Accidental Heroes

by Lian Tanner

  ‘Cat!’ cried Pummel.

  The cat limped towards Pummel. As she passed him, she disappeared.

  A war horn blew. The grafs and grafines raised their swords and axes. The dogs began to snarl.

  ‘Quickly!’ shouted Krieg.

  The hawk dived at Pummel and he ducked. Otte grabbed his arm, and the Young Margrave put his shoulder under Otte’s other arm.

  ‘Dora!’ cried Otte. ‘Come!’

  With a great deal of flapping, the chicken flew up to perch on his shoulder.

  Pummel looked at Duckling. For one awful moment she was sure he was going to say, Don’t think I’m taking you. Instead, he gave a brief nod.

  She had no idea where they were going, but she seized the back of his undershirt with one hand, and hung onto Grandpa with the other.

  Pummel put the raashk to his eye and dragged them into the unknown.

  The clamour of swords and dogs stopped abruptly, and all Pummel could hear was his own breathing. The shadow of the cat was a few paces away, waiting for him. The silver threads of the Snare tingled under his feet.

  He took a step along one of the threads—

  And someone sprang out of the Snare and back into the bailey. Pummel couldn’t tell who it was. Lord Rump? Duckling?

  Scraps of sound drifted towards him. The ghost of a howl. Voices as thin as spider silk.

  I will hold him off…

  No, you cannot…

  It does not have to be for long…

  But the Heir…

  It is your duty. Go…

  Pummel wasn’t sure what happened next. He thought someone shoved someone else into the Snare, though he couldn’t be sure.

  I should go back and see, he thought.

  But the cat was moving away from him, and he was afraid of losing her. So he set his teeth and followed.

  Walking the silver thread was like trying to balance on a narrow fence when there were a hundred other fences going in a hundred other directions, and all of them safer and wider than this one. Pummel followed the cat, and everyone else followed him, strung out in a line like one of Ma’s necklaces.

  The world seemed a thousand miles away.

  As they approached the main gate, the thread began to sing beneath Pummel’s feet, in a high silver voice. At first it was surprising, and then it was beautiful. But before long it grew so shrill that it hurt his ears.

  At the same time, the thread sprouted other threads, and there were so many of them, going in so many different directions, that Pummel had no idea which one he was supposed to follow.

  He looked for the cat, but couldn’t see her.

  All that is left is their voice crying for help, getting weaker and weaker as the days pass…

  Pummel stopped, not daring to take another step. We’re lost, he thought. I have killed us all.

  Duckling felt the tremor that ran through Pummel, and knew something was wrong.

  She didn’t know what it was. All she could see was fog. All she could feel was the warmth of Pummel’s undershirt in her fingers, and Grandpa clutching her other hand in his big paw.

  All she could do was hum.

  But humming here was very different from humming in the real world. No sound came from Duckling’s mouth. No breeze wafted around her.

  Instead, a voice whispered in her ear. ‘What is your wish, Mistress of Winds?’

  It was so unexpected that Duckling flinched and let go of Pummel. But she grabbed hold of him again before she lost him, and stammered, ‘H-help him find the way out. That’s my wish!’

  A moment later, Pummel began to edge forward again.

  He didn’t know what had changed. But something had. The thread he was on glowed more strongly than the others. And he could see the cat again.

  She led him through the main gate, her moon-eyes glowing. And suddenly he was outside the Strong-hold, and everything smelled different.

  He heard a howl of fury and frustration somewhere behind him. He passed whispers that came and went like fireflies.

  Something going on inside…

  All killing each other, maybe…

  Good riddance…

  Make our job easier…

  Long as they can’t get out, that’s all I care about…

  The cat led Pummel onwards. Down a hill. Around several corners.

  And then she vanished.

  Pummel stopped. Where had she gone? Why had she deserted them?

  He stared at the silver thread, and saw a place where the edges frayed.

  He stepped onto the frayed part—

  —and tumbled out into the city, dragging four humans, four white mice and a chicken with him.

  The cat was waiting for them – or rather, she was sitting by the side of the road cleaning her paws, as if she didn’t care whether they arrived or not.

