice poked their heads out of Otte’s tunic and squeaked furiously. The chicken ruffled her feathers.
The Harshman was only a few paces away now, and Pummel’s first instinct was to throw the raashk. But the darkness and the flickering of the torches made everything uncertain. If he threw and missed, he might never find it again.
‘Let us leave,’ said the Young Margrave in a quiet voice. ‘Take us into the Snare while she is holding him off. Take us out of the Strong-hold.’
He could do it, Pummel realised. With the ice melted, there was nothing stopping him. He could turn around and step between the pebbles, with the Heir and Otte hanging onto him. They’d be gone before Duckling even noticed.
Except – she’d come back to help them. And he couldn’t leave her to fight the Harshman alone. It wouldn’t be right.
Without a word to the Young Margrave, he grabbed the other leg bone and leaped to Duckling’s aid. The cat appeared from nowhere and joined them.
The Harshman’s sword was so old that the crosspiece was broken and the blade ragged. But when it clanged against the leg bone Pummel wielded, needles of ice shot up his arm, so that he cried out with shock and pain.
The hawk fell upon Duckling from above. She dived beneath its wings, right into the backswing of that rusty sword. The cat threw itself against her, and she fell to the ground. The sword swished past.
‘Duuuuuckliiiing!’ bellowed Lord Rump in the distance. ‘Coooome baaaaack!’
Duckling rolled to one side and scrambled to her feet, the leg bone whipping back and forth. The cat wailed with fury. A flurry of feathers blew past Pummel. He gripped the bone by one end and whacked at the Harshman’s ankles.
Behind him, he heard the Young Margrave shouting at the mounted figures, ‘Graf von Stoen, you know me! Graf von Kell, I am alive and so is Otte. Help us, I command you in the name of the Margravine! Help us against the Harshman!’
The members of the hunt leaned forward, their eyes following the fight.
‘Grafine von Deit!’ cried the Young Margrave. ‘Listen to me!’
Pummel leaped away from the Harshman’s sword, wondering how long Duckling could keep humming. She was choking out bits of song as she fought. But those bits were getting scrappier, and Pummel could feel the ice closing in again.
What’s more, it was far from an equal fight. The Harshman was a grown man and a warrior, and Duckling and Pummel were no match for him. It wasn’t long before Pummel realised that he must throw the raashk before they were both killed.
He backed up a couple of steps to take aim. But the Harshman was quicker than he had been. He leaped this way and that, clanking horribly, and Pummel couldn’t be sure of hitting him.
Duckling dodged a particularly nasty sword swipe, and panted, ‘Can you – get them – out? With – the raashk?’
As soon as she stopped humming, the warm breeze vanished and Pummel began to freeze where he stood. The Harshman advanced on him—
Duckling started humming again just in time. Pummel threw himself to one side. The cat swiped at the hawk, and missed.
‘Think – so,’ panted Pummel, and he tried to take aim again with the raashk.
‘Wait!’ croaked Duckling, trying to talk, hum and fight at the same time. ‘Just – hmmmm – wait – hmm-mmm!’
Wait for what? thought Pummel. What’s she talking about? Should I listen to her? Should I trust her?
A day ago he would have said, ‘Yes, of course.’ Half an hour ago he would have said, ‘No!’
Now, he had no idea. Except there she was, fighting beside him. And when he glanced at the hunt, he could see how they edged forward, with their axes and swords twitching.
So he fought on.
Duckling’s throat was so sore that she could hardly bear it.
But she kept humming.
And fighting.
And humming.
And fighting.
And humming—
And then she stopped.
She didn’t mean to. She was still trying to make the ragged shapes with her breath – but no sound came out.
She tried again, desperately, and managed a croak or two.
It wasn’t enough. The warm breeze vanished. The cold took hold of her and she fell to the ground in a heap. Beside her, Pummel was tumbling forward, his eyes filled with horror. The cat was a ball of ice with whiskers sprouting from it.
Behind them, the Heir, Otte and the chicken toppled over one by one.
The Harshman laughed. ‘Haa … Haa … Haa …’
The hunt copied him. ‘Haa … Haa … Haa …’
Somewhere high above them, the hawk screeched its delight.
I – got it – wrong, thought Duckling. Sent – breeze to – wrong – person.
She struggled to keep her eyes open, but couldn’t. She heard the Harshman clank towards her—
A shout echoed across the bailey. At least, Duckling thought it was a shout. The ice was muddling her, and it might have been the gargoyles. Or Grandpa yelling his goodbyes. Or Duckling’s own desperate imagination.
She thought she heard running footsteps. But that was probably just her heart struggling against the cold.
The clanking sound came closer. ‘K
ill …The … Heir …’ rasped the Harshman.
‘Kill …The … Heir …’ echoed the hunt.
‘And …Those …Who … Stand …With … Him …’
‘And …Those …Who—’
‘No!’ cried a new voice. And someone tore the leg bone out of Duckling’s fingers.
A warm breeze wrapped around her. Her eyes snapped open.
Arms-mistress Krieg stood facing the Harshman with the bone in her hand. ‘You shall not have the Heir,’ she cried. ‘You shall not have any of them!’ And she leaped at him with all the strength and skill of an arms-mistress of Neuhalt.
I didn’t get it wrong, thought Duckling. I sent for the right person!
She scrambled out of the way, shaking the melting ice from her shoulders. Her throat felt as if it was torn to shreds, but she hummed all the same, so that she had her own breeze again and could leave the other one wrapped around Krieg.
Pummel was on his feet, and so was the cat, hissing her displeasure.
And Grandpa was there too! ‘I – followed – Krieg,’ he puffed, holding his side and grimacing. ‘That – woman – runs – much – too – fast!’
That woman was fighting like a champion. She forced the Harshman back towards the hunt, her sword arm swinging. She braced her legs and blocked his every move. He howled and fought harder, but she would not let him take another step towards the Heir.
The men and women of the hunt growled. The dogs slunk forward. The horses stamped their hoofs.
Arms-mistress Krieg attacked the Harshman more ferociously than ever, then leaped back towards Pummel and Duckling.
‘Can you get them out?’ she demanded.
The Harshman clanked after her, swinging his sword.
Pummel dodged. ‘I think so.’
‘Then go,’ said the arms-mistress. ‘Take Otte and Brun. It is their only chance.’
‘But the hunt—’
‘The hunt will not dare kill me.’ And Krieg blocked the Harshman yet again.
Duckling hummed louder, so that the breeze wrapped itself around the young Margrave and Otte. They staggered upright. Grandpa stared at her with greedy curiosity, but said nothing. The chicken shook herself. Slivers of ice and rust flew from the Harshman’s sword, as he tried to force his way past the arms-mistress.