  Pummel picked himself up, feeling as if he’d been turned inside out and put back together the wrong way. Someone handed him a kerchief and he held it to his nose.

  We escaped, he thought.

  It didn’t seem real. The street was lit by gas lamps. Motorised rigs were parked along its edges. Somewhere not too far away, the city’s traffic rumbled and roared.

  Duckling and Lord Rump sighed with relief. The chicken looked astonished. Otte and Arms-mistress Krieg were gaping at their surroundings.

  Arms-mistress Krieg? thought Pummel. How did she get here?

  His stomach lurched. And where’s—

  ‘Where’s the Young Margrave?’ he demanded.

  Otte stared at the arms-mistress in horror. ‘Brun? He is still back there?’

  ‘He sent me in his place,’ said Arms-mistress Krieg. ‘I would not have come otherwise.’

  ‘But that means we’ve failed!’ cried Pummel. ‘I thought we’d saved the Heir, and we haven’t. We must go back!’

  ‘No, we must not,’ Krieg said quietly. ‘The Heir is here.’ And as everyone else goggled in astonishment, she went down on one knee and bowed her head to Otte.

  ‘Young Ser,’ she said. ‘I am at your service.’

  WOLVES

  ‘But—’ said Duckling.

  ‘That is—’ said Grandpa.

  ‘Impossible!’ said Pummel. ‘Otte’s your son. How can he be the Young Margrave?’

  Something rumbled past a street away, and Krieg leaped up and placed herself between Otte and danger.

  ‘It’s just a street-rig,’ said Duckling. ‘Nothing to be afraid of. But the Heir – it’s Otte?’

  ‘We have to go back,’ said Otte. ‘We have to go now, to help Brun.’ And he tried to hop into the Snare.

  Krieg stopped him. ‘He knew what he was doing, Young Ser. He sent me with you. He said it was my duty, and he was right.’

  ‘But what if the Harshman kills him?’ Otte’s face was stricken. ‘What if the hunt kills him? He is my friend—’

  Duckling was still stunned. But she managed to say, ‘The Harshman was sent to kill the Heir. If that’s really you, maybe he’ll lose interest in Brun, when you’re no longer there.’

  ‘I heard him, said Pummel. ‘I heard the Harshman howl as we passed through the gate. He knew the Heir was gone.’

  ‘As for the hunt,’ said Grandpa, ‘who knows what they will do? But Arms-mistress Krieg is right. If you are truly the Heir, you must not go back.’

  ‘Can we at least go to the gate and ask?’ pleaded Otte.

  ‘And let the gate guards see that someone has escaped from the Strong-hold?’ said Grandpa. ‘Why, you would have every villain in the country descending upon you within hours. I say we get out of the city.’

  No one moved except the chicken, who had found something interesting to eat in the gutter.

  ‘Are you really the Heir?’ asked Pummel.

  Otte nodded.

  ‘But the Young Marg— Brun’s got all those names,’ said Pummel. ‘Only someone important would have so many names.’

  ‘Those names are mine,’ said Otte. ‘Walter Alfrenk Rolfi Lotwig Ronder
t von Neuhalt. That is me. Brun is just Brun.’

  Duckling turned to Krieg. ‘Then the Young M—Brun is your son?’

  ‘He is. And I am proud of him. He has kept this secret all his life, to protect his friend.’

  ‘But why?’ asked Pummel.

  ‘I really think we should get out of the city,’ said Grandpa.

  ‘When the Margravine and I were children,’ said the arms-mistress, ‘she was Heir and I was Heir’s Friend. We vowed to protect each other unto death. Then, ten years ago, the two boys were born minutes apart. Otte was—’

  ‘I was born with only one leg,’ said Otte, with a complete lack of bitterness. ‘The grafs and grafines would never follow me. They are warriors, and they only respect other warriors. If they knew I was Heir, they would probably kill me.’

  ‘So we exchanged them,’ said Krieg. ‘Just a few minutes after they were born.’

  ‘And no one ever guessed?’ asked Duckling.

  ‘No one knew except the boys themselves,’ said Krieg. ‘But Her Grace and I have been trying for years to get Otte out of the Strong-hold. We hoped that fresh eyes might succeed where we failed.’ She nodded towards Pummel and Duckling. ‘We were right.’

  ‘Extraordinary.’ Grandpa rubbed his chin. ‘But for now—’

  ‘Wherever we go, you’re not coming with us,’ said Pummel.

  Grandpa raised his eyebrows. ‘Then who will protect the Heir of Neuhalt?’

  ‘I will,’ said Krieg. ‘That is why I am here.’

  ‘With all due respect, Arms-mistress,’ said Grandpa. ‘You may know everything about the Strong-hold, but out here in the modern world you and your charge are as lambs among wolves. You need someone to show you the ropes, and there’s no one better than my good self.’

  ‘But you’re one of the wolves,’ said Pummel.

  ‘I am indeed, lad. And tell me, if you were a lamb, who would you want in your field protecting you? Another lamb, sweet, innocent and dead before sunrise? Or a cunning old wolf who knows exactly how his fellow wolves work, and can whisk you out from under their noses before they catch your scent?’ He paused. ‘As for where we go, it must be out of the city.’

  ‘No,’ said Otte. ‘I wish to stay here. Close to Brun.’

  Grandpa took out his watch and tilted it towards the nearest gas lamp. ‘It is working again. Excellent!’ He looked up. ‘Who is trying to kill the Heir, and why, Young Ser?’

  ‘I do not kn—’

  ‘How many people are involved in this dastardly plot? Will they realise the truth, now that you have escaped? What will they do? Can the Harshman follow that strange path we took out of the Strong-hold? And if he cannot, what friends do the plotters have in the city? Hmm?’

  ‘I do not know,’ Otte said, very quietly.

  ‘Do you, Arms-mistress?’ asked Grandpa.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then we must leave the city, as I suggested, and go north. I have certain contacts—’

  ‘South,’ said Pummel. ‘We’ll go the farm. To Ma.’ He glared at Lord Rump. ‘If I was a lamb, I’d have her with me. We could do with a wolfskin rug in front of the fire.’

  Grandpa chuckled and tucked his watch away. ‘I look forward to meeting your mother, lad. But wherever we go, it must be soon. Dawn is too close for comfort.’

  ‘We can’t go like this,’ said Duckling, indicating her underclothes, and Krieg’s boiled leather armour. ‘I’m freezing, and anyone who sees us will remember us. We need disguises.’

  ‘So we do, my dear. Go and – ahem – acquire us some garments. And perhaps some form of transport—’

  ‘Buy them,’ said Pummel.

  Grandpa rolled his eyes, pulled a handful of coins from his pocket and gave them to Duckling, saying, ‘Get what you can.’ Then he lowered his voice and whispered, ‘And when you return, you and I must have a little chat. I think you have been keeping some very interesting secrets from me. Something to do with a breeze, hmm?’

  An hour later, as dawn rose over Berren, a small travelling theatre troupe drove south, out of the city.

  They were not a wealthy troupe. Their cart was horse-drawn rather than motorised. Their clothes had seen better days. And instead of having an exotic collection of animals to lure audiences, they had nothing but a large spotted cat, a chicken with black feathers, and four white mice.

  As they turned off the highway onto a smaller road, the old woman who held the reins began to sing in a wobbly falsetto.

  ‘There once grew a flower, a blue blue flower,

  In the middle of a river on an isle.

  A little boy said, “I’ll fetch that flower

  To make my sister smile.”

  “No,” cried his granny, “the river is too fast.”

  “The river is too deep,” said his dad.

  But the boy didn’t listen, and neither did his sister,

  Because both of them were bad.’

  Next to the old woman – though there was a wide gap between them, as if they had fallen out in some way – sat a boy. ‘I can see your whiskers, Grandpa,’ he muttered. ‘You’d better have a shave when we stop.’

  In the back of the cart, a young girl was torn between staring at the countryside in amazement and watching out for particular plants. ‘Pummel,’ she called, ‘there is some spurweed near your feet. Can you pick it for me? But don’t get the sap on your hands.’

  The boy at the front of the cart, who was really Duckling, turned around and said, ‘Don’t call him Pummel, Daisy. He’s Clodhopper now.’

  ‘Do I have to be Daisy?’ asked Otte. ‘I would rather be Sigrid. That is my mother’s name.’

  ‘People outside the Strong-hold don’t have names like that,’ said Duckling. ‘It’s Daisy or nothing. And keep that rug tucked around you so no one can see you’re missing a leg.’

  ‘Amateurs,’ grumbled Grandpa. ‘How I hate amateurs.’ And he broke into song again. Duckling had the feeling he was making up the words on the spot.

  ‘Oh the river rose and the boy went under,

  His sister swam out from the shore,

  She touched his hand; they were swept asunder

  And never seen anymore.’

  The only people in the troupe who looked at all like themselves were Pummel, who wore modern-looking knee-britches and a woollen shirt, and Krieg, who’d refused to let go of either her leather armour or her sword. Duckling had managed to persuade her to don a pair of trousers over her hose, and an old tailcoat over everything else, by saying, ‘Otherwise you put the Heir at risk.’

  Which was the only way to get the arms-mistress to do anything.

  Duckling shifted a bit further away from Grandpa. He’d already asked her about the breeze twice, and she’d changed the subject.

  ‘You will tell me in the end, my dear,’ he’d said.

  No, I won’t, thought Duckling.

  She glanced at Pummel, wishing he would forgive her, so they could be friends again. After all, she’d fought beside him against the Harshman. She’d helped get them all out of the Strong-hold.

  But it wasn’t enough. The betrayal had been too great.

  I could trick him into forgiving me. The thought wormed its way into Duckling’s mind, and refused to go away. After all, she’d done it before; she’d made people believe her, even against their better judgement.

  Beside her, Lord Rump sang,

  ‘Yes the river rose and the children died,

  And their granny wept and their father cried

  But I was strangely satisfied—’

  He broke off and said to the world at large, ‘Dear me, I cannot think of the right words to finish. I am looking for a moral, something about the terrible fate of children who disobey their elders …’

  Duckling looked back the way they had come. There was no sign of anyone chasing them, no sign that the Harshman had managed to follow them out of the Stronghold, or that someone had raised the alarm.

  But she felt uneasy, all the same. It’s not o
ver, she thought. We’ve got the Heir of Neuhalt with us, even though no one else knows it.

  She scrambled down from the cart.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked Grandpa.

  Duckling ignored him and marched up to Pummel, who’d found a stick and was swishing it through the long grass beside the road. ‘I know you’re not talking to me,’ she said, ‘and I don’t blame you. But I can still talk to you.’

  Swish swish, went the stick, as if she hadn’t spoken.

  Duckling took a deep breath, and tried very hard to say what was in her heart, without tricks or cunning. ‘I thought I wanted to be ordinary,’ she said, ‘but that’s not it at all. I want to be trustworthy, Pummel. Properly trustworthy, like you and Arms-mistress Krieg. I don’t expect you to believe me, not straight away. And it might take me a little while to learn. But I’ll do my best, I promise. And in the meantime—’

  She swallowed. This was more important to her than she’d realised. ‘In the meantime, we’re still the Heir’s guards. Aren’t we?’

  The stick stopped its swishing, and Pummel stared into the distance for far too long. But at last, his head moved in what might have been a nod.

  An odd shiver ran up Duckling’s spine. That’s a start, she thought. Now all I have to do is keep my promise.

  MEANWHILE, MANY MILES TO THE SOUTH…

  A girl with dark skin and a single bruised feather in her hair was mourning her great-grandmother.

  The old woman had died seven days ago, and Sooli had felt it, right down here in the depths of the salt mine. She had felt the breath leave the Bayam’s body and pass into her own. She had felt a little of the Bayam’s power pass with it.

  But not all of it.

  Not nearly all of it.

  ‘I am Bayam now,’ she whispered to the unhappy ghosts that haunted the mine. ‘But I do not have the raashk, and I do not have the Wind’s Blessing. Where are they? Who has stolen them?’

  She had known since she was small that one day she would be Bayam. And she had sworn to herself that when that day came, she would make things better for the Saaf. Somehow, she would free those who were imprisoned in the salt mines. Somehow, she would stop the slavers raiding the Notch for more workers